makkunda

[makkunda]

i want to tell you

“look! look what i made!”

and show you all of these writings and my thoughts. i know you’d be proud of me. but i can’t write anything unless it’s about you and i can’t write unless it’s sad

how upsetting to be willing to perform but not willing to share

[makkunda]

It’s always been easy for me to pretend. I am really good at daydreaming. I thought it was because of all the books I read, so many stories consumed and they leave little traces all over me. When I imagine I hunt for these details that affected me so deeply I can’t help but put them into my own make believe life.

I think this is why it was so hard for me to get past any and everyone. In my dreams they were someone different or maybe they felt differently or especially they always acted differently.

And I did make these stories in my head with them but my stories with them were always about me being triumphant and them being introspective and also never about us or the relationship we shared.

I think now this was because when I was with them I had these moments already. I’d often be with them and feel the temptation of tears when I recognized that this moment or this feeling or something or everything was whole with all my little traces.

Alone though I would start to pick up the traces they left behind. They weren’t really traces- more fundamentals. Traces so big and ultimately necessary that most everyone had or wanted them.

But how could I lock the door when so many of my little tiny niche traces, things I found in stories so unpopular and unexpected and they’d flow out of their mouth and I couldn’t help but leave the door cracked. I could never close it.

A random Thursday came and one of my big traces was picked up by them. In my mind they had slowly morphed from a human into a collection of those minuscule little traces and to see a big one shoved right in, felt freeing.

For once I was no longer day dreaming about the days of triumphs over them, or making myself cry by the thoughts of them finding the person that is better than me. I finally thought about how it could maybe possibly be a possibility that they were just yet.

The most traces, yet. The deepest love I have felt, yet.

I fear for the day yet comes.

The-always-better-secondary-interest.

I never liked them in my books. I can’t love problems forever though.

So I will wait for yet, in trembling agonizing fear, and sitting in a wasteland of traces and pray it won’t hurt.

[makkunda]

the unbearable lightness of being, philip kaufman 1988 / henri de toulouse-lautrec/ peter wever / egon schiele

[makkunda]

you trace my skin with razor fingers and i let myself believe it’s feathers

[makkunda]

Living with Birds, Len Howard, 1956

[makkunda]

let us burn quietly into the lives we never were.

Burnings, Ocean Vuong

[makkunda]

all of the poetry and whips on here are heavily dramatized and could be fictional or maybe not

it’s about many different people

don’t take it seriously

or do ?

[makkunda]

I began to pray to God,

some god, whoever or whatever is out there

to be unaffected

a person so engulfed in their own life and self that outside circumstances did not kill them

someone who didn’t fear the let down

i feared the let down

not because i feared the agony of grief

but because i feared my actions

so uncontrollable in my state of forever abandonment

loss bleeds but

desperate attempts to remained latched isolates

but in all my pain

all the poems and books consumed

artists hands reaching out to grab me saying we are doing this together

i know that maybe my bodily reaction is maybe how my god intended

primal instinct and unbinding commitment

my love seeps out and travels to the earth

the grief of an artist is the happiness to all

now as torment subsides

far too quickly now

i miss the fullness it’s gave me

my exploding cage that allowed the moon to rise

guilt empties my body

soulless and cobwebbed

the breaking have won!

selfishness has finally came my prayers answered and all i can beg is please i was wrong!

my knees bruised and bloody

rice embedded in the bone

yet my prayers linger

i am now without life

my emotions have dulled

i survive in my circumstances

distant plans and forgotten, rotten milk

grief etches my skin and it tickles

i sleep alongside my prayers

pack them in my bag and write them on my grocery list

i fail to remember

[makkunda]

I keep thinking I have so much more to ask

I just need more closure, I am so confused

But I know that really I don’t have more to ask

and I may be confused but I think that’s normal for me

I just need to be near you

I don’t need answers I just want them to be different

I do not need anymore more closure I need acceptance

or to just return to your arms

there I know I won’t ask the questions

and won’t challenge my thoughts

but I will find acceptance and peace

because while with you the end doesn’t seem as cutting

and i feel peace and calm

but away the burn takes control. needing closure just means i can be with you again

i’ll continue lying to myself anyway

[makkunda]

I thought when I left I could leave behind feelings. Sticky honey on the bottom of my shoes and caught in my throat- rotten. Everyone said before I left that it would get better with time but it had already been 2 years and I felt like time was moving at warped speed but maybe also very very slow.

