By: Brenna Renée Prather
Part I: Recent Nostalgia
Part II: What Remains
Part III: A Living Nightmare
Part IV: Relentlessly Unforgiving
Part V: Regret
Theatre Design/Art Portfolio: brprather
I’d have to say that this has been one of the most difficult weeks I have had in a long time. Not only have I been grieving, which is like trekking through an unknown jungle – you don’t know what it’ll do to you – but I was also going through an interview process for a new job doing custom alterations. About two hours after Rosey passed on, I got the phone call asking me to come in. Since then, I have accepted the position and had my first shift yesterday.
In a way, I feel as though Rosey passed on in order for me to really start becoming the person I need to be, and who I always wanted to be. I miss her so much and love her with all my heart, which is quite evident through all of these poems and excerpts, but I am excited and intrigued to see what the world has in store for me now.
“When a chapter ends, a new one begins.”
Here are my poems and excerpts from Week Three:
A sniffle. And a cough.
My tiny little friend, I worry about you often,
but especially now, as you sputter little garden hose & hack up slime.
Poor baboo. Get well soon.
Cannot write tonight, because without you, I am nothing.
….and there you were.
Rubbing on me.
Gods, it felt so real
Today was a lot of firsts,
But I know now that you will always be here.
I love you ❤
Counting the days I survive
Hoping one day
I don’t need
to count the days away.
…Thank you for visiting me in the night. Please don’t stop.
So much laughter. So much new.
“When one chapter ends, another begins.”
I know you are with me always.
I love you. ❤
A Dust in the darkness,
a walk alone.
Through the sands,
toes covered in sand,
White dress dancing
And a calm.
Thanks for stopping by and having a read. Lots of love.
Stay safe and stay insane.
In front of the mirror, I make myself into perfection.
Layer upon layer, I create a persona, a creature I want to be, to be believed.
A bus I used to know, large bag of heavy memories and the regrets of someone some time ago who drove me to fear some fires.
A sea of faces I have grown to ignore, I walk alone into a space that was a second home.
The back of a gentleman I once spoke to, just a ways in front of me. I dart into the hallway I spent nights wandering, laughing, tricking doors into not locking me away.
The room of education, of art, of three years of my life.
To my left – room into room of familiar faces.
I am smoke, passing through without a breath nor a word nor a hair noticed.
I look through the hall door, a play on repetitive motion, I had it seen so many times.
What is air. What is tension.
This is no nostalgia.
These are what I used to know.
What I thought I knew.
What I wanted to believe I knew.
Breeze whisks me away.
I will not become a disaster.
I was never what you used to know.
I was never a conventional kind of girl.
I wore puffy, cutesy dresses, and then dirtied-up jeans and a turtleneck. I’d play with my teddy bears, covered in ribbons, right next to my little cars, zoom zooming away.
My hair stretched long, past my hips, thin golden waves in the wind. My face, un-caked.
I’d be a girl scout, playing tough in the woods, and run around the playground with the boys at school, just one of them. I’d point my toes forward in ballet, and flip a man in defense classes.
Years have passed.
I wear cute dresses, vintage sexuality galore, and then high-waisted jeans with a men’s button, lusting for a pleather jacket, lipstick smile on my face. I hold a BA in Theatre Design and Technology in my hands.
My hair, only going to just past my shoulder blades, golden waves becoming dimmed sunshine. My face goes from naked, to the slightest taste of foundation, mascara, and eyebrow perfection, to black enveloping my lids, purple lipstick making my pout intensified.
I love to design for the theatre, and wonder what it’d be like to direct. I write so I can breathe. I move on the dance floor, and walk alone at night to feel life, knowing I’ll be just fine.
These days come with new things to call yourself.
So I wonder –
Am I Queer?
Well. Queer Theory states that everything outside of the heteronormative is Queer.
There are those who fall coincidentally into that world, and those who brought into that world.
I never was a conventional kind of girl.
I live in the middle, passing and not passing.
I take an interest in men for most occasions, but I don’t dress like that sweet girl they crave to know. I am Wednesday Addams in thigh highs with ruby red lips and a quiet eye.
I never really fit in with anyone’s plan.
Am I Queer?
After all, I could never conform. I am no one’s conventional girl.
It’s not what I thought it’d be.
I always saw golden princesses, bathed in light. They wait for him, their golden half, to come.
It’s not at all what I thought it’d be
I remember my boyfriend telling me he loved me after I agreed to be his girlfriend. I remember my mother saying the same every day of my life, at bedtime, after phone calls, after I graduated high school. I remember a lot of people saying it to me.
I remember it because I could not understand it.
They say it’s easy, or it’s hard.
No one says it can be both. No one says it can be the sunlight of a summer day, silently peeking through your window in the early morning, and it can also be a tornado storm with lightning, blazing down trees and family farms.
They say that family love is there, friend love is learned, and your true love will come. You’ll see them on first sight, the greatest gift to you.
The golden half.
No one ever said that that golden half, that great gift, the best thing that could have ever happened to you, could be a friend. A companion of life, not a lover.
I saw him. First sight. I knew we’d be good friends someday.
How did I not know he’d still be here, 3 years later?
I am not a princess in white. I am a warrior, with scars all over and armor worn out from many battles, strong as ever.
I did not need saving. But he did it anyway, without even knowing it.
I love this man.
And he loves me.
My other half.
We don’t need sex.
We need silly moment that follow horrible moments. We need kisses on our foreheads when we are stressed. We need ridiculous nights where we are irresponsible and don’t give a damn about what other people think. We need each other, not societal constructs from under the moon.
It’s not at all what I thought it’d be.
It’s perfectly imperfect.
It’s not what I thought it’d be.
But it’s exactly what I needed.
To the guy who thinks I’m too stuck on myself to talk to anyone, you are probably not alone in that opinion. I don’t talk much. I tend keep a serious look on my face when I can. I am not the kind of person who runs up and starts a chat with just anyone. I just generally keep to myself.
To the guy who thinks I’m too good to talk to him, you might not know it, but I have PTSD. Years of manipulation, threats, and emotional abuse from a man I looked up to has given me generalized anxiety, social anxiety, and issues with depression. My natural response to people is to keep my distance, to stay away. The serious look on my face? I use it to deflect social interactions.
I do try to socialize, given that is what humans are – social creatures. Alas, in the past, I have spent hours pouring over every conversation I have in a day, in a week, over a year. Hating every word I ever say. Doubting myself. Agonizing over everything I ever said to anyone, driving to the end of my sanity.
You’ll understand if I don’t always want to jump head first into the nearest conversation.
To the guy who thinks I am being a stuck up b—-, my abuse taught me to hate myself. He told me I was fat, laughing at my eating habits. He told me I was ugly, but yelled at me when I decided to cover it up with make-up. I snickered at every sneeze and cough I ever uttered. Pointed out every outfit I wore and ripped it apart, the words being his shears.
To this guy who thinks that the problem is me and not him – it’s not me, it’s definitely you. I have made a lot of headway in my recovery. In the past few years, I have learned to love my body. I wear whatever I want, put on make-up if I feel like it, and don’t feel self-conscious when I sneeze. In the past few months, I have taught myself to enjoy conversations, and not to overanalyze them afterwards.
But here is the catch – I only feel like conversations with people I genuinely enjoy talking to.
Now, of course, my anxiety has kept me from talