red 

red wine is an easy follow-up to a white lie. i’m slowly getting used to the sweet and tart taste, resisting the urge to cartoonishly swirl it around in my glass as if it was time for my close-up. close-up, no.

i need to stop thinking about my life in the cliché cinematic sense. even now i chastise myself in my own head; how typical it is for me to bash whatever is in my orbit. to castrate a dream i’ve had since i first clenched a lego mini-figure in my hand. at this point my old therapist would shush me and tell me not to create a narrative. i think it’s too late for that now. memories contain montages which contain character which drive the plot. my mind is an editing room fueled by an overstimulating level of both nicotine and caffeine. what i just wrote was sad and makes me seem like i have a fight club poster hung lazily on my wall. i don’t but i’m scared at the appeal.

it’s almost the end of the year and my brain has been smacked around by those with prestigious artistic opinions and drenched in film theory and practice. my throat feels charred with orders barked while i was on set. yes, i bark orders on set now. i’m usually in front of or behind the guy behind the camera. my awareness of my ego wavers as much as my mood now, each scale in constant flux as i navigate a grid of bustling streets and shaky hands. kids who smoke american spirits make me feel better about myself. i deserve to feel this good. last night i was alone for hours for the first time in a while and thought otherwise - i listened to a podcast until i changed my mind. as i type this my psychology professor is showing us a video of afghan soldiers killing each other and praying in the same sequence. bloody hands and bruised knuckles are washed with chalky water and dried under a rising sun. i learned here that while editing, when you put two clips back-to-back, you create a third metaphysical image that isn’t seen but felt. yes, that’s from youtube. and i think i feel the third image.

but i’m not actually here right now, on this google doc i’m back in long island. i’m not from there but i wouldn’t mind if i was. dull tombstones inversely shine and speckle smooth green landscapes, carefully balancing a cloud-stricken sky. the air here is nice to breathe, and it’s nice to breathe it with someone who enjoys my delusional rants. she’s new but not new. the connection between us weaves between our stares like a sailor’s knot, tightened in the middle where our foreheads meet and noses scrape. i’m nineteen and still can’t tie my shoes properly. the laces of my nurse-like adidas often skim bruised pavement and yellow fluids. i secretly hope the knot between us doesn’t unravel as i laugh and take pictures of her. but i think i’ll be ok if it does, and the more wine i drink the more convinced i become.

it’s low-stakes, i tell her - pouring both of us another glass. i don’t know them either. another white lie, i knew some of the balding heads decorating my peripheral. my distant relatives watch on in a slow, uneasy curiosity as we chat, cornered at the end of the long table. i don’t really know them but i can tell they’ve heard about me. they gossip because they have nothing of substance, nothing left to fight for - expatriates of another world.  one of the woman - may be my aunt, who knows - talks about seeing my father recently in islamabad. i suddenly feel less comfortable wearing my leather jacket. a striking visual of my father, my age now, riding his motorcycle strobes between my ears. his long hair gently wavering in the smoggy air among bright green mountains, a goofy grin complimenting his distinct mole in the right corner of his mouth. he’s circling the all-girls school with his friends, hunting for sport the same way boars are hunted in the forests there. the vision is interrupted as a cake arrives and i remember the white lie. 

my smiling grand-aunt, who my +1 thinks is beautiful, self-consciously blows the candles as we choppily clap and belt happy birthday. i can’t see her as beautiful - she looks exactly like my late grandfather, i still kiss her on the cheek regardless. my grandfather was a lanky man with a slouch who turned pakistan into a nuclear power. he was a man many respected but none knew, not even my father, who licked his boots till his own tongue turned black with state-mandated leather. i’ve also seen him shit himself and slowly lose his grip with reality as he died, riddled with dementia and regret. i’m grateful to see him in a new light now. i kiss her on the cheek again as her eyes water. the dentist-lighting of the restaurant manages to glimmer off of rose-gold balloons as my uncles pat me on the back. they’re all old and unmarried, so they spend their time showing off their young flings and hide their shame with sunglasses and smiles. i especially enjoy this. i gesture loosely to my girlfriend sweetly talking to the birthday girl, beginning to throw out vague affirmations of stability and confidence in connections. they don’t process my wine-soaked words but they like the way it sounds. that’s what i’m used to. that’s what i prefer. 

after we’re left alone the two of us almost die on the street. a shocked millennial stares at us behind her steering wheel as i stiffly shrug, arms wrapped around her as if that would do anything. jaywalking is an extreme sport outside the city. maybe pushing her away would’ve helped, but that would be too on the nose. we walk briskly in silence for two seconds before i start to think about how to frame what happened on screen as she launches into a rant about final destination. she believes we were supposed to die right then and there. roadkill tattered in leather and cloth. an extreme close-up, slow push back as red-and-blue lights slowly flash on-screen. shut up. i don’t know how to tell her how many times i almost died. i imagine it would come off as callous, laced to the core with teenage angst i’m still learning how to shed. i should be made of shrapnel and glass by now, slowly leaking into some boarding school shower drain. i decide to keep my mouth shut and let her keep talking.

after facing death i believe we met him. i didn’t say this outloud because it sounded corny even in my head, but there he was. armored in a dark tech hoodie, legs wrapped in black denim with a fishing rod slung over his shoulder. he balances it as if it were a scythe. a lone cigarette loosely hangs outside the crevice of his lips, with tiny embers shifting alongside the dark waves of the bay. magnetism. i drift towards him intending to ask for a cigarette - my vape was almost dead - and watch in awe as he pulls life out of the abyss. our jaws drop as a glimmering figure writhes in agony over jagged rocks. with every thud i hear a cry for water. i’ve never seen a fish in so much pain. he grabs it by the inside of its slack jaw, walking it like a dog over the railing, and slams it on the ground with a precise ruthlessness. upon my request, he hands me a cigarette, eyes still shrouded in contemplative shadows. she joins me in probing him for questions as he circles the twitching fish. bruised scales reflected fiery apathy and dry responses, the street-lamp hanging above our heads slowly fades in and out of consciousness as the fish nears its last breaths. i cough ash into the wind. he locks eyes with me, realizing i understand. it’s a hobby, he sighs. i ask if he’s going to throw the fish back in the water. my arm snakes its way around her shoulder again. yeah, he chuckles. glass bottles. egg-white eyes. in a fraction of a second, he yanks the fish off the ground, hovers it at his hip like a revolver, and launches it with a primal twist of his hips and shoulders. he cracks his neck as it’s pulled in the water, reborn.

by the time we get on the train, i forgot all about the white lie. even writing this now i forget what it was - something to do with where one of my rings came from most probably. i have too many and they’re loose on my now-wrinkly skin. i just remember the feeling of my stomach sinking. now that sensation sinks further and slips into hot breath on my neck, a fish gasping for breath against a cool breeze, car headlights fading gradually into an empty glass, soon to be full of red wine.

encore:

their crooked smiles

bruised knees and feathery eyelashes

constantly scour my naivete for flaws

other than my complexion

none are found

they nod to each other

then continue to clap

someone whistles

like i’m a dog

i resist the urge to bark back

settling with a polite smile and cheek turn

i’m an animal in their cage

but what’s worse

i’m tame

and i have only myself to blame

the leash is loose

would a prayer settle my nerves

i don’t feel like holding my breath again

16 hours:

cut all ties to who i once was

defined by where my feet land

and my eyes linger

the past is as pointless as the next step

it’s time to ask the question

at what point does a mask

become another layer entirely

white paint on blank sheets

valley grass stains blue jeans

it’s time to face the facts

a chameleon is never caught in the wild

—

but i wonder

when they change shades

if it remembers what color it used to be

because i’m not sure i do.

baby-teeth:

i’ve seen a lot

and heard plenty

two languages in one ear

would just drift out the other

don’t underestimate

the aluminum at your feet

vocally paralyzed

i would crush Coke cans

with bruised hands

and rip them apart

with baby teeth

and saw them clap and smile for me

i knew even if i came from dirt

palm facing the sky

socks slipping on dining mats

i had them at the throat

divinity is getting what you want

using whatever is at your feet

the day you breathe life into scrap

is the day you’re reborn.

photosensitive (to a degree):

i made it to the city

but may have lost my cool

cracked sunglasses

stained steel

mangled automobiles

decorate the freeway

sirens are like stars

as i marvel this new skyline

ice on my forehead

means next to nothing to me

when i can still taste bone marrow

on dry lips

i ask for chapstick

they laugh - briefly

before helping me to my feet

i couldn’t talk as a kid

now i spit obscenities at friends’ feet

i look back to the spectacle

and i wish i was part of it

i left my phone in my car

my mom called me last night

now her voicemail fizzles among

burnt plastic and ghosts.

bench:

Her fingers trace the skyline on the back of my hand, a premature request that I wasn’t privy to accept. This wasn’t the first time we’ve been here. This bench. Those lights. Sure, the pollution strangled any starlight God left out for us, but that never stopped us from trekking up that hill. The lights put on a show up here, I muse to myself. It’s their way of apologizing for smogging up the sky. What was that - the fourth time I’ve used that line? And why were they all with the same girl? She was different. No, she was good for me. Which one was it again? I cycle through justifications like a deck of cards as she takes charge, holding my hand and as the corners of her mouth fold into dimples. She knows. She must know I’m onto her, right? I’ve never been a religious person. Most days I talk to God, my head is usually next to a toilet, begging for solace as my stomach takes vengeance. But here I am again, asking him not for peace, but for answers. Does she know? She hates that I drink. Apparently it clouds creativity, dulls the pen - dries the ink. You’ve read my poems, you think I don’t know that? Then she would usually chortle a hearty chortle, flash me a sly smile, and lean her head back in exasperation. She was always a better pen than me, always more intuitive. But now we sit on this bench, and I don’t think she knows what I do. I smile back, a performance worthy of Stella Adler. I’ve been around too many actors, their methods smeared across my face like jet-black charcoal on olive-brown skin. I’ve always been a bad liar, at least, that’s what I’ve told myself. Never stops me from trying though. 

