by Madisen Kuhn
he has a tattoo below his elbow
of a bird, dedicated to his grandmother
and i want to make him cut his hair
run his fingers through mine
kiss me until my chin is red
make him forget about jesus
make him love me for a while
i’m afraid he thinks i am too good for him—
i wish he knew i am not good enough for anyone
her heart stopped beating for a moment—
immediately after, she could not recall why;
perhaps it was the song playing faintly
in the corner of her dark room, a man
screaming, a soul singing of devotion
or maybe it was the thought of
the pennies in her bank account, copper stained
with evidence of impulse and manic depression
maybe it was the memory of saying hello
to an old boyfriend at the coffee bar today,
the one she pretended not to see in the hallway
when she was fifteen and terrified, and
again, this morning, five years later
still the same tangle of butterfly-wing veins
and self-doubt, a young girl
with messy hair and hollow stomach
or maybe it was the thought of him,
a boy like the fog that hovers in the mountains
between her hometown and the next one over;
someone she could get lost in
—maybe it was you.
i hate feeling like this
like i’m some unworthy person because i can’t believe the things you do
like that small girl in middle school, surrounded by laughing faces
of course, he’d never go for you
because i am a nonbeliever
i am sin
i am covered in it
and when i take my last breath
i will smile, thinking about the beautiful life i’ve lived
the things i’ve seen, the people i’ve loved, the art i’ve shared
how i tried so hard to be good
all the air will leave my lungs
and with my eyes closed,
grin still there,
you will cover me with leaves
you will set me on the water
and say goodbye as i sail into flames
this is where you believe i belong
you believe this
you do
a memory that will not be tarnished by the reality of an abandoned love—
i think the most alive i ever felt was when he kissed me in the doorway of that cramped restaurant in chinatown. we were blocking the entryway, a knot of puffer coats and scarves, as he stuck his tongue inside my mouth. a group of middle-aged couples rolled their eyes and waited impatiently to push past us. he didn’t care. i was embarrassed but too enthralled and engulfed to let it bother me. we laughed as we tumbled out into the twilight. my hands were frozen but i held his out in the cold air anyway. we were not looking backwards or forwards, just down at our feet on the philadelphia sidewalk.
as expected, the electricity has gone out; we forgot to pay the bill. two lovers wandering in the dark, unaware of warm cheeks neglected.
and now i am left questioning what it takes to keep the lights on.
there are three record stores in town
i’m going to visit all of them in hopes
you’ll be behind the counter when i walk through the door
i’ll look straight at you, hold it, let there be no mistake
that we’ve acknowledged each other’s existence
your green eyes, my grey scarf
we are here, now, real
then i’ll look away
flip through the albums, halfheartedly searching for new order or fleetwood mac
decide that i’m bored
and leave
i’ll pretend that you care
you won’t in the slightest
i cannot sleep
it tastes like blood in my mouth
do you bite the insides of your cheeks like me?
pick at your blisters like me?
are you unable to let anything heal without a little scarring?
do you make a home in the open wounds?
there they are. they are there. they’ve always been there.
are we the same?
are we the same?
are we?
are we?
are we?
after reading forty pages of romantic nineteenth-century literature, i’ve decided that getting my feelings hurt is not the end of the world. i’d like to know you. just you and i, apart from anything. i hope you know that the idea of you—and what i know of the actual you thus far—excites me, and considering you as a muse is inevitable. reference of you is bound to end up in my messy streams of consciousness. you seem like someone who’d be a mistake to disregard. i’m afraid you’ll wake up to this and deem me insane for giving so much thought to someone i hardly know. it’s possible i am. i’m sure i’ll dream of you. goodnight, again.
perhaps it is the pills—
at the surface and deep down
i really hope it is
i am so accustomed to
stomach drops and aching chests
i don’t know what to do with feeling
like the world is not ending
like i have hope in all outcomes
like i can flip a coin and walk away
before it hits the ground
maybe this is what security feels like
maybe i won’t always feel everything in extremes
maybe i can write poetry
close my journal
turn the lights out
roll over
and fall asleep
maybe one day we will return to one another
we will share stories of our time apart
and fall asleep in the same bed again
and we will be happy.
and maybe one day we will find love apart—
you and your fierce love, who wears braids in her hair
and will talk to you until dawn;
you won’t be able to get her to shut up
me and my gentle love, who brings me flowers
and likes the way i dress;
a love that burns and a love that heals
and we will be happy.
afterword
let me begin with this: sometimes you must go through things, totally and completely, to fully understand them.
the past few years of my life were a whirlwind. i saw myself as broken, and i didn’t know how to fix things. or maybe i did, but i didn’t know how to muster up the courage to do so. i crossed my arms and furrowed my brow and screamed while keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground. then, one day, i decided to move. i woke up and realized that i would rather be lost and broken down on the side of the road without a phone than sink deeper and deeper into a foam pit of comfort and lethargy. i wanted to feel alive again.
