Loss

I agree that it’s better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all. What I don’t understand is why it has to hurt so much.

Loving him is the warmth of the sun on a cloudless summer's day, the taste of chocolate melting in my mouth, and the comfort of the doll or security blanket that we all carried around as children.

Losing him is another story entirely.

Losing him is waking up to find that it’s somehow winter again, that the chocolate that tasted so good in my mouth has done Mariah Carey proud and migrated to my thighs, and that the cherished security blanket has been lost to the big wide world…

It's standing in the center of a gale as the wind screams around me and being stuck deaf, and standing at the veterinarian's side as he injects that lethal shot: necessary, but more painful than anything has a right to be.

I did this to myself.

I didn’t lose him: I gave him up.

I listened to logic and I tore my heart out.

*******************************

He said he wasn’t satisfied.

Complicated, that’s what he classified.
There weren’t any commonalities.
It was a clash of our personalities.
I wanted to work this out.
He couldn’t think anything but doubt.
He did it.
He said this time it was legit.
He broke my heart.
Into a million little parts.
He was my soul mate.
But now it’s too late.
I will always love him, till the day I die.
That was never a lie.
He was not only my lover, but my best friend.
My heart will need time to mend.
Always, I will love you George Nelson Hathaway.
Please don’t ever go away
☹

-Michael Alexander Castanon

The Little, Pecking Bird

“I saw a bird,” my teacher began, “and it had found a mirror.” He paused, as though to let it sink in. “It was pecking at its reflection!” he burst out, grinning.

It hates itself, I think.

“…It was like it was in love with its reflection.”

My train of thought comes to a screeching halt with those words. Another thought overtakes it, racing through my mind on smoldering, black wheels. I wince as unwelcome implications begin to sink in: Introspection at its best.

Negativity. Loathing. Pettiness; the darker of the human emotions were the first things that filled my mind on hearing the tale of the little, pecking bird.

My teacher, with his silly mop of hair and awkwardly striped polo, had a completely different thought process. I almost look over to see if there’ll be a halo hanging over him. Almost.

Whereas I heard of the bird and thought of loathing, Mr. Obrien thought of love.

It might mean nothing… or it might not. Whatever it means, I breathe a little sigh of relief. Thank god O’Brien is a teacher…

And the silent, almost unvoiced thought: Thank god I’m not.

Finger Puppets

11:00 A.M. and I’m trapped in Spanish class.

On a normal day, I’d be resigned to the two hours of tedium that constitute Spanish 4: The teacher’s continual demands for, “¡Espanol o Silencio!” The lewd remarks of the boy behind me as he talks to his friends. The constant ticking of the ancient looking clock above the door. On a normal day, none of this would bother me.

Today is anything but a normal day, and I’m trapped in Spanish class. The brown paper bag, sitting innocently on the desk, makes it anything but a normal day.

I know what’s inside that brown paper bag, and it sets my nerves on edge.

Suddenly, I don’t want to deal with the teachers ineffectual demands; I want her to shut the **** up (callate.) Suddenly, I want to turn around and tell the lewd-mouthed boy that girls aren’t items to be used and discarded. Suddenly, I want to disregard the clock, to get up and leave; ditch.

*sigh*

It’s all the finger-puppets' faults. Nothing can get to a person unless they let it, but the finger-puppets, with their tiny flannel selves, have gotten to me.

I suppose it’s because they remind me of clowns: guilt by association (but that’s a whole other blog post.) Or maybe it’s because I hate the way flannel feels as it engulfs my finger; the list of things I’d rather stick my finger into would shock even the lewd boy behind me, I’m sure. It could even be vanity: I like my fingers and my nailbeds, and I just don’t want them covered up by a few inches of neon fabric.

Whatever the reason, I want to scream when I put my finger-puppet on, and instead dissolve into a fit of hysterical laughter in the middle of my group’s puppet show. The junior girls in my group, the ones who still need good grades, don’t seem pleased.

12:35 P.M and I’ve never been happier to leave Spanish class. Ever.