I DON’T GET IT.

Author’s Note

Almost five years after surviving the most violent experience of my life, I finally found goriness in my writing. Since Somber Allure, emotional numbing has reigned. However, I learned since then that with every trough, there is a peak. What’s diabolical about this project is how it was originally named It Makes Sense Now until its final month of production. I wanted this project to be the stereotypical healing era—inspired by Ariana Grande’s Sweetener or Lorde’s Solar Power. The name change into I Don’t Get It wasn’t methodical at all; I just knew I wanted to express my ignorance. When I realized its connection to the ending of “Chance,” I knew the ridiculous new title was somehow fated. “Chance” was the first poem I wrote for the project about six months after the release of Somber Allure.

You’ll notice how this project, thematically, has four different sections. The first part in poems 1-3 is a transition from Somber Allure to the world of I Don’t Get It. Then in poems 4-6, I finally address my family, but only after I foreshadow my health issues and section three of this project in “Never (interlude).” Poems 7-9 are only what the public will see about the subject; and to the muse of “Midwest Princess,” you changed me for good. The final section includes my last words regarding family. More importantly, the finale is where I find something I have been looking for so long: redemption. I redeemed myself because I said so. I may not get a lot but at least I can control what I am searching for.

Chance

I wouldn’t want to be anyone else.
I found freedom in my worst hell. 

There's much to do,
but I'm thinking of compliments I only receive with a certain look.

Sometimes I get lost in the mundane,
get myself through the day.
But then I wish for death
in the pocketbook on my desk.
An eternal sigh.
I’ve been told I still shine.

Being my dad's friend ruined my life.
They say not to blame your parents, 
but I'll do what I like.

I'm still in love with ghosts.
One leaves no trace.
The other etched in my fate.
Who will I choose today?

Give me a chance.
I promise if you just love me, 
I’ll erase the past
for me but also for you.
We can pretend like nothing bad has ever happened.
I'll support your dreams too.

I’ll be whoever you want me to be,
as long as I don't mind the identity.
I’ll love the role,
as long as I’m yours.

No one loves the complexity,
the moody.
So, we'll have our space
and I can get into character before your stage.
You're the only audience member.
I hope I’m good enough to audition.

I hope I get it. 
I hope I get it.

Was It Fate?

Was it fate to lose you and become a writer
or did I only find talent to chase you?

Was it fate to end our friendship prematurely?
Just for me to stick it out with people who aren't worthy.

Was it fate for you to be my first heartbreak?
I couldn't be there for you, so I became you. 
I don't think you're sad anymore, but I still am,
and now I understand. 

Was it fate to be too late? 
I think I’m perfect for you now.
Some took a year, 
some five, 
some all my life.

I'm gardening on graves 
of lost friendships, 
of people I wish that stayed. 
Some, I walked away,
and I wish I hadn't.
They keep me awake. 
There’s no rest for the guilty.
What if there was no shame?

Regret when I can barely stand. 
I should’ve said something
because it never passed.
Was it fate to hate who I’ve become?
How could I ever be loved?

The roots would swallow me,
if I had any. 
The memory is fading.
Is that a good thing?

I Miss Regretting You

Familiar shame.
I don't want new names.
Of all the people who can't compare,
I wouldn't dare to breathe your same air.

Can't imagine being close to you anymore.
The thought of us in a bed 
is a desire that's been dead.
But I miss the regret 
when you were in my life.
Everything's confusing.
Nothing feels right.
I just want the same plight
that ruined my life so many nights.

You’re the pain I want to feel.
Maybe it’s not romantic,
but still an appeal. 

The entity of us etched in stone.
It’s in your mannerisms, phrases, and tone.
Your automatic associations,
I was the obstacle that changed it.

And you are the challenge I’d take back.

I dance to the songs we got drunk to.
I avoid the route where I would drive to you.

If I would have known all that we could be
would become baseless like a dream,
I would do it all again.

