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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Puzzle Pieces

Puzzle Pieces

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Last night, I realized that shadows are much better than reflections.

See, reflections are misleading.

They show you what you want to see one day, then what you hate about yourself the next.

Shadows, on the other hand, are the outlines of who you are.

They show you truth, elongated.

They show you honesty, with fuzzy edges.

They show you what you are made of; lightness and darkness and everything in between.

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Movie Moments

Movie Moments

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

People are the most beautiful when they smile with their eyes.

Creativity is the most influential when shared.

Jokes are funniest when the audience understands.

The Riverwalk is the prettiest at 11:57pm.

Friendships are the most genuine when built upon a foundation of mutual respect.

November nights are perfect when they include rosy cheeks and foggy breath.

I had a camera with me, but I didn't take any pictures.

Sometimes it's best to let the moments come and go, understanding that the memories will always stay.

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Voting Season

Voting Season

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I am sitting in the back row of a movie theater, accompanied by a Memory and a Choice.

I realize that, for the first time in a long time, I have stage fright.

It is as though the idea of performing for an audience made up of Roads Not Taken and Recycled Feelings is much more nerve wracking than people.

I have a theory that every boy who reads enjoys reading Poe. I also have a theory that Romeo and Juliet was written by a woman who let her dreams go; it's a shame that play is so overrated.

There is a left hand resting on my side and a beating in my chest that feels familiar and exciting and terrifying, all at the same time.
I am trying to remember how to just be; how to put my overactive brain to sleep.

Anxiety is a constant struggle.

I am trying to decide if I've forgiven too many times; the Bible says 70x7.

I'm no mathematician, but that number seems pretty small.

Recently, they've been telling me life is short; "make the most of it."

Recently, they've been telling me I'm so young; "take your time."

I wonder which one is true and could it possibly be both?

I am a forward thinker; afraid of the unknown.

He is a spread sheet, PowerPoint presentation, logical conversation, follow up with a sweet text and a dopey smile, truthful answer kind of guy.

I am trying to decide if I like answers as much as I think I do; maybe this time, I am the question.

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Little Things

Little Things

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I have developed a theory that different people love in different ways and in different amounts.

For example, my little sister shows me that she cares by bringing me glasses of water throughout the day and telling me that I am a "good potato."

I think that she is the purest form of love.

To contrast, my little brother loves by listening, closely and thoughtfully. 

He is good at pointing out possibilities you may have missed somewhere along the way, and if that is not enough,

if you need a little more,

he will pray for you.

I do not know many teenage boys who pray.

I think that I love quietly; in ways that some people might miss no matter how much I wish they didn't.

I love in the poems that I trace onto the car window as he tells me that he is trying;

I love through eye contact during sad songs and freshly baked bread on the weekends.

I love in little things, but I do not love a little.

Neither does my sister. 

Neither does my brother.

I suppose you could say that love runs in my family, and if that's not something to be proud of, I don't know what is.

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Forward Thinking

Forward Thinking

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

If they ever decide to pick apart my poems in classrooms,

if they begin to dissect my feelings,

peel back the layers,

unpack the similes,

cut up the metaphors,

break the words down until all that is leftover are definitions abd empty promises,

I hope that they find your name lit up in lights somewhere, and that they discover pieces of me scattered about in the aftermath of us.

I hope that all they find is love.

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Truth

Truth

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

It's a simple thing really;

if we could see how much our selfish actions hurt the people around us, we would do everything in our power to live a life full of nothing but love.

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Tracy's Love

Tracy's Love

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

so just like he suggested

she reached out in front of her

foolishly letting her heart guide the way

when she found who it was that she wanted

she held tight for all that she was worth

it is hard to hold onto dreamers

and when the time came

as it so often does

for her to let go

she did

leaving her fears in his pockets and her heart pinned upon his sleeve

they say it's the brave ones who know when to let love go

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Hotel California: The Album in Summary

Hotel California: The Album in Summary

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Track 1. Hotel California: You know how sometimes you get in your car to drive somewhere, but your mind is on overdrive so you aren't even thinking about where you're going, and then the next thing you know, you're parked outside of your ex boyfriend's childhood home, even though he's away at college in another town and you haven't spoken in months, but you still want to be close to him? 

