Tag Archives: nostalgia

“I’m Sorry” Was Mandatory

It’s a little gloomy outside, but it’s still beautiful 

It’s windy and overcast, but weeds are still sprout and I find myself longing to rip up every dandelion and wish to take a trip back to an early 2000’s summer with a swift exhale 

I want to be single digit age without a single care in the world

I want to be rolling down the hilly, hole ridden lot across the street from the 2nd move of our fresh start after leaving my father single digit years ago

I want to be playing pretend in some silly, always original game that my siblings and I concocted, in an antecedent time of my siblings deciding that they can live without me- instead of pretending like I’m alright with the feeling of being only a half step above disposable to them

And, you know, I wish that I was just feeling sorry for myself, but the truth hurts like those scraped knees when we’d wipe out on our shared pink Razor scooter and the bikes that my ma won in a contest one Christmas 

I’d like, for a summer, to go back to my older sis deciding on a whim to go bike riding in the too-long Arrowhead Lake trail or my younger sis and I randomly going to the parks in town, walking everywhere, because we couldn’t sit still. For hours on end. Back before I stole a cigarette at 16 “just to try” and got addicted at 17, and 3 years later not having stopped since

Back when I was told that drinking too much pop is bad for me, before my first drink at 15 on the way back down south from an annual visit to Chicago, and before I got drunk for the first time on the floor of a shared hotel room on the day of my dad’s wedding, with my ex best friend pouring the shots and my family all asleep just one bed over, oblivious 

I want those dozen weeks to live in the comfort of a time when saying” I’m sorry” for hurting each other’s feelings was mandatory and I knew what I did wrong
But I should’ve predicted,or at least, expected that adulthood would be something along these lines, considering that my younger sis used to walk up and hit me just so I’d hit her back and she could get me in trouble. And now, it’s just emotional blows out of nowhere, and I haven’t hit back in years. Yet I still have to ignore her remarks like she inexplicably ignores me.

I want sit down family dinners of home cooked meals, but now I swear that we’re all just roommates who live off of fast food and gas station sandwiches

I want back the fights, because at least they acted like I exist, and storming out to walk the familiar streets. But we’ve been in the 5th house since our fresh start and all that I go on are repetitive route drives that I’m so sick of. I could live here another 4 years, god forbid, and still never have this town figured out up and down 

Give me only 3ft of hallway to my sister’s room, only separated by one dilapidating accordion door and a doorway of flower shaped plastic beads

Before I knew that there was a word for my darkness, before my void and sadness had a name.

~ Megan


The Summer That I Turned 18

The summer that I turned 16

I’d had a sip of my first drink and “I would never smoke a cigarette”

I was only concerned with the older boy who gave me butterflies

I felt like such the little bad ass when I clumsily snuck out the window to go to a small bonfire across the train tracks to drink slurpees and yell at people for lighting basketballs on fire

Boys set off little water bottle bombs and I thought it’d be cool if someone could be there to put their arms around me because it was chilly

I didn’t have any concept of time and days were spent in the hot sun and nights were spent sneaking out to the park or someone’s house where all we did was talk

The summer that I turned 17

Was the first time I got drunk

I spent most of it alone, stealing all of my father’s alcohol so I could sleep

Some days I didn’t even sleep until 8a.m. because night time scared me because I was alone in my mind and distant from everyone and longed for arms around me this time

The older boy was away and I’d spend a few nights on the phone with a boy I hardly knew as we drunkenly spoke about our worries and our loneliness and sensitive subjects that we acted strong about to each other

I believed the neighbor boys offers were innocent and I painted smiles on my face before I stepped out of the bathroom after I’d just been looking myself in the eyes wondering if I’d be alright for the day

The summer that I turned 18

I smoked a cigarette and haven’t stopped since

I hardly spoke to the older boy unless I was drunk calling him, and in that case, he’d hang up on me or I’d only get a response from the voicemailbox

I don’t speak to him often, let alone think of him much

A year ago, you would never have gotten me to believe it’d be like this

Early in the summer, I fell for someone who couldn’t help but want to keep his arms around me but I always made sure that he’d been kept at an emotional distance

Safe to say that that didn’t go over well and I made an ugly little mess of things

It’s possible to want someone while thinking you’re in love with someone else

But I hope to eventually clean up and continue on in that; it’s just not a good time at the moment

I spent my birthday heavily intoxicated, looking back at what I’ve done and what the hell I was doing

Seeing a friend naked and throwing up in a bowl while I stumbled to the bathroom to hover my head over the toilet bowl so I could get back out there and celebrate the fact that I’d made it another year

Even though that’s not really why I wanted to make a big deal over it, I just wanted to forget everything that’d happened and was happening

I kept my habit of looking in the mirror and questioning myself before I wiped a smile onto my mouth to step out again

My life is lived with a constant poker face

This all made me realize that we’re no longer the troublemakers but the heaps of disaster left over from our recklessness

The days that I’d spent at home I’d get high off of whatever the medicine cabinet presented me, for many days in a row

Every so often I’d add another pill to the count to test how many “one more”s my body could handle to the point of me creating a few “too far”s

I expected that “he” would always be there to catch my pieces and stick them back on me even if I hesitantly picked up and handed him his

You get what ¬†you give eventually, I suppose, because I’m sitting here next to my pieces giving them a half smile and a shrug that says “I’m sorry, I don’t know, this one is on me”

The older boy isn’t the “you” in my writings anymore

And poetry doesn’t seem to dance around my sentences

And I’m truly unsure of what will be picked up and what is permanently left off

But I guess that I’ll pick that back up after the summer that I turn 19