Things I Learned in the Night

by Emily Byrnes

I watched her drop a mug, pick up each piece and glue it back together like it was the holy grail. I fell in love that day, not because she was clumsy or cute, but because she still saw value in something so broken. The time I fell in love in a coffee shop

Now I know how terrified the caterpillar feels when he crafts his cocoon; his little body changing, no one telling him how or why or when it will stop. I wonder, will I metamorphosize, or die inside this chrysalis they call adolescence with sticky wet wings that will never get the chance to unfurl and feel the sun.

See the tree roots, how they’ve been scabbed and scarred by clumsy feet and lawn mowers that rode too close? See how we pound and batter them but still they grow and fuel the air so that we may breathe and shelter us from the hot, red sun. Their love is unconditional and we are children of the Earth who’ve not yet learned to appreciate our mother.

Down the path, through the gate into the garden of Eden. I’m no Eve, but I know which fruits are forbidden at fifteen. But look how juicy, look how sweet; maybe a bite is worth eternal suffering, after all. Desire

I want to lay in the freshly mowed grass and be young again. I want to take off my shoes and stain my clothes green and eat dinner without washing my hands. I want to go to bed with pollen in my hair and the windows open and the sound of rain. I want to wake up eight or ten or twelve again. But when I wake it’s not right. This isn’t my mother’s house, and nobody is here to clean up my messes. I miss you, I miss you. I miss the way the sky looked before I grew tall and the sound of my voice before it grew tired. Take me back, just take me back.

We grow round and supple with age; a little thicker in the thighs, a bit rounder in the middle. We are so full, yet we look in the mirror and try to convince ourselves we’re not pretty anymore because the magazines tell us our soft and our stretch marks aren’t beautiful. But go to the mango tree, seek out a fruit, and tell me you won’t pick the fullest, ripest one. Ripe

My hands became a home to a tiny bird once who’d been thrown from the nest in the dead of night. That little bird was left unwanted so I took her in and showed her love and fed her sugar water and encouraged her to sing. Now, she fills my yard with sweet songs that quell my sadness and I finally understand that karma isn’t magic, it’s the action of reaping what you sow. Songbird

I left you out in the rain and just as I feared, you complained about wet socks and matted hair and ruined shoes but never once exclaimed how great it was to be alive. You’re Not Like Me

I grow wildflowers from my back like a fertile garden and you pick them one by one until I am all bare roots and broken stems. You pluck the petals- She loves me, she loves me not but that’s the problem, see; I’m kneeling at your feet, offering you the skin off my back and still you need an old wives’ tale to prove that it’s enough. Plucking Petals

I once read something that went like this: “If you are looking for a sign to stay, here is your sign.” So I am just reiterating these words in case you haven’t heard them before: Stay Stay Stay STAY. (There’s a reason you’re here. There is meaning in your journey. There is recovery. There are better brain days. There are fewer tears. There are smiles that aren’t so forced. There is happiness. Believe that.)

Please don’t blame me for running; the universe has lit so many fires under my feet I’ve been conditioned to flee at the sign of a spark. Pavlov’s Dog

It could be worse doesn’t make it feel any better now, does it? Unhelpful Help

If the river drowned you, would you say it was out of love? Was Vesuvius romantic just because two lovers died in each other’s arms, preserved in ash for all time? The answer to those questions is no, so why do we keep using love to justify pain? Love Does Not Hurt

We grew up we grew apart because forever is so easy at eighteen and so easy to forget by twenty three.

I guess this is what the end feels like; like pretending we’re enjoying the rain, when really we’re just hoping it fills the silence so we don’t have to. The End

Mederma for my scars, foundation on my chin, dark jeans on a hot summer day because I don’t like the color of my legs. Do you do it, too? Do you cloak your insecurities and hope they don’t show through? Cloaked

I've always loved order; schedules, plans, ducks in a row. But you are scattered all over like rainbow pieces of a kaleidoscope and I'm starting to think there's something to be said for chaos. Type A

I love too hard and watch it die and never, ever understand why. Of Mice and Men

Clocks and calendars are for fools who think they have any control, so I just let time slip by and pretend everything was “just yesterday” so I don’t feel like I’m speeding toward the finish line, because who the hell knows where the finish line is, anyway. Clocks and Calendars

Look at the storm, you said. See how the sky turns Poseidon blue and the waves crest white like Tibetan mountains? You said come, let’s go outside and feel it but I was too busy boarding up windows and checking flashlights to notice. You held out your hand and said I’d never see the beauty in life wearing glasses made of fear, but I didn’t take it. I’ve been hurt enough to know that when the storm alarm sounds, I’ve got to put up my walls or get out. How I Live Through Hurricanes

you’re not alone though you might feel it being all on your own. Here’s not the problem he said, it’s out there. Haven’t you noticed that very few care?

I’ll miss you, Johnny I said see you soon before we know it, it’ll be June. I’ll come back again and here we can play as long as you promise, oh promise to stay. But he slipped away at summer’s end and I grew up, forgot, never saw him again. I grew into parties and Snapchat and boys; I forgot about nature and simpler joys. Like all kids today, I grew up too quickly, I ran from my youth and moved to the city. As a grown up I did all I possibly could, but I never had fun like I did in those woods. So stay young while you can, keep your imagination keep your wonder, your joy, your drive for creation. Was Johnny real? I’ll never say but he taught me one thing I keep with me each day; enjoy the wind and the trees and get out in the sun, because ‘ere you know it, this life will be done. (The End)

And years later, Alice returned to Wonderland to find that nothing was quite the same. Because growing up and moving on can do that to a person. Alice