"2015: the year of holidays spent alone.
The year of loves gone unkissed.
The year of..."
“2015: the year of holidays spent alone.
The year of loves gone unkissed.
The year of “you’re a REAL adult, now.”
The year of crying in one city and
waking up in another.
The year I lived out of a car for two months.
The year I learned the weight of my own name
and it wasn’t a bad thing.
The year I met my best friend.
The year I published a book, graduated college,
became an editor of a magazine, kissed a stranger
in a crowded club, let heartbreak go,
let heartbreak in.
The year I spent my birthday by myself
in a hotel room in the city of the boy
who quoted Pablo Neruda–
told me he wanted to do to me what spring
does to the cherry trees.
The boy who lied. Or changed his mind.
The boy who stopped answering his text messages.
The year of the summer girl, her mouth,
her five AM text messages, her voice
on the other side of the telephone,
on the other side of the country,
on the other side of the door
we were both too afraid to open.
The year of the boy who does not believe he’s beautiful,
who kisses like he means it,
who sends my heart skittering sideways
every time he says my name.
The year every ounce of swallowed self-doubt
crawled back up my throat and into my bed.
The year depression put on a new dress
so that I’d hardly recognize her
until she’d already moved back in.
The year I was brutal to my body
and there was no one else to blame.
The first year I ever looked in the mirror
and saw my mother, instead of her husband.
The year I wrote too many poems for a dead man.
The year of crying and crying and
being held by strangers who aren’t strangers, anymore.
The year of barely making rent.
The year I realized I could survive anything,
but I couldn’t walk away clean.
If the future means an ongoing series of
finding new colors to paint old scars in,
then I will ink my body in tomorrows.
And some days, and maybes, and almosts.
If this year taught me anything,
anything at all,
it’s that the one thing I can’t afford
to give up on
is hope.”
- ANOTHER 2015 POEM by Ashe Vernon
The year of loves gone unkissed.
The year of “you’re a REAL adult, now.”
The year of crying in one city and
waking up in another.
The year I lived out of a car for two months.
The year I learned the weight of my own name
and it wasn’t a bad thing.
The year I met my best friend.
The year I published a book, graduated college,
became an editor of a magazine, kissed a stranger
in a crowded club, let heartbreak go,
let heartbreak in.
The year I spent my birthday by myself
in a hotel room in the city of the boy
who quoted Pablo Neruda–
told me he wanted to do to me what spring
does to the cherry trees.
The boy who lied. Or changed his mind.
The boy who stopped answering his text messages.
The year of the summer girl, her mouth,
her five AM text messages, her voice
on the other side of the telephone,
on the other side of the country,
on the other side of the door
we were both too afraid to open.
The year of the boy who does not believe he’s beautiful,
who kisses like he means it,
who sends my heart skittering sideways
every time he says my name.
The year every ounce of swallowed self-doubt
crawled back up my throat and into my bed.
The year depression put on a new dress
so that I’d hardly recognize her
until she’d already moved back in.
The year I was brutal to my body
and there was no one else to blame.
The first year I ever looked in the mirror
and saw my mother, instead of her husband.
The year I wrote too many poems for a dead man.
The year of crying and crying and
being held by strangers who aren’t strangers, anymore.
The year of barely making rent.
The year I realized I could survive anything,
but I couldn’t walk away clean.
If the future means an ongoing series of
finding new colors to paint old scars in,
then I will ink my body in tomorrows.
And some days, and maybes, and almosts.
If this year taught me anything,
anything at all,
it’s that the one thing I can’t afford
to give up on
is hope.”
- ANOTHER 2015 POEM by Ashe Vernon
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