An Afterthought

There's a reason that people reflect on high school and the ensuing years, because those turbulent days that blanketed us in hollow self-esteem now seem so far away, as if the memories we retain belong to another person. As though those memories are the fibers of a dream we once had or a movie we once watched.

Yet, in the distance that has been created between the past and the present, a familiarity of those days lingers, and coils up with the child inside of us. The sensation being one of comfort and awkwardness.

As this reverie takes hold, I begin choking on my adulthood as it collides with my childhood. I begin asking myself, "Who am I? How did I get here? And who would recognize me as I am now?" The following poem emerges:

Afterthought

You don’t remember me

because I’ve never stood

out in a crowd.

Before I began dying

my hair red,

I was a muted honeycomb

that slithered the halls of life,

pillaging insecurities

from the dungeons

of other people’s

warped minds. I wore

a smile that lurked

behind my eyes but

avoided the purse of my lips,

the crinkles of serendipity

hidden in the fringes

of my acquired flavor. Men

shook me, of the

coconut sweetness

that drew them in, like

a rabid mother in a torrential

rage with a fitful infant.

You don’t remember me

because my eyes

were green with disloyalty.

Once upon a time

I avoided contact

with your gaze, took

vodka shots with a head

hung low, foraged for

semblance, for acceptance

in my liquor reflection.

I harvested pollen from

other people’s

flowers, and left my petals

to wilt, back then.

I was a stray

who tasted sensuality

and bitter arguments

with a snake's tongue,

fasting and feasting,

a medicinal touch, a

warm lie.

You don’t remember me

because the spotlights

didn’t shine on my

cracked delusions.

Yesteryear offered me

a cup of coffee, but I declined;

preferring frothy

highs caught by

circumstance, absorbing

the jitters from passersby.

Now,

I comb the world

with curious eyes,

friendly lips,

and a siren’s intent;

harboring no shame for

my arsenal of lessons,

no apologies

for my love, no barriers

for my permissions.

By the time you remember me

I confess,

a storm will wash me

from this flashback,

because

I’m spindrift in time,

a white flame,

a prayer left to wither

into wishes.

I know no other way,

than to change

with the seasons, without

reasons, while

committing treasons

of the written kind.

So, no,

you don’t remember me.

I was born

an afterthought.

Fire on My Tongue

My mother has always said that my mouth is a crevice that houses a knife so sharp its edge could slice a diamond. Okay, that’s my interpretation of what she actually said, which was more along the lines of, “Watch your mouth, Young Lady.” Nevertheless, I was raised to be a no B*** S*** kind of woman. I speak from my heart, and I speak with intent; however, there is a delicate science to doing so in a way that doesn’t offend or alienate. Alas, my filter breaks, and it breaks often. It leaks like a sieve. And so, I find myself crooning over my mother’s other words, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” So, what happens when you are asked to give input that you know can’t be labeled as “nice” and silence is not an option?

I find the greatest problem arises in this very scenario: When my opinion is requested and I know deep down inside that it will not furnish an answer the asker wants to hear. Yet, a gift of honesty (sometimes in the form of a tidal wave) is bequeathed to the asker. I wish I could say that this phenomenon only occurs in personal affairs, but I would be lying. I am a bull in a china shop full of syllables. I am a drunk driver of sentence structure. My victims lay in pools of crimson frustration from the blunt blows of my tongue before rolled out on a gurney from the scene of the crime with distaste for my colloquy. Despite my best efforts to be tactful in truth delivery, I find myself tuned into an addiction for pure, unadulterated honesty. All the while, I should be dressing my “truth monsters” with pillows of compliments and niceties. Isn’t that what they taught us in college communication classes?

Recently, I endured a humbling beat-down by someone I respect. After much consideration following the topic of discussion “my bluntness,” I’m coming to the conclusion that there is an intersection at the corner of honesty and dishonesty; that, sometimes, fire on the tongue is not the culprit for another person’s misgivings.

Each of us occasionally seeks the opinion of those we admire, trust, or respect. But, we take for granted that even they are susceptible to having different thoughts than we have. Whether they are work colleagues or family members, sometimes those we admire or those we are close to become those we despise when we find that their ideas may not fall in line with ours on a specific topic (most notably, a topic close to our hearts). In other cases, perhaps they do agree with us, but they use spectacles that focus on a different array of colors of the subject. Maybe we do not understand how they see things this way and that, and so, feeling as though we have lost common ground with them, a rift is created.

The problem is, the truth is built with thorned words, and thorned words are … sharp. The truth can be an unpleasant catalyst no matter how soft one’s voice or how the syllables are sung. While some people will bruise less from these attempts to soften the blow, others will inevitably see past the niceties that were thrown in-between criticism, and they will build a Great Wall between you and forgiveness simply because they “can’t handle the truth.” They will feel betrayed, they will act dismayed, and they will put you out to pasture.

People say they want to know the truth. They say they want to learn another person’s thoughts and ideas. But these unfiltered waterways are corroded. They have pieces of glass imbedded into their bedrock, and their waterfalls are multi-level, offering steep declines not fit for the faint of heart.

Honesty hurts. It’s a devil of a character in life because it’s the voice that proves how fragile we are.

The fire on my tongue does burn innocent bystanders. I won’t deny that. And each time it does, a part of me singes when I reflect on the harm I may have done. But, luckily those incidents are few, and I can put most of those fires out with my compassion, because harm is never the intent. However, there are individuals who will always condemn me for disagreeing, no matter how many ribbons I wrap around those conversations. It is with these individuals that I must decide: Do I continue to offer locked and loaded opinions when asked, knowing far well that I could be poisoning myself with impending isolation? Or, do I compromise my integrity; ice my tongue altogether, and avoid the dispersion of soggy news so I can salvage the relationship?

My mother would say, all that depends on the importance of the relationship. Perhaps honesty isn't always the best policy. Perhaps I should put out the fire sometimes.