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A Coroner’s Log: The Tragedy of Jane Doe

On body of Jane Doe. Filed: 3 July 2023

Jane Doe died on a full moon, at a time when its brightness rivaled the sun. She was found under the ruins of her unfulfilled dreams, piled up so high it crushed her like a burden. Records indicate she had been tall and proud – special in all sorts of ways, however upon close inspection she had eventually shrunk herself, her bones curving to fit herself into the small spaces of people’s perception and opinion.

Her lungs were found collapsed for holding her breath for too long; her throat constricted for staying quiet even when all she wanted was to speak her truth. Only a third of her heart remained, riddled with scars and stitched in places to hold them together – it is this office’s conclusion that she had given too much of herself to too many people who did not deserve her.

Further analysis show that her bones had turned black for putting up with a terrible kind of loneliness for a long time from the repeated disappointments, lies, and broken promises that have buried themselves into the depths and into her marrow. The restlessness and the intensified sorrow of her longing hollowed her out and very quietly, very steadily, she had lost herself; she was drained and spent in the last moments of her life.

Signed – OneFrustratedPoet, 8 July 2023 (Saturday): 10:48 PM

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A Season of Waiting

The experiences that have found me so far
have been telling me to wait, patiently.
And to fill myself first until I am overflowing
with all the things I wish to come to me –
love, abundance, joy, forgiveness, kindness,
laughter, happiness, compassion,
and all the good things that I deserve.

And when I look up at the heavens – at the sky, at the clouds,
at the sun as it sets, at the moon, at the stars,
I am filled with an overwhelming sense of being,
to surrender and to flow;
to cherish each person that comes along,
no matter how brief the encounter;
to learn the lessons intertwined with each conversation
because like every emotion that comes to pass,
they too have been sent by the divine.

I often hear the wind whisper in the moments of silence,
“treat yourself with as much kindness as you can child,
treat yourself with an abundance of gentleness;
grieve the old you whom you have left behind;
you are always worthy child;
you are always enough,
and in this season, find time to rest;
for in waiting, some days
will be more difficult than others.”

This is my season of waiting.
I wait for the last strings to sever,
and the remaining attachments to dissolve over time
without forcing them out from my being.
I wait for the things that have been divinely written as mine
to finally arrive –
I wait for love, for the fulfillment of every desire
that I have delicately folded like love letters
and tucked away lovingly, like treasures.

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The Ghost of Me

I enter your mind whenever you look out your window,

as your eyes look past the trees that line the street,

past the neatly trimmed bushes,

past the manicured lawns and the cookie cutter houses,

past the park one street over,

past the suburbs, past the rolling hills,

past the sea, past the horizon, past the wide expanse just beyond your imagination.

I burrow into the empty front pocket of your favorite shirt, exactly in front of where your heart is.

I feel it beating and hear it thudding to a regular rhythm.

And when your pace accelerates, so does your heartbeat,

and i can feel life pulsing through the fabric.

I cling to your shoulders, wrapping my arms around your neck – the heaviness of my embrace goes unnoticed.

I whisper sweet nothings in your ear, but you hear not a word, nor feel warmth from my breath.

I lie beside you as you sleep, content in just watching you breathe,

wondering what you dream about and whether i could enter through the thin skin of your eyelids.

I touch them with my finger, tracing your lashes that seem to feel like the soft bristles of a paintbrush.

I caress the side of your cheek and feel the warmth of your skin.

You don’t seem to like the cold air that keeps me company

as you shiver even under the covers – there is a constant chill wherever I go these days.

And the warmth of the sun, even at its peak, is no longer enough to make it disappear.

I’ve wandered for much too long, perhaps it is time to leave.

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Goddess Rising

the wind whispered,

“you have fallen from all your towers and survived.

you are risen from the ashes;

you are empress, you are queen;

you are divine, you are holy;

you are love, you are radiant light.

you are the moon, the sun, and the stars;

you are one and none and all;

you are Him and He is you;

you are here, in the in between of your light,

of your goodness and the darkness within –

embrace all of who you are, honor them;

you are at the cusp of your awakening.

rise goddess, the sun shines and sets for you.”

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Today, I fell in love

look up – look at the sky, look at the clouds…

see how they look like clumps of cotton, how they billow and tower in the horizon;

walk under the drizzle, and maybe you’ll be lucky enough to witness the sun as it sets,

as it hangs low, and light hits the earth at an angle, allowing you to capture the fine drizzle

illuminated by the sunset as it pours from the heavens;

then when night slowly descends, blanketing the earth,

you see the moon and venus, separated by a distance, yet it feels as if they are never too far apart.

how can you not fall in love with this life?

how can you not want to fall in love?

how can you not want love?

how can you not want to be love?

