Poem: "Without You"

Were you lonely
On the day you died?
Did you feel it coming?
Did you try & hide?

Were you ready?
Plans in place.
Ready to ascend
Beyond outer space?

I don't know
What the religious believe.
Seems the only purpose
is allowing room to grieve.

I've never bought in
to Hell, Heaven, or God.
I believe in people.
Needing more feels odd.

I was going to say,
"I hope it's true.
Hope you were right,
And this wasn't it for you."

But I don't hope that.
Hope's not my bag.
I'm fucked up that you're gone
And you're never coming back.

That I'll never hear your laugh;
gravely, wild, and kind.
And never get another one-on-one
Where I peek inside your mind.

There's no hope left for you.
That time is fucking passed.
No purpose in pounding fists,
Or telling life to kiss my ass.

Beliefs mean nothing
Staring into reality's cold face,
When the truth is
None of us are long for this place.

But you?
You left too soon.
I'll never forget you.
And have no clue what to fucking do.

Without You.

Love Always,
@HaleyBCU -11:22 AM, 11/20/2022

Poem: "but"

i get it now.
i finally understand.
a new door opens—
after one's slammed on your hands.
life is breathing, evolving.
breaking. sobbing.
losing it all and starting anew
is the new black and fuckin' blue.

but, who am i kidding?
i don't have a clue.
falling for narcissists
like they're something new.
they pick me out of a crowd
saying, 'hey, i like you.
you've got that magic shit, girl,
with that thing that you do.'

same old story, different year
but, bitch?
i'm still right here.
too much for you?
yeah.
that's fucking true.
because I'm 100% me
with or without you.

loyal. honest.
true fucking blue.
messy. dramatic.
selfish as shit, too.
i have to be,
or i lose myself
to assholes
like you.

pull out a mirror
that shit'll get clearer
but you won't
out of fear, dear.
you won't take a selfie
'cause you're afraid of yourself, see?
but i'm not.
of you or of me.

but?
upon further reflection
i'm the denominator
that's common.
the loser.
alone here.
starting over
again.

but,
bb?
my ass
can
always
make
new
friends.
-12:28 AM, September 23rd, 2022

D.N.S. Poem: "Wrong"

Fuck you,
you bitch
for leaving me
adrift—
unable to trust
my own spit.

You're dog shit.
Suck a fat dick,
quick!
Before I kick your clit.
Your bullshit?
I'm over it.

No longer pissed.
This shit is bliss.
You won't be missed.
Forever this—
you've been dismissed.
My ass? Please kiss.

I'm goddamn done.
It's over, hon.
You haven't "won."
'Cause you'll never come
to the conclusion
you've done a damn thing wrong.

So fucking long.
It's your swan song.
See your ass out
at the sound of the gong.
Bong.
Your heart is gone.

You were fucking wrong.
12:54 AM, 09.14.2022

Poem: "Surface"

advice from a dime-store
nobody's got time for.
cross-stitched platitudes
about positive attitudes,
facing adversity strong
head on.

it's all fucking wrong.
I'm here
with my thirty-six years
to alleviate your fears:

give in. be weak.
fall to pieces.
just be.
fucking breathe.

Set free
ideas preconceived
the doubt?
throw it out.
let that shit drown
it's weighing you down.

just let go.
people float.
you'll rise
in due time.

but? sink first.

touch the bottom,
scrape your toes—
know
the sensation
so returning
isn't damnation.

rock bottom
is a myth,
underwater caverns exist,
you will surface.
-10:13 AM, 09/01/2022

Love Always, Haley BCU

D.N.S. Poem: "Change Your Heart"

You loved me first.

You're the worst.

You called me best—

Fuck the rest.

I'll take

My spastic life

Over

Your plastic life.

But they're better

Together.

Like p.b. & chocolate

Or pussy & dick.

Our lives—our why's—

Are so deeply intertwined

That I "haunt your dreams."

Touché: you haunt my mind.

Without you, my art is dirty

Ragged and malformed.

Like a freshly aborted fetus

In a sodden cardboard box.

Every time I see a fox.

Or hear someone say "babies"

Every time I watch fireworks.

Every time I read my own damn book.

Every time I have to sell it.

Every time I talk about it

I hear you, talking about me.

Every time.

There is no separation.

I've tried & almost died.

The only person who can help

Won't respond to my cries.

The only person who can relieve

The burden of waiting for you

To love me again

Is you.

Tell me you hate me!

Tell me to leave you alone.

To never speak to you again.

'Cause you haven't. Not once.

Why?

Am I a back-up for when you alienate your next best?

Or are you too afraid

To banish a bitch

From your heart to Hell?

Am I the only one you've let inside?

Are you afraid

I'm the only one

You ever will?

Do you hate that

Someone who loves you,

Whom you can't stand,

Knows your heart like the back of her hand?

I may not know

Who you are now,

But there's some shit

I won't let you disavow.

You can't change your heart

Any more than me,

Or you wouldn't have taken my book

And you wouldn't have told me your dreams.

Love Fucking Always,

@HaleyBCU

P.S. I wrote this book because of her. I wouldn't have finished it without her. It means something.

Misplaced Monologues: "Bad Day"

There are two basic reasons we feel guilt when hurting someone's feelings:

1) We care. Ya know. Decent human being shit.

2) Their rejection reflects poorly upon us—i.e. our ego becomes so mortally wounded, we reject them first. This is grade A bitch baby behavior, and I check myself for it constantly.

