(500) Days of Summer

 

"This is a story of boy meets girl. The boy, Tom Hansen of Margate, New Jersey, grew up believing that he'd never truly be happy until the day he met the one. This belief stemmed from early exposure to sad British pop music and a total mis-reading of the movie 'The Graduate'. The girl, Summer Finn of Shinnecock, Michigan, did not share this belief. Since the disintegration of her parent's marriage she'd only love two things. The first was her long dark hair. The second was how easily she could cut it off and not feel a thing. Tom meets Summer on January 8th. He knows almost immediately she is who he has been searching for. This is a story of boy meets girl, but you should know upfront, this is not a love story."  

"Darling... I don't know how to tell you this, but... there's a Chinese family in our bathroom."

"Most days of the year are unremarkable. They begin, and they end, with no lasting memories made in between. Most days have no impact on the course of a life. May 23rd was a Wednesday."

"Either she's an evil, emotionless, miserable human being, or... she's a robot."

Eyelashes and city streets.

You're sitting there, across the room, and you're thinking about me. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in the way you look at me from under your long eyelashes that I envy. 

You're thinking about me, and that's all there is to it. 

Do you wish we held hands?
Do you wish I hadn't caught you staring?
Do you wish we could stop time, just for a moment?

You're thinking about me, and that's all there is to it. 

I'm reflected in your eyes, and in your thoughts that I want to hear. I want to hear you scream them across the city streets, not caring that I'd hear every word, every secret you hold behind those dark eyelashes.

You're thinking about me, and that's all there is to it. 

Your eyelashes shed wishes and regrets, and I'm on your mind. I don't know how I can tell, I just can. 


You're thinking about me, and that's all there is to it.

The box that holds my heart.

I have a photo of you & I. It's gathering dust on my dresser, face down. I picked it up a few days ago, I blew off the dust and I stared. I just stared. 

Slowly, I let myself look at you. So much taller than me. (But who isn't? Let's be honest here.) It was before my life went crazy, and I didn't know how to make it right again. I still don't know how. 

Then you disappeared, for a while.

Now you're in my life again, and I'm a mess. I'm a different girl who's just trying to pick up the pieces of her life that don't quite fit together anymore. (I don't know if they ever fit in the first place.) I'm shoving all the pieces into my box.

I feel like my world will explode on the first wrong step I take. So many cracks are in sight, it's a wonder it hasn't exploded already. 

I packed up my heart in bubble wrap, and slid it into the box that holds the crooked pieces of my life.

I'm trying to be careful. I'm trying to be cautious, carrying around the box that holds my heart, carrying it high above my head. No one can look at it. No one can open it.

It makes me wonder why I let you have it in the first place.

And why I didn't fight harder to get it back.

Here's news for you: You won't lay hands on it ever again. This time I locked it up, and I swallowed the key. You'll never see it again. (Stop asking.)


And the picture of us? It's in the box, too.
 

Obviously, I'm Jealous.

(This poem isn't actually in our book. But it makes me jealous just the same.)

Personal. by Tony Hoagland. 


Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.

Poems like this make me jealous.

Hate vs. Love

Hate keeps knocking on my door. I keep yelling, "Go away, no one wants you here!" He's sneaking peeks through my window, and I can't shut the blinds because they are broken and unfixable. The curtains burned last week, so that's not an option either. 

I tried to ignore Hate, I tried to ignore the persistent knocking. Hate likes to drive me to insanity. I looked through the tiny peephole in the door, Hate glared back at me, loathing and greed etched on his face. 

Hate was still knocking.

"Aren't your fists getting red?" I asked through the door.

Hate ignored me.

"Don't they ache from your persistence?"

Hate said nothing.

"Go away."

Hate didn't move.

I turned out the lights and went to bed, listening to the beat of my heart and the blood in my veins.

Hate kept knocking.

I didn't fall asleep. I stayed awake, listening to the never-ending knocking. Hate would never give up.

I looked at the clock. The glowing red numbers read 2:43 am. I went to the door, I didn't bother to turn on the light. I threw it open, anger evident in my face, to see Hate had transformed into a beautiful being. And I let him in, charming smile and all. 

He wandered around and cast out Love, who was hiding in my closet. 

Hate decided to stay for a while. 

I asked Hate to leave last week. He won't go. He won't go.

Here's to the nightmares.

The average person falls asleep in 7 minutes. If 7 minutes is the time the average person falls asleep, why are my eyes still open at minute 18? Why are my eyes tired at minute 2? Why doesn't this make sense and why are my dreams not real, but at the same time they're too real?

