beginnings

hello there. i'm sitting in my bed with a lukewarm cup of coffee i bought from the starbucks on the corner of worth. the city skyline is staring at me through my window; it's just woken up after a long night of being bathed in the deepest shade of purple. there aren't any stars here--i think that's what alarmed me the most when i first arrived.

i thought i'd miss nothing of home except for the feeling of my mother's hugs and the bluebonnets in the spring. now i'm going back to them. i think i've been defeated by myself. i worked so hard to get here and i'm leaving. not permanently, because part of me will always belong to these skyscrapers. i left a piece of my heart on park avenue, and a piece of my soul rests in the eyes of the marble woman resting on the chaise longue in the met.

but i need to go home. i've spent too many years of my life hating someone who's dying even faster, now.

i want to be myself again. i want to find the girl who got lost somewhere between the sunburst-drenched hospital room and that park in cinnamenson. she's clawing at the insides of my skin, she's constantly beating her fists against my heart. my chest clenches often because i know she's there. she's been buried for too long underneath all this darkness.

if you're preparing to rip away the parts of yourself that have grown from nothing but sadness, is it okay to be afraid?

the cleaning lady

today is gray, she thinks.

the cold morning air hits her in bursts as they pass through the front door. lavender has overwhelmed the hallways.

as she mops, she is grateful for the small things: mrs. lawson's cocker spaniel. the man with the guitar on the seventeenth floor. hats decorated with silk ribbons and cloth flowers hidden away in pink-and-white striped boxes that are lovingly unwrapped from their tissue paper every sunday. the shades of red in autumn leaves. coriander. almonds, and the crunch that accompanies eating them.

elevators ascend. she stays.