I become absorbed in the emotions of others. Not much a busybody (I'll leave that to my mother) more of an empath. I hear someone speak, listen to their feelings, and it's as if I can feel them. Afterward, I carry a piece of them with me. This can be a purely magical, connected human experience.

But, if I get caught in anothers mental illness loop, it can be unnerving as hell.

Not because I don't care. Never because I don't care. And not because I care "too much"  either. That's a bullshit concept for those obsessed with altruism. It's because—while I barely understand my brand of Crazy™—I'll attempt to take on theirs like it's mine. I understand through identification. But through that identification, I risk losing pieces of my own.

Because who am I without other people, really? If a bitch falls in the woods with no one around to pick her ass up, did she ever really fall at all?

Yes. Doubtlessly. Now, she's alone on a forest trail with a snapped ankle, waiting for death or rescue—whichever comes first.

Metaphors aside, navigating the feelings of others while considering mine is the toughest high-wire act. I don't want anyone to slip, but I'm not here to break their fall. These words feel fundamentally wrong as I type them, but standing up for myself commonly does.

I know who I am. My sense of self is iron clad. Who I am is someone who comprehends the world through compassion. Someone who doesn't believe in giving too many fucks, but occasionally runs out. I only love at one speed, at one volume, and I'm never more out of my element than when it becomes evident I should set boundaries.

Because boundaries are meant to keep people apart, when all I want is to be closer to everyone. To understand fucking everyone. To be one with the damned universe.

That isn't "too much," right?

In the end, it boils down to this: I can't be everyone's best friend, but I want to be. Or, bare minimum? I want to want to be. Maybe I am one of those assholes obsessed with altruism? Maybe I'm bullet point number two on my own damn list?

Or maybe—I just don't want anyone to have a bad day.

Love Always,

@HaleyBCU

Misplaced Monologues: "I Hate Journaling"

The title says it all, doesn’t it? I can’t stand this shit. It feels moronic, self-gratifying — an utter waste of time. I’ve never been able to hold to it with any consistency, because I’ve never seen a point. Until now.

Before we get there, let’s begin at a rudimentary locale: my name is Haley, I’m a writer, and a recovered alcoholic. An ex-drunk is not the only thing I am or have been, but my addiction played a major part in my downfall and lack of memory, so it’s relevant. My ex-best friend has a starring role, too, but I’ll talk about her too much, so we’ll save her for later.

My writing is what brought me here, quite literally. To this line on this screen, but also to an unexpected place where I’m trying to be a semi-successful fiction author. Why? I have no fucking idea. Nothing else feels right. In the same respect, even writing barely feels like mine anymore. That lack of ownership pertains to the ex-best friend, but — again — saving her for later.

This effort. This new foray into an old habit that didn’t rob me of copious braincells is a last ditch attempt to retain any semblance of a day-to-day memory recall. Honestly? I struggle hour to hour; occasionally moment to moment, but it’s no one’s fault but my own. This is not a request for pity or penance, but a place to document these thoughts — the shit I simply won’t remember. I’m not ready to say can’t yet, because I’ve made no attempt to hone my memory, memory is a skill, and any skill requires practice.

I can say I will journal. I might hate it. Ugh, I definitely do hate it. But it’s not because I don’t want to explore my feelings, failures, or fuck-ups. Indeed, that’s all I want to do. All I’ve ever wanted to do.

Issue is who I want to do it with, and that who refuses to speak to me, or acknowledge my existence. I can’t say I don’t deserve it, but have to believe I don’t, or I wouldn’t even try to remember shit. If I was out of hope, I’d still be drinking, and if I didn’t quit drinking? I’d be dead. Not in a dramatic literary sense. I was in the hospital for a month when I quit, because my body was already giving up the fucking ghost. I’d be dead, assuredly. And I deserve a lot, little of it good, but I don’t deserve death.

What do I deserve? I have no fucking clue, but don’t believe life gives a shit about that. Life is blissfully neutral, cruel and unfeeling, because life goes on. It moves on, unlike me. My terrible therapist, who gave the repeated cross-stitch level advice ‘Be Nicer to Yourself’ diagnosed me with prolonged grief over losing my best friend who isn’t dead. I’m just dead to her, but apparently that’s enough. Prolonged grief is so fucking relevant because it’s the same affliction that my main character suffers in my first book: the book I finished for that ex-best friend. Because of her. Fucking hell, I wrote it for her. I started it for myself — sure — but she asked me to read to her, and as a writer; that’s the best gift one could hope for.

And it fucking was. I’ve never felt so loved, supported, built-up, and vital. Needed. Relevant. I was the keeper of a tale, and had a captive audience. I’ve never experienced better in my life. I hope I can get back there again, one day. I believe it can’t just be a singular experience in my hellish, relatively short but often brutally long existence.

I’ll experience that momentary magic again, with her, or someone else. Because I’m not giving up, and I’m not going to sit idly by while I forget everything I’ve done. The good, bad, and Quasimodo. Because if I forget, I’ll never fucking learn.

Pushing away someone you love without intention is one of the most painful experiences to survive. When it’s the person who you feel understands you the most, and they still are able to discard you like trash? You must be trash, or you must have been wrong about them all along, right?

No. My name is Haley, I’m a writer, an ex-drunk; and I’m going to remember everything I’ve done so I don’t destroy my life again. I’ll learn the difference between selfish and self-preservation. I don’t have a choice. I won’t be getting another shot at this shit.

Love. Always.

@haleybcu