I thrash around sometimes, and get tangled up in the blankets until I'm immobile. My eyes shoot open and I'm breathing hard and hoping no one is lurking in the shadowy room I call "mine". All my fear comes out in my breath and I feel a scream in my throat, begging to be let out. But I can't let it out, it would wake up everyone and I want to call him, except it's 3:18 am and he probably doesn't want to hear about my nightmares. 

I said stupid things and took things the wrong way and everything is wrong -- maybe that's why I have nightmares. Maybe that's why I don't sleep soundly. (What does that even mean?) I question everything and only know one thing for sure:

I exist. 

That should be obvious, yet it's news to me. It's news that plagues my thought process. 

"We're all friends here, so let's share our inner thoughts." Except I hate 7/8 of the people here, and I don't know the other 1/8. I won't ever share anything with them. I didn't sign up for this. Get me out of here.

If I'm forced to say something, I'll say the only thing I can choke out, "I'm here, I exist, my heart is beating just like yours. But that's all you'll ever know of me."

The clock will tick, the cricket will sing, and after that moment of complete silence, I will receive a standing ovation. 

"Encore! Encore!" they'll sing, hands slapping together in a rush. "Encore!" 

I'll bow and I'll say something else, "My bones might be white, but they might not. I can't say. Only my dreams nightmares will tell me."  

The crowd will scream for more. But I'll walk away, and lose myself in somebody else's daydream. 

I'm tired, my eyes are drooping, and I lay on the floor in my clothes, my mind going at 82 mph, constantly being filled up with worries and hopes and disappointments. 

Maybe one day I'll fall asleep at minute 7, or maybe I won't. Why is it so important to me, anyway?

Love smacked me over the head with a brick, and told me one thing,

"I don't exist."

In the end, this is about courage.

Ah, but fear is a fickle thing. It sneaks in your window, crawls through the key hole, trapping you in your bed, hiding under the blankets. 

Fear makes you cry silent tears, alone. It makes you tremble without reason. It traps you in your thoughts. 

It traps you in the coffin of 'what ifs'.

Fear makes you cringe and bite your nails. The cage you're stranded in, fear built that dear, and it's not coming down on its own. 

Why are you still sitting there? In the center of that cage, in the center of that fear you created?

Yes, you. You created all of it, you made this mess yourself.

You did this to yourself. 

And you can't expect anyone else to fix it for you.

With courage comes freedom darling.

Ghosts.

And then it crashes into me, eating my soul, crushing my insides. 


It was all a masterfully crafted web of lies.


Constant paranoia for the things I shouldn't have been paranoid about. Because it was all lies. (And I think know it still is.)

I'm choking on my words, I can't speak clearly. I beg for words, for sound to pass through my lips. I want to call you out. 

What happened to the three strike rule? (I'm positive you passed strike three a long time ago.)

Lies penetrate my skin, soaking my bones, filling me constantly with fear and distrust. 

My entire world crumbles around me and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know where to begin. 



(Remind me how to trust again, I forgot.)
 



Everything you said to me was a lie. It was all for your benefit. (Are you happy now? Are you excited and elated that your lies are backfiring on you?)

You know I know, (don't deny it), yet you keep lying to me. You keep at your game, spinning your web. Go ahead. I dare you. It won't affect me any longer; I'm through.


I know all I need to know from you; from your wrists to your ankles you're a liar who will never change.

There's Nothing Left Here. (Go Home.)

 

Death crawled through the window, slowly at first, slowly the whole way. Death crept upon your bed, Death looked at your face and Death smiled.

"At last..." Death whispered. It really was you.

(You shifted in your sleep, your dreams filled with clouds and the moon, with flocks of birds. You smiled quietly. You sighed.)

Death reached out for your hand, ready to take you away. You awoke, startled at the cold breeze across your fingertips. You stared Death in the face with a blank look, until you made the connection.

"No, I'm not ready," you cry, "I'm not ready," you whisper.

Death smiled, "Oh, but you are," she whispers softly, "You don't have a choice, you never did." The shadows fill the room to its breaking point. Thoughts rush through your head in a blur of color and light. What if Heaven doesn't want you? What if Hell won't take you either?

(Does it even matter? I can't remember.)

In a panic, you try to run. Running through the endless black tunnel Death has created, filled with Polaroids of your life, lining the walls in fading black and white, filling you up with nostalgia and regret. Your breath comes in gasps, you can't comprehend why it's happening now, there's still so much to do. 

Your feet carry you nowhere, they carry you away from Death, or maybe towards it?

(What's better anyway? I can't remember.)

Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back.

(I dare you to look back.)

"You can't run," Death calls in your left ear, "You can't run from me."

Don't look back, don't look back.

You look back. Death is there with a smile. You keep running, barely breathing. Barely moving anymore. The Polaroids on the shadow of a wall fade, the corners peeling, falling to the ground, the people in them disappearing before your eyes. You want to stop.

Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back. (You beg yourself.)

Your feet continue to carry you into the darkness. It's impenetrable, eating at your soul. 

(But do you even have a soul? I can't remember.)

"You can't outrun me," Death calls in a sickly sweet voice, "You never could."

From an Atlas of the Difficult World
Adrienne Rich 

  I know you are reading this poem
  late, before leaving your office
  of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
  in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
  long after rush-hour.  I know you are reading this poem
  standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
  on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
  across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
  I know you are reading this poem
  in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
  where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
  and the open valise speaks of flight
  but you cannot leave yet.  I know you are reading this poem
  as the underground train loses momentum and before running
                          up the stairs
  toward a new kind of love
  your life has never allowed.
  I know you are reading this poem by the light
  of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
  while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
  I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
  of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
  I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
  in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
  count themselves out, at too early an age.  I know
  you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
  lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
  because even the alphabet is precious.
  I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
  warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
                          hand
  because life is short and you too are thirsty.
  I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
  guessing at some words while others keep you reading
  and I want to know which words they are.
  I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
                          between bitterness and hope
  turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
  I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
                          left to read
  there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

The Aching In My Bones.

I'm afraid of the dark and of the shadows that always creep through my head at night. Of the feel of the scream that comes from deep within my bones, shattering my skull. The nightmares eat me alive, and I have nowhere to turn, not at 2:53 am. My heart beat keeps me awake and that's the only way I know I'm still alive.

(I'm terrified of the night.)

I'm afraid of forgetting how I'm 'supposed' to act, and how I can't always be that way. I'm afraid of the people that want to know my life story. I'm afraid of fake-people that can't fathom thinking for themselves.

(I'm terrified of expectation.)

I'm afraid I'll fall in love one day, and not realize it. I'm afraid I'll run from it. I'm afraid of first kiss stories that are inevitable. I'm afraid of commitment.

(I'm terrified of love.) 

I'm afraid of rejection and memories and shuffling of feet on carpet. I'm afraid of bricks and cement cracks and the thoughts in your brain. I'm afraid of college and being alone. I'm afraid of buses and the interstate.

(I'm terrified of reality.)

I'm afraid you'll forget me, while I lie awake at night, every night, wondering what you're doing. Wondering if you remember me.

(I'm terrified of being forgotten.)

 

"I just want to make art, read books, and find 

someone who likes me enough to kiss my face."

This is not about you.

I'm not thinking about you like feet think about walking, and girls think about talking, or anything like that. 
I'm not thinking about you like birds think about flight, and the tired think about the night, not at all like the stars think about shining. 

I'm not thinking about you at all. 

I'm not thinking about you like words think about books, or food thinks about cooks because cooks also think about heartbeats. 
I can't possibly be thinking about you the way hearts think about blood, or the way they think about love that doesn't even exist they way they want it to. 

I'm not thinking about you at all. 

I'm not thinking about you like clocks think about the past, and the way they think about the future.
I'm not thinking about you like pillows think about dreaming, and souls think about sleeping, and fires think about wood.


I'm not thinking about you at all.

I would never dream of thinking about you the way fingers think about typing, and pens think about ink, all trying to make words that might make the reader think and forget who they are trying to not think about. 
I'll keep not thinking about you, not thinking about you the way paint thinks about canvas and paint brushes that are white. 

I won't think about you at all.

I'm not thinking about you at all.








Except I'm lying.

“Then, out of nowhere, a flock of birds flew by the window, extremely fast and incredibly close.  Maybe twenty of them.  Maybe more.  But they also seemed like just one bird, because somehow they all knew exactly what to do.”

--Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.

Sew my lips shut, rip my heart out.

"You don't know what love is, you're just a teenager."

Lie.

"You can only be in love with one person at a time."

Lie.

"If you love him, you'll never let him go."

Lie.

You knew nothing. You know everything. And I fell, hard. I learned through lies and regret and hate. I learned the difficult way. I found it within the burnt rubble and ashes -- all that was left of the wall surrounding my heart.

After learning to let go, to finally escape the tragedy and the heartache that is inevitable, I rebuilt the walls. I made sure they were brick and solid and protecting. I was positive I'd never fall again. I was sure they were perfect this time, with no cracks, no weaknesses. Not after last time. The walls were finished, and I was fine. I was perfectly fine.

Until him. I hardly know him, yet I can't stop thinking about him and what I do know. He is devastatingly beautiful, and I can't get my mind to spit him out, to make me hate him. 

He found the weakness in my wall, the last brick I never managed to fit properly. After slowly making his way in, he broke me from the inside out. So I fall. 

And I can't stop.