shame on me.

today i learned, from one of my classes, and from Ms. Maynard herself, that she fucked JD Salinger.

insert gestures as jaw dropping here, or otherwise.

he groomed her and ditched her. and her speaking up about it ruined her career (despite her writing 17 books).

this was before #metoo, she said. but i hate to say, even after the #metoo movement, i am pretty sure women would still get prosecuted (by other women!) for merely loving a significant figure and most of all, for being loved in return.

i should have many things to say about fucking with fame. but no.

what she said was me still (with many significant differences, no he didn’t ditch me that is). i would never say anything about it despite people prying constantly about what he’s like (it’s actually they but whatever), what it’s like, and the hows and whys but no, just no.

sure, i sprinkle it every now and then, in poems, maybe, or in short stories. but you wouldn’t know it’s me, you wouldn’t know it’s him. but no. i’m just not in for the clout.

i’m sure i won’t stop writing about him, because he is (as was) a part of my life and quoting Ms. Maynard about Salinger, he chose to be a part of my life. as many vultures believed i was after him, i wasn’t. he came for me.

it is not out of fear or respect, that i am no longer writing about him (except in a rather abstract manners). i am not protecting him/them, i’m just not into talking about them openly. at least not anymore.

but how shameless of me, an army of fandom said, to claim that i was loved so deep, so completely and utterly out of this world, that it haunts them when they listen to his music (or any residual of it now), that he’d given up being in public, even being himself.

apparently in my case, he didn’t ruin my career. instead, i ruined his.

shame on me!

pancakes and waffles, and the day was ready.

i told you if i’m writing another book it’ll be about the many pancakes and waffles, their fluffiness and how your voice muffled when you stuff your mouth with layers and layers of them in a cold morning breeze, how you said too many craps on them these days you feel the original still stand out—old fashioned buttered batter. the o-ri-gi-nal you said one morning, when leaves were crisps falling and the day was ready and the sun was warm enough to run around the grass barefoot—i thought how wonderful if we could just lie there staring at the sky and so we did. i love you. can we not be sad again?

what i do know.

it’s only september. i don’t know how many seasons i will be allowed to love you yet.

what i do know is that you have flown one thousand miles to stand in my kitchen, dropping chocolate chips into pumpkin pancakes

—like arranging freckles for the face of a perfect child.

“A Simple Love Poem”, Megan Falley

PTSD (2)

That night I heard you whimpered I thought I was dreaming but you struggled on your side of the bed, waking me up just to find you sweating and crying.

You started to have these dreams, where you were fighting for breaths in a sea of sludge, you were crawling on legs you could not feel, you were drowning. You struggled to breathe for hours. You were crying and it felt like I broke apart.  

These nightmares were recurring, so I let you drink to fall back to sleep.  

But it’s daylight now, bright and sunny, and you’re drinking again. You have turned into a zombie, but subdued and mute. You sat by the piano, staring at the keys. I wasn’t sure you were really there. You hardly eat. Sleep got you restless. You just sat there, day and night and day. You barely talk to me, as if I too wasn’t really there. 

I didn’t really want to go and left you alone when everything felt unreal to you and you weren’t even there to feel, or to be. But maybe, just maybe, you wanted to be alone.

Maybe, just maybe, the sea of sludge was me.

I hardly hear you, holding back tears like that and you know I wanted you to say it, that I was there for a reason. But the truth was, I couldn’t bear myself to see you like this, every night, and day and night and day. I was exhausted.

You’re so thin, your bones sprouting out of your elbows. Your jaw turned sharp that you looked so different sometimes. I had to convince myself you’re just the same as before your accident.

cathartic.

i have blown a thousand apologies into the air, didn’t you feel them in your breaths when you’re running into the wind? feel me there. feel me in your lungs, in your chest, inhale me into your veins —here’s to every moment i made you bleed. here’s to every pain every sting every stab every scar and every kiss. here’s to everytime i leave with not so much to keep…