Aftermath

Aftermath

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

"It's all an illusion," he would say.

Everyday he wrote my name backwards with letters from different origins, leaving just enough space to breathe.

He was like a run-on sentence, affecting me in ways we didn't understand;

I was like a dry erase board, thinking the markers were permanent.

Nothing is permanent, not even the ink that spilled onto my ankle, not the scars on my heart.

The funny thin about life, I've noticed, is that even when you don't want to, you heal.

Sometimes you heal wrong, the bones a little off, the skin too soft, haphazardly put back together a little too quickly, but put back together nonetheless.

He used to say that I was his mirror, couldn't handle it when I flipped the image; sometimes it is hard to take a good look at yourself.

Recently, I've been taking a good look at myself, trying to improve where I can, accepting who it is that I am.

I am beginning to love who I am.

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Skyrocket

Skyrocket!

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

It's sort of like a mixtape, isn't it?

Hearts beating, fast paced, spinning to the melodies;

Minds reeling, uncertain of what might come next.

I think it happened somewhere during Hooked On a Feeling,

the minute I knew I didn't want to be anywhere else.

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Dr. Seuss, Upon Realizing He Has Been Played

Dr. Seuss, Upon Realizing He Has Been Played 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I have burned the letters,

deleted the pictures.

Returned the sweaters, 

washed your name off my lips.

I am getting better.

Loose lips sink ships, they say.

If you're going to lie, check your bases.

I wasn't born yesterday;

I won't hide the truth in dark and lonely places.

I played with fire,

of course I got burned.

I picked myself up,

and there were lessons I learned.

Take out the trash, sooner rather than later;

You've got to learn to play the game if you're dealing with a player.

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Hugo

Hugo

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I broke down in your living room two days ago.

I bet you didn't know that; you weren't there to see it.

Your mom gave me a hug and told me to be strong; told me that I was probably better off this way.

Despite the tear stains on my cheeks and the band aids on my heart, I defended you.

I told her you loved her, even though you do the worst job of showing it.

I told her you had a lot going on; told her that I was just collateral damage.

Told her that I'm used to it.

She told me to save her number in my phone in case I ever needed anything.

I left a paper bag full of your things up in your room, a few feet away from the place we first said "I love you".

I made sure to turn out the light on my way out.

Your dog trailed after me as I left.

He whimpered as I opened the gate, barked at me when I told him goodbye.

Even he started to cry.

But where were you?

Somewhere laughing; working on your next joke?

Somewhere smiling, thinking up a crazy "what if", planning your next escape?

You aren't even brave enough to tell me the truth. 

Not strong enough to tell me goodbye.

I am tired of always having to be the strong one.

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A Moment of Calm

A Moment of Calm

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

There is no single word in the English dictionary that could describe the way the stars sparkled that night, or the way the sky kissed the waves on the horizon;

I cannot explain to you what I felt as I watched the people who mean the most to me play volleyball in the kitchen with a makeshift net of birthday streamers and well wishes.

We can never recreate the way we sounded as we sang our favorite songs in our swimsuits, strummed along with green fingers while simultaneously shedding our inhibitions.

I believe that that is the most beautiful part of it all; 

the fact that no outsider could ever make their way into that yellow hotel room, even if they tried;

that for a brief moment in eternity, we belonged only to one another;

for just a second, there was no wrong answer, no expectation to be  met, no possibility of failure.

And though it may  be true that the sand on our skin will wash away as we drive back into the city,

that we will grow out of our sopping wet clothes, and that we will make new mistakes and celebrate new victories...

we will always have this memories.

That is something the world cannot take away from us.

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End of Semester Review

End of Semester Review

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

There is a difference between the "one that got away" and the "One who willingly walked out of your life".

This is a discovery I made in my humanities class while discussing sustainability and alternatives to fossil fuels.

I am learning that college is much more than higher education; it is also the place you discover yourself.

There is a difference between the "one that got away" and the "one who willingly walked out of your life".

This realization made it much easier for me when I ran into the boy with brown eyes and wavy hair; the boy who kissed me when the lights went out and brought me a flower when he came to see me perform.

I am learning that I often blame myself when things do not work out.

I am learning that that is not very fair to me or anyone else.

College is much more than higher education; it is also the place where you discover yourself.

Said discoveries are as follows: I often side with the misfits, hold hands with the forgotten, share secrets with the left out; I let emotions lead me, sometimes to a fault, other times, to beautiful things.

There is a difference between the "one that got away" and the "one who willingly walked out of your life."
That is perhaps the most important thing college has taught me thus far.


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Writing Prompt No. Me

Writing Prompt No. Me

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Kim Carnes is playing on the radio, there's a Beto for Senate poster plastered on the outside of the strip club that I drive by on my way home, and I'm cold, despite the boots that I laced up earlier and the sweater that I'm wearing.

I am trying to write about myself more, which sounds conceited and has proven to be more difficult than I thought it would be.

Yesterday I ate food, drove my car, called my best friend, laughed a lot, cried a little, remembered to breathe.

These things don't seem interesting, but they are the mundane, imperative moments that make up a life.

My life.

My life involves aromatherapy to cure my insomnia, a therapist with a cane, too many CD's, quotes from rom-coms staring Meg Ryan, pen ink, lava lamps, and an alarming amount of unread emails.

Lately, I've been focusing a lot on introspection; exploring what it is that I am made of, hypothesizing that there is more than just blood pumping through my veins, entertaining the idea that I am more than just skin and bones.

It is hard to decipher what the best decisions are for oneself.

Funny, considering how opinionated we are when it comes to other people's choices.

I am trying to write about myself more. It is proving to be more difficult than I thought it would be.

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