“This is nice.” My body follows through on the charade as my arm constricts itself behind her shoulder, my bony knuckles wedged between her shoulder blades and the peeled-off wood of the bench. Why did I say that? She nests her forehead on my chest and lets me indulge in an all-too familiar aroma. When I first met her, the smell drove me crazy. I understood why my dog would run around the house, barking at walls, clawing at half-opened slits in lifeless doors. I was in heat. But I was also sixteen. I can’t stand the smell anymore. I tilt my head at the blotted sky in an attempt to get fresh air, then remember where I am. The air was never clear up here, never fresh - which is why we always shared each other’s. Now I’m suffocating. She looks up at me, lips slightly parted, offering the same old lifeline. We’re not in love anymore. I’m just the one who realized that first, because I’m the one who is always first to leave. I lean in for a breath. It feels like an eternity, and I let myself enjoy what I tell myself is the last time.

As a siren breaks our union, I cautiously slide off the bench. My hand motions her to follow me down the hill, and she hops to her feet with a playful bounce. I need to tell her. I wanted it to be here, with these lights and these stones at my feet and stench resting in my lungs. It only felt right. But she’s playing a different tune, sliding out her phone and shuffling through a playlist I made for her. It’s enriched in hours of scouring film soundtracks, polishing and renewing itself with violins that yearn and piano keys that playfully set a tempo. It’s a piece of art as an archival piece, a labor of love. It’s God fucking with me. Her eyes sear into mine as she wraps her arms around my neck, interlocking her fingers and playing with my hair - a true puppeteer. I follow orders, my palms spread across her waistline. Back and forth. Back and forth. I slowly sway in this beautiful moment - our silhouettes crystallized by small-town lights - in search of an opening. An opportunity to shed this false skin. But it never comes. 

I board my flight the morning after. My messages are cluttered with voice memos filled with sobbing and heartbreak. As the plane takes off, I turn on Airplane Mode, the only way I know how to say goodbye. And thank you.

band-aids and bruises:

nothing makes less sense

than how hard a goodbye feels

coursed in asphalt

draped in glossy leather

it always comes out in bursts

my tongue’s engine backfires

this would be easier on the phone

or from across a crowded room

i have to go now

i mean you had to go first but now i have to go

no i’m not a reactive person

i just feel a moment and decide 

if i should lean into it

i wished you tried that 

orange poem:

peach-fuzzed horizon

rose-colored glasses

hints of cider in my latte

i stir and it blossoms

the welders spark fiery daggers

as i blend honey with milk

apricot lilies shudder in the wind

as constructors drill true and through

clad in orange vests

yet marked in blue

tangerine is the taste on my lips

when i think of you

frat:

blanketed walls

spotted red with phlegm and blood

breath smells like flowers and seltzer

is she into me

or is this our third shot

rose-crested jacket

stained with mascara

my mumbled words bloom

another white man shakes my hand

is this selling out

or moving up

i wipe my mouth and ask for another

shells:

This hurts. This hurts. This hurts. This is my mindset. I’m sixteen, and my window is opened a crack, no, an inch too far, letting the faintest dash of sunlight set on my face. It scorches my pale skin with a fiery animosity. I curse the angel Gabriel’s light under my breath, but it comes out in a groan of recognition and phlegm. God hates me. I can’t get out of bed. How could I? To get up would be to recognize that I’m awake, and I don’t want to be. Why would I? To be awake is to think. Who wants that? I want to live in my rough linen sheets. My world is my field of vision - and that’s either dark, absorbed in my memory foam pillow, my face squished against it as if it was oxygen itself - or my ceiling fan and the rusted corners of the wall. Both are dreadful. Both are preferable to whatever is outside. Both are preferable to whatever is going on inside my head. I hear the usual juvenile rowdiness between the paper-thin walls. The thought of interacting with any one of those smelly, stupid, sardonic pseudo-masculine shells of men, if you could call them that, sends a flash of frustration and sadness down my spine. These are my friends. Brothers, even. That’s how boarding school works, although I certainly wouldn’t call any of the girls I know sisters. And I hate all of them. Noise. That’s all they are. Conversations are merely commotion - they’re just disguised by a suave social blanket that we’re all forced to partake in. Whatever happened to shutting the fuck up? My fan stops spinning and starts creaking. My alarm goes off. I regret picking the song I chose for it. I used to love it, but now it makes me want to break someone’s nose. I guess Tyler the Creator is ruined for me, and I guess I have to get out of bed. I have seven absences in my history class. I can’t afford another. We’re talking about slavery. I don’t want to talk about slavery at 8 in the morning. It doesn’t help that I’m the only person of color in the class. My overly pessimistic and sarcastic croons hold too much weight in that class. But screw it, I have to go. But I don’t want to think. I don’t want to move. I just need to let the day carry me. I reach into my sock drawer, rubbing my eyes, and pull out my dab pen - an electronic gateway to getting violently high. I inhale for what feels like twenty seconds, taking another deep breath after, and blow it all out my window. I smile. Now I can start my day - a blissful zombie. I throw on a hoodie and join the other shells.