Thursday, March 28, 2013

The Sun is a Fickle Lover

The Sun is a fickle lover; she smiles at everyone.
Scrambling to woo her,
we trip over our bare legs
and skin our soft knees
until they bleed.

Winter found us weak and anxious,
but he hardened us, too.
We keep searching for Spring
(and the Sun he'll bring with him)
and forget
that Winter forced us to be strong.

Tossing our hearts to her aerial glow,
we plead with the Sun to stay, please stay,
and never leave us

But she is a consistently inconsistent flirt.
Haven't we learned to never fall in love
with her beams?
She'll turn you red and leave you white.
Scathing passion followed by months of death,

She'll come home, though.
She always runs back to us eventually.
And we'll be waiting for her
with our chins tipped upwards
and our scarred knees almost healed.

-Kimberly Pellegrini, March 28, 2013

Wednesday, March 27, 2013


I like the word "echo."
I like to think that something echoes inside of me.
I like to imagine that my heart resounds with some unfinished symphony.

Echoes are associated with an emptiness, something forgotten, abandonment.
But I'm full of echoes.
I'm so full of echoes that sometimes I think I'm made of them.

I echo of whales and baseball and Hotel California. I echo of that old Instant Messenger trill and muffin walks and salty seas. I echo of his lyrics that play on repeat every day, all day.

"You're not obnoxious, period." "I really meant that, just so you know." "Don't fall in love with me." "Warm and cuddly and beautiful." "And that's when Kim lost it." "Dance with me." "What would you say if I didn't think you were beautiful anymore?" "Even if it's just in your heart, I'd like you to wait for me." "Seriously, you looked so good." "Don't tell, but I'll miss Kimberly the most." "How are you today, Miss Pellegrini?" "You are my sunshine."

The echoes never stop. They make me who I am. The noise is sometimes faint and sometimes deafening, but they always clatter inside of me.

I'm filled to the brim with echoes.

Is that a good thing? Does that proved that I've lived in some form? Does that mean I've made an impact on someone, somewhere, somehow? Or is it another testament that I can never let go? That I drive the fishing hooks of my memory into my heart and I can't pull them out?

Am I an echo? Hollow? A remnant?
I don't think so.
But I like that they ricochet so beautifully inside of me.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

My Heart Isn't Breaking

My heart's not breaking, dear.
Don't flatter yourself.

You gave me temporary glaucoma, but I can see again.

You told me about your Build-a-Bear girl and your Arizona girl and all those high school girls.
You never asked about my one boy.
They were his glasses I broke, by the way.
I blinded him and you blinded me.

I hope you meet him in Moscow.
I hope he's your companion and you see my picture and you think "Oh."
You never asked, you know. You never asked how I knew so much about your mission.

My heart has already been broken once by a red-head with glasses who is in Russia.
I wasn't going to be stupid enough to let it happen twice.

I stared at the sun too long and your image burned onto my eyelids. But I blinked -one-two-three- and that was that.

The word 'vague' sticks in the back of my mouth and tastes like a swamp.
I'll gargle you away in a day or two.

I lost approximately zero minutes of sleep over you.

Don't worry, darling.
My heart isn't breaking.

Don't let little stupid things break your happiness.Life is too short to miss out on being really happy. Totally agree with this.