I was melancholic, deranged, confused. Rotten honey is an hallucinogen. I prepared to leave the memories and the dreams of you in the same place I was born, expecting to remeet them later, when the honey had passed through my system, and I could think fondly about the person who would’ve, couldve, taught me so many lessons. I expected to never meet you again.

But thousands of miles, nine hours, and new languages didn’t make this a reality for me. You stayed knocking on the door and for an unexplainable reason to lock was death.

I do not know the hold you have on me. It’s been two more years and I have remet you. You’ve enticed me further into your suffocating grasp then ever before. And I don’t know how. I’ll never know why.

Maybe I have never loved anyone else or maybe it’s witchcraft but I do not believe your grasp will ever truly relinquish. I know that if we never speak again today that in ten years I’ll smell you and either sob or smile.

Your mark on my teenage body has lasted well into adulthood and it’s permanent. My life and yours will forever intertwine and coexist, within each other or in yearning.

I really wish I could’ve learned my lesson. I really wish I could cringe at your name and giggle; thinking of all the fun memories but the reality, too. My desperate desire for you being shrunk to a crush.

but I could never regret you.

To regret you would be to regret myself.

[makkunda]

The worst part about this time

after all these times

isn’t that this could truly be finite

the possible ending aches

but the uncovering is stabbing.

I paid many breaths

speaking good about you

an automatic subscription

i’d say “no, he is kindhearted, just oblivious”

“i promise, he speaks his mind, and does as he feels is best- he isn’t nefarious!”

and sometimes,

“he has never lied to me”

and i thought i never lied

but now im split

cold surrounds my blood and me and sometimes my hands and nose get so cold they go numb

my body never expected i’d be left questioning your kindness

have your breaths been wasted too?

not on my protection- but on your own?

i’d say a wolf in sheep’s clothing but i fear for their safety

[makkunda]

My writings are my intermost, usually dramatic thoughts. I’ve learned how to transform the snot choking and incoherent sobs into words that mirror the agony trying to flee my body.

Translating my own language that i’m not native. A tongue that lives inside of me but I don’t comprehend, but in the pillow screaming, it almost becomes a long lost friend. An encounter with another human who you recognize their freckles and the way their smile curves but not them any longer. Soft whispers from the past, urging you to look down, look up, to reminisce about who you really can be.

Familiar but startlingly foreign, my emotions, my own creation, force acknowledgement to a person I never can admit belongs within me, too. Me, but not I, how is it possible for someone to be two?

What I have found is that the language that is born and consequently dies in those moments is not exclusively mine- but a child of my own perception of who I am and the conductor of my pain. A child born out of pure one sided understanding and hope.

[makkunda]

Alex Dimitrov, from "Love“

[makkunda]

August for me is always the worst month.

I don’t know why this happens. Maybe the astrology or maybe the heat of the summer warms my brain and I begin to make chaotic choices and others do the same.

But I really love August. The name itself- 2 syllables, begins w an A. Something about it just fits. And the weather of summer with the longing for fall, the quick increase of brisk mornings by the last weekish. School begins- and for me I get a very happy nostalgic feeling from this. August is by far atleast my 3rd favorite month- in theory.

And maybe it would be different if relationships didn’t simply crumble by the end of August. Friends and lovers can never survive the destruction of August. Which is uncharacteristic to August’s namesake. It goes like this: By August the connection is full, and maybe even peaks at the beginning. Hope in my core blossoms and attachment; that probably has already taken root, climbs the insides of my chest, securing vines and tendrils in my lungs. Then something happens, a root is cut too short, a vine loses its grasp, and I begin to feel the pillars of the relationship fold. I stay calm- I am imagining things. I am always so oblivious and delusional. I’m crazy. But the pillars keep collapsing, and being rebuilt by soft excuses and false reassurance. September comes, the breath of fall cold on our necks, and the shotty repair work falls along with it.