Because what else would my life had offered
if you weren't part of it?
I couldn’t think of another plot
where I never kissed you in the dark.

I wish I knew you now,
but I realize I created a part of it
while destroying mine.
No one will ever know the version of me that made you who you are tonight.
I will always see potential,
but I'll never pour my life like I did for yours.

Never (interlude)

Never did I think we'd make it to this day:
To celebrate the ten aches written in my fate.
I thought I’d been spared this year,
only to be waterboarded in a sea of emotion
where life struck my bloodline and my body.
It also took my heart when I set eyes on you
and I couldn't hide it anymore.
The wheels turning for a curtain over the window of my soul 
but my broken pupil couldn't keep up the act.

Right hand over my heart and eye: 
I solemnly swear to never hurt you again. 
I'll heal you both. I promise.

Forced

All I pray is to cross minds.
Starting with you, we'll go back in time.

You tucked me in. 
I learned the words through a show.
Said I love you, like I had known.
Your footsteps stopped, but you just closed the door.

Rite of passage I went to sleep with no hallway light.
Rite of passage you didn't say it back like the television had.

I met my shadow drifting into the night:
love wouldn't be through words, even if I said it first.
One time you delivered them before you left for work.
I cried to my knees, thanking you like a beggar would.
Then, I realized love doesn't mean much when you don't think of me.
You said the words like I was a toy.
My reaction was entertaining, 
as if I wasn't desperate to heal what you tore. 

You had plenty of space for self-reflection.
I can't say society stole your vitality.
You benefit from its inequity.

Even when you hurt me,
exiled legally,
you came back to tell me
you were sorry it happened
but not for the damage you caused in the process.
That was on me
because I was already broken.

You almost took my life,
but blamed me for being behind,
because I wasn't perfect when I learned how to live without you,
as if I didn't have other worries too.
Now I don't believe in love through service or gifts. 
I can't receive affection because you never even said it.

Unrequited since I said I love you tucked in.
Unrequited when I worried every time you left.
Forced to love you chemically, and it was the worst thing I've ever experienced. 
The emotional labor you took from me,
begged people to see you positively,
taught you sincerity when I was just 13,
learned praying for enemies meant family.

I Don’t Win

I'm stuck in a box that it's up to me.
I'm the prodigal child who doesn't return.
I've told you when you reach out, it hurts.
But you don't let me go,
and if I do, I'm heartless, ungrateful, and cursed.

Exhausting is beyond what this is.
I can tell you it's permanent and you don't change a bit.
You offer me nothing.
You say you love me but deny my pain:
Deny something so constant in my existence.
An existence you created out of the selfishness of your own desires
because a child was a mask to what you wanted to hide.
An identity you failed to accept,
you created a home based on secrets, based on a delusion in your head.

Don't say you unconditionally love me when all you love is yourself for creating me,
and don't take it out on me when you realize I'm just a product of who you made me out to be.
Because I may be kind, but that comes from becoming everything that's not you.
I act out of spite, but it's because I can
now that I’m away from you.

I was 17 when the doctor asked why I was so talkative.
It's from being misunderstood to the core of my emotions.
And when my first love wrote me letters,
I remember writing one back thinking this is how it should be:
Something I would've never learned from you.
And believe me, that pains me.
It's one of the reasons why I want to return
because I'm scared I'll never experience love until I work it out with you.
That a loveless life is my karma if I don't repair our relationship.
But you broke it.

I guess I don't have 30 years of solitude under my belt.
But I have a few and I still jump at admitting my faults.
But you don't.
And you never have.
So, if never winning is my karma,
then I’ll make peace with the lack.

Who’s In Control?

The walls I’ve built:
Hoping that one person brings it down.

How did I get so controlling?
No, the cutting didn’t free up space.
I just built denser walls
where light can’t come in.
There’s no flowers after pruning,
only shadow on this side.
I don’t trust what’s behind
because there’s probably nothing anyway.
Too scary to bare that weight
of emptiness until further notice,
until one of these men
could love me
even if they’re dead. 