for weeks, i’d stay up late at night looking at flights online, picking at my cuticles and replaying a scene in my head over and over again of me navigating the airport until finally, i bought a one-way ticket that would set me free. moving across the country was the best decision i ever made. it was an awakening. i look back and realize i had to be fully immersed in all of that darkness to really understand it and myself.
on those overexposed and oversaturated months in los angeles, i’d wake up in the morning and walk my dog—some days taking a quick loop around the block, other days not worrying how far away from home we wandered. i did yoga in my living room and told myself i was more capable than i realized. i entered anxious situations and reminded myself that not trying is more harmful than doing the thing that scares me. there are still things i want that i do not have yet. i have so much more to learn. i’ll always be learning. life is a constant torrent of trying to figure shit out and doing your best.
in october, i purchased another one-way ticket. i left a love that grew me and shaped me but did not nourish me in the ways that my soul ached for. i said goodbye to açaí bowls and palm trees, and kissed my best friend of three years goodbye. some might feel that traveling across the country for a relationship that would end was just a waste of time. an immature and starry-eyed adolescent mistake—but i don’t see it that way. i look in the mirror and i see someone brave. someone full of hope, someone who chose to chase warmth all while knowing the real possibility of imperfect endings. i believe that fairy tales don’t always end in happily ever after. mine ended in tears and poorly taped cardboard boxes—but it was still magic. i will forever cherish the time i spent with the person who so many of these poems are about. he was a temporary home, one that i’ll go out of my way to drive by every so often, giggling at the new garden gnomes and christmas decorations put up by the latest occupant.
we are so lucky to love, to know the light and dark parts of each other’s souls, to get to feel anything at all. none of it is in vain. we turn the hurt into art, into poetry, into stories to share that create unity in understanding. the bliss turns into polaroids we tape above our desks, montages we play back in our minds set to blaring eighties european rock.
i used to see the stages of my life only as steps towards improvement. i thought i had to justify everything with my desire to be better; seeing present sorrow as a fleeting phase. like somehow, the lulls of depression and anxiety, the slower days, the dull minutes were not me. but they are. every moment is valid. every moment counts. and we must learn to love who we are right now, apart from who we could be in the future. we are more than just the highlight reel. we are the moments in between. the messy hair and the drunken irrationalities. we should find peace in the lazy afternoons, instead of criticizing the inactivity. learn what drains you and what makes you whole. focus on the here and the now and the good. you are here, you are now, and you are good.
i used to fear abandonment because i thought that my imperfections made me inferior. that to earn the affection of someone i cared for, i had to beg them, please don’t go before i get better. i believed that someday i would reach this ideal version of myself and suddenly everything would fall into place and i’d ride off into an endless sunset of well-being and stability. and then i discovered that my imperfections do not make me lesser, they just make me human. and these flaws are not detached or impersonal, they are essential notes in the composition of my depth. and unrealistic sunsets should not be the motivation, but rather, the beauty of all that imperfection. the gift of feeling. the luck of existing.
and the chance to write poetry about it all.
acknowledgments
I am a product of all those who have supported and believed in me. Thank you to my agents, Erin Harris and Katherine Latshaw, for seeking me out and having a vision for this collection, one so much larger than I had imagined. To my editor, Natasha Simons, for your passion for bringing my words to so many more souls.
Thank you, Leah Lu, for being a friend and a brilliant artist. I am so glad we found each other on social media when we were teenagers, and through serendipitous magic, teamed up for this book and laughed together in my living room in West Hollywood. I am so excited to see where your creativity and honesty take you.
To my mother, whose unceasing encouragement has kept me afloat, even in the darkest moments. Thank you for always being there to instill hope in me. To Natalie and Jake, my favorite people in the whole world—thank you for making me a big sister. Thank you for the snuggles and the belly laughs and acceptance.
To Aunt Judy, for the hour-long phone calls full of comfort and wisdom. Thank you for always motivating me to live in gratitude, to take each moment as it comes, and to value compassion and kindness above everything. I love you like a mother and, like everyone who knows you, feel blessed by your existence.
To my muses, especially Christopher. Thank you, C., for being my best friend. Thank you for helping me grow, motivating me to see through different lenses, and teaching me how to build IKEA furniture on my own. You’ve changed me forever, and I will always carry you in my heart.
To my readers, my followers, my soul mates. Putting my appreciation into words is difficult. I wish I could just give you a bear hug instead. Thank you for understanding the messiest parts of me, and for reminding me that I have a friend wherever I go.
about the author
MADISEN KUHN is a writer and photographer living in Charlottesville, Virginia. In 2015, she selfpublished Eighteen Years, a collection of more than two hundred poems. She writes a monthly column for Local Wolves magazine and is currently pursuing a BFA in Studio and Digital Arts.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Madisen-Kuhn
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
Facebook.com/GalleryBooks
@GalleryBooks
We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook.
* * *
Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.
Gallery Books
An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 2018 by Madisen Kuhn
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address
Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books trade paperback edition May 2018
GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Interior design by Joy O’Meara
Illustrations by Leah Lu
Cover design by Anna Dorfman
Cover photograph © Corey Wolfenbarger
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-5011-9681-2
ISBN 978-1-5011-9682-9 (ebook)