But the vines are still alive, and have sank claws, deeper and deeper inside my chest, the blossomed hope desperately searches for the light- the warmth of the early days of August to continue blooming. Hope after all will always hope. August marks destruction, and poor September is left to sorrow. Left to the ache of the roots and vines that don’t understand- can’t possibly understand- how just 10 days earlier, they felt safe. Felt healthy in their relationship habitat and found comfort in the soft warm pillows of my lungs and intensity in my heart. They begin to sink impossibly deeper, puncturing holes and scratches, needing to find their source again. But they won’t. Not yet.

They may come back, usually do, but it’s after. After the roots and vines inside shrivel. The bloom has withered mostly by then. Maybe one flower, or better yet two- will survive.

He loves me, he loves me not.

I no longer have excitement for August. Not since I’ve became an adult. I recognize it’s false hope. But while the month creeps in, I always forget about September. How August can be the shattering, but it holds possibility. It has the connection- breathing the air out of each others mouths and feeling the soft touch on a bare shoulder. August is a soft bed, in a sea of rusty nails.

September is prickly blankets, maybe September is the sock that keeps falling into your shoe. The scratchy tag on the back of a shirt. A mosquito bite in the middle of your back, a constant itch and reminder of how alone you are.

Always full of reminders and how can I fix this- how can I change what’s already happened? The subconscious open of the camera app and being met with the flood without the summer heat to bring you back. To stay or not stay. Your mind asking the questions but could your body handle the answer?

I don’t remember what happens in October.

[makkunda]

Wildcat (2023) by Ethan Hawke

The film opens with a quote on writing fiction by Flannery O'Connor.

It is included in Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose, a collection of essays by O'Connor edited by Sally and Robert Fitzgerald, published posthumously in 1969.

[makkunda]

When I was younger and fleeting, I also expected spite would be the reason I’d improve myself and my life. There was so many thing I desperately wanted, but the stages in life were so drastically different. I began to feel unmistakably ordinary, maybe even less than.

That spite- my anger after the desire dissipated, did assist me slightly. I became more extroverted, probably kinder, got better jobs. I was crazy though, my energy exclusively from sadness and temptation, some spite and a lot of need for distraction. I clung to a bottle and attention as tight as ever.

The real change came from the after affects. Alone, partially, but really with no other options. Some would call this rock bottom but it really wasn’t. I was healthier- my mind and body reflected this, but I had just managed to find myself in the tightest of spots, and the only way out was through.

And the end point I suppose is never reaching. A place everyone dreams to grasp but it’s a false idea. But I guess I can say I am cooler now, funnier, prettier probably, I have picked up these hobbies and interests along the way. I don’t know if anyone could meet me and say what a mediocre girl anymore.

I wish that spite still could thrive inside of me. I wish I could use that to fuel who I am now, but the only emotions some might call negative that can survive with me now is sadness. Anger and spite and jealousy and all the others have disappeared, locked out. I hope to find the key at some point, to only feel the cold blanket of sadness rock against me has created the human I feared most.

[makkunda]

I know sadness is temporary. I understand that time and distractions and a new life makes old pain seem less. The problem with sadness is that while in the depths, drenched by the downpour of what ifs and maybe i should’ves, the reality that joy is temporary as well becomes abundantly clearer. It’s like getting a stuffy nose and for days you become a mouth breather- cursing yourself for not appreciating the time when you could breath through your nose. When happiness or hope and content is all you feel, the impossible is really impossible in that moment. And sorrow is an impossible- but after the sorrow, when you’re happy again… i have never existed in this space.

Maybe because i am incapable of letting go but i really think it’s because during the ache and the i don’t want this anymore all i could think of wasn’t the moving forward, it was the next time this would happen. that the next sunny day will end, too. And i don’t ever want the ache to end. not the first time, and not the latest. how can the impossible end when the impossible is all i ever dreamed of? how could i, so loyal and forgiving, allow myself to no longer feel the pain inside my desire? how could my desire even be real if it’s consequence is so fleeting?