To me, I’ll be unopened.
My heart is stiff
because there’s no medicine
for being a bitch.

To thrive in the week,
I collapse on the weekend.
And no one's stopping the cycle.
It's 7:13, barely light outside, but it's not the morning.
It's sunset.
I am still under the covers.

Midwest Princess

I know better than to love my friend. 
Beyond what is allowed,
I can't think of her in bed. 

But I don't see her in that way. 
I could
but I choose to be entranced in poetic glances:
Walls down where I hope she could see the vision 
of me holding her hand
beyond at the theaters in an intense scene on end. 

I don't remember the photo booth.
Maybe she doesn't too. 
I could lament about not being the one she dreams about 
but ego isn't a guest.

The core of my love is in the conversation, the curiosity of her thoughts. 
Her ideas: words or art. Sometimes, both. 
Our origin feels like a mirror between us:
A barrier but we stare back at each other. 

Maybe we could never be together
but my heart will still flutter under her weather. 
She controls the room
and she doesn't know it. 
She's so polite but it doesn't stop the bright
lightning like a force of nature. 
I'm at the mercy of her good graces. 

And I'd do anything to keep it
even if I have to hide this part of me. 
It's not true intimacy without being fully seen
but I have a feeling my soul is speaking 
beyond the unsaid that I repress out of respect 
because I love my friend. 
I just can't that way.

December Dismember (interlude)

      “If they see the truth, I'll deny it”
I didn't even allow myself to picture us. 
I was so focused on you in front of me,
on being a good person when I got home,
never thinking about more
until I was left drowning in other heightened emotions.
You reached the surface with me and I knew that was shameful. 
      “The way I write your name: The cursive letter A”
Do I allow myself to dream since it's over?
Is that acceptable?
When I heal, would you still want to be friends?
      “Trust me, I know it's always about me”

“Treason” by Tinashe
“Kaleidoscope” by Chappell Roan
“I Love You, I’m Sorry” by Gracie Abrams

Blood Choice

Behind my greatness is great hatred.
I hear I’m heartless with family.
Matrimony sounds lovely:
Chosen somebody, legally bound company.
Bound by blood sounds gory,
like the stitches from my torn tendon
broken by the hands of my father's madness.
But he chose me.
It wasn't biology.

Blood or choice. It didn't matter.
I was still left discarded.

A part of me wishes I went through a trial. 
I see others go through it.
I wish the jealousy wasn't louder than the compassion.
I wish none of it was private:
My sister's worst nightmare. 
She wasn't there but she has the PTSD and the valid opinion. 
That's what I get with blood logic. 

Blood choice, I am reminded it doesn't matter. 

Here I am, wishing I didn't have to explain my mercy is silence.
Under my greatness is great hatred.
It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. 
I dream of draining every ounce of blood choice. 
But if I had to choose between a private exchange of resources or a public denouncement, then the money doesn't come close. 
Blood choice made me that way.
Invalidated for so long:
I don't care about dollars because enough can be found.
I need overflowing justice.

Let It Rest

I found redemption when I begged to die.
Gave my request to the universe,
hoping they don't prolong or deny.

I reunited with the spirit of suicide.
Danced like we had again and again
for seven years. It's lingered in my head
waiting for a familiar tune of
“it’ll be over soon.”

My brain wired that death is always a possibility.
Not by my volition,
but the universe's wishes. 
Something people can’t grasp 
and pray against
but I send them back—
the wishes of goodness.
Because I want to go. 
That's final. 
No twist in my words. 

But then I found redemption 
in a quiet night 
by myself
under the red light.

I’m alive.
I can't control that.

My brain hurts
but nothing to cut out,
nothing for early mortality.

Maybe when I’m dead, they’ll read my poetry.
Maybe then, they still won’t because I’m not there to check.

It’s for me:
The legacy.
Who am I writing for?
I can tell you it’s not the ones who say they love me more.