Mangoes

—

I am not the person you think I am.
And I sure as hell am not the person you would like me to be.
I did not show up here tonight to tell you what you want to hear
But you are going to want to listen anyways.

I am not the girl who can spin silver stories
of romantic adventures of mystery and woe with plot twists about tangled lovers
who find a way to twist themselves into her tangled life for some sort of a happy ending.

There are no happy endings here.
There is no wedding day or record deal or over-dramatic kiss.
There are no lottery tickets or last-minute win
And everyone is angry because the camera does not spin
around the kid who just found out Santa Clause does not exist.
And no one saves the family business.

The soup of the day is not self-enlightenment.
And the specials consist of stubbed toes, forgetting your best friends’ birthdays,
and breaking everything you’ve ever been fond of.

I am the girl who gets drunk on year old tequila,
because it was all we had left and I told you too much and I still don’t remember any of it.
I’m the girl who’s telling too much again.
Who wants to be in love but will never admit it.

Who wants to build houses in the woods and smoke cigarettes,
with strangers at 4 am
so we can talk about why you can never see the stars when you need them.

Who wants to drink the rain,
so that the stagnant water will be flushed from me,
and maybe, just maybe,
I can feel fresh and new again.

Who wants to travel,
to taste the sky, until this planet becomes my backyard
Who will write her words on leaves,
and make her bed in-the-space-between
the unanswerable questions of six year-olds.
And the uncertain, half-assed,
answers they are given.

I am the girl who wants to become tattooed with the invisible ink of experiences.

And pluck the daisies from her hair
so she can ask the petals where they learned about love.
Who wants to be able to look over her shoulder and be proud of the places she has left her footprints.
I’m the girl who wants too much again.

I want to ask you about the last person you loved.
I want to know if you’ve been spending the last 4 months
trying to scratch their name into the clouds so they can carry it away for you.
Because I am the girl who has been scratching so long my fingertips are bleeding.
Whose hands have been broken so many times trying to point their way home in so many directions
my fingers look like corkscrews.

Who hates to admit that she still buys your shampoo
so maybe, just maybe,
someone someday can love me as much as I loved you.
Who can’t stand that still knows that your favorite color will always be stuck somewhere
in-between turquoise and blue.

I am the girl who showed up here tonight smelling like masochism and mangoes,
who’s got nothing left to lose but the scent of you.

Who spent last winter falling in love with the cold
because she loves the way the snow hides her shadows.
Shadows are the worst liars;
She knows that she is no one worth following.

Who understands why those clouds can never stay in one place for too long.
Who realized, that we spend the first half of our lives being lied to and the second half believing them.
Who can play hopscotch on all the hearts she’s ever broken from all the lies she’s ever told.

I am the girl who showed up here tonight to admit to strangers, that I do not believe in god, but I used to believe in you.