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The End

My heart felt a longing as your memory entered my mind,

but then I caught myself and asked,

“Who am I longing for exactly?”

And I wondered if it was the character you made me believe in,

or perhaps the name you introduced yourself as.

In the end, all your words only ended up as just that – words,

and your promises vanished along with the fog

after the sun appeared and shone its light on you.

Yet I have to admit,

I missed you.

I missed our conversations.

I missed you despite this broken heart.

We were supposed to marry, in another life perhaps we did,

but it all ended in this life –

before I had time to put on the dress;

before you could buy the ring;

before I could say “I love you.”

It’s fascinating how a heart, though broken,

can still be filled with an overflowing of love.

And despite how fragile it is, the heart

does not die so easily.

It’s all ended – the stars have gone dim,

the moon has gone into hiding,

and the sun is left grieving.

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The Lovers

Like Venus, I had no moon before you came

barging in on my otherwise peaceful existence.

You kicked down the door and broke down the walls,

knocking every brick to the ground.

And all I could do was watch, speechless,

as you took my hand and pulled me running,

like two kids caught red-handed after stealing from a market stall.

It took a while before I could wrap my head around

the plot twist that was you.

Should we just elope?

Let’s get married by the beach,

you in your floral Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sandals,

and I’ll be in my ripped jeans and a white shirt, barefoot.

We’ll say our vows with the sun, moon, and stars as witness;

we’ll exchange rings made of woven wildflowers

scattered along the side of the road.

Perhaps, it’ll be the best whirlwind romance;

let’s see how long this lasts and how far we can go,

before the many unknowns hanging over our heads

jolt us awake and we run out of this so-called love,

and I return to a moonless existence.

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Restless Longing

Like the ocean tides it ebbs and flows.

It comes to visit many times;

sometimes it comes creeping in slowly,

as if trying to avoid my awareness;

sometimes it barges in at lightning speed,

stabbing straight at the heart, catching me off guard,

as if to make sure I feel its presence fully.

Sometimes it stays far longer than is comfortable;

it sits in front of me as I drink tea, staring intently –

quietly watching me with its chin propped on its hands,

and the moment I blink, it smiles, its lips tracing an arc

as if to say, “see, I always win.“

Yes, it smiles as if it has won a victory over me yet again,

and afterwards, it leaves without a goodbye.

Most times it just visits for a while, shorter than the time it takes to burn a stick of incense.

It runs its finger on the rim of the teacup, but leaves the tea untouched –

uninterested, letting it grow cold before it leaves without even taking a seat.

This emotion is not mine, I’m sure of it.

It is someone else’s, yet it’s quite pervasive –

it comes uninvited and boldly occupies every crevice it can find,

selfishly wanting attention, like a wounded child throwing a tantrum,

pushing me to the limits as if to test the sincerity of this love.

Love?

Is it love? Was it love? Is it enough to call it love?

Perhaps it was, perhaps it is…

because I’ve found that this heart has tethered itself without my consent.

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Still Life

the flowers in the vase have wilted –

the sunflowers no longer face towards the sun

and are bowing to the ground;

their yellows are less bright and have lost

a bit of their vibrance;

but still, they are beautiful –

the way they bow in reverence and humility,

as if saying, “i accept this fate. i have lived and it is time to rest.”

the chrysanthemums have also taken on

a more somber atmosphere –

perhaps because the sunflowers have wilted before them,

remembering the promise to bloom and go together;

but the quiet grief and sadness that surrounds the mums give it a kind of tranquility,

as if despite the loss, they remain at peace,

believing that everything is as it should.

the vase remains steadfast, unfazed

by the wilting and the withering of the flowers that it holds;

like a sentinel – detached from the world,

hyperfocused on his task.

but this detachment, this aloof and uncaring vibe

make their reliability shine brightly;

as if reassuring that the flowers left in his care

can bloom without restraint until they need to rest.

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The Color of Forgiveness

It’s the taste of sunshine, as you stick out your tongue in the morning
to catch the warmth of the first rays of the sun.

It’s the scent of fresh citrus that comes out from rolling it back-and-forth,
back-and-forth, to make it more pliable for juicing.

It’s the feel of the soft grass underneathe your feet
as you walk barefoot on the lawn after the rain.

It’s the sound of monks chanting OM 108 times, clearing your heart,
making space for more of the good things to come in.

It’s the sound of your inner child laughing, as she frolicks about –
doing cartwheels, running with airplane arms, feeling the breeze on her face.

It’s enjoying the sunset leisurely, on top of a mountain after an arduous hike,
or by the beach, lounging on an adirondack chair,
or in a hammock, swinging ever so lightly with the breeze.

It’s the sound of a deep breath
as you inhale lots of love in and exhale lots of love out.