Track 2. New Kid in Town: He says this is his favorite song on the album. It took me a while to understand why.

Track 3. Life in the Fast Lane: The reason why I don't do drugs.

Track 4. Wasted Time: I once listened to this song 32 times in a row. It hurt just as bad each time.

Track 5. Wasted Time Reprise: Just because you tell other people you've gotten over it doesn't always mean that you have.

Track 6. Victim of Love: Not long ago, I played Vera Claythorne in a stage production of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. I listened to this song every night before the start of the show. It turns out that Vera and I have a lot in common.

Track 7. Pretty Maids All in a Row: How old were you when you realized? I was 5. I walked in on my parents wrapping Christmas presents; the ones that were supposed to be from Santa.

Track 8. Try and Love Again: What I've been trying to do for years, but every time I think I have been successful, I end up listening to Track 4, 32 times in a row, and each time it hurts just as bad.

Track 9. The Last Resort: My dad says that anyone who calls themselves a Christian should listen to this song at least once. So, I do every Sunday to remind myself to walk with compassion and to appreciate what is already here.

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Reminder #7

Reminder #7

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Please don't forget just how fond she is of laughter.

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Looking Backː The Things That Remind Me of You

Looking Backː The Things That Remind Me of You

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

1. The Chinese food place close to my house. I will occasionally flip it the bird when I drive past it.

2.Poetry. This one is harder to deal with considering how important it is to me.

3. I once called you a walking thesaurus and you responded with a list of words synonymous to laughter.

4. Pooping. I won't get into that one.

5. Brioche French toast.

6. The wrappers found on disposable straws. We crumpled them up and shot them at each other for hours. It was one of the best evenings of my life.

7. J. R. Tolkien. He is still boring, despite your many efforts to make him sound brilliant.

8. The kiss that rests in the right hand corner of my mouth; the type of kiss that can move mountains and end wars. I still have not given mine away.

9. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost; also, The Road to El Dorado, the Dreamworks film.

10. Pride. We've both got a lot of that.

11. Forcing myself to be angry so that I don't feel broken instead.

12. The naive poems I wrote; the ones that were once my favorite but that I now avoid.

13. The words I regret not saying; the words you will never say; the phone call I wish we could have, but that I am too afraid to initiate; trying to move on.

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Something I've Been Thinking About

"We accept the love we think we deserve." -Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Something I've Been Thinking About

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

When I was 12, my best friend lost her virginity in a bathroom stall, to a boy who didn't know what he was doing and didn't care about her at all.

When she told me the story, there were tears streaming down her face; she apologized and asked me if I thought her stomach looked swollen.

I am not sure if she ever told her mom.

I once walked in on her scraping at the skin on her wrists as though it was the winter and time to shed; time to start anew.

That is the summer she started wearing rubber bands in the pool; one day she asked me if I believed that girls like her deserved love like the movies.

I told her, "Girls like you deserve so much more."

Those were the days when I learned to be wary of boys with beautiful eyes and flattering words.

That is when I decided that me, I'd hold out for Love, and if he never came, at least I would be happy knowing that my stomach wasn't swollen; maybe I wouldn't apologize each time I cried.

It's been years now.

I have mastered the art of crying in public without anyone knowing; it's during one on one encounters when I sometimes get caught.

He says that I am an observer and then wipes away my tears; I realize I've been holding onto them since I was little.

I wonder if my old best friend ever found a love like the movies.

I hope she knows that she deserves so much more.

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Freely

Freely

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I have learned something recently;

Love has to be given freely.

That is not to say that love is free. In fact, I would venture to say that it is rather the opposite.

Freely, defintion; of one's own accord; 

without restraint or reservation; 

without hindrance;

not strictly following a model, convention, or rule.

If it is love, you will give it freely.

That does not mean it comes at no cost.

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Thought #14

Thought #14

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I'd rather be the one that got away than the woman who overstayed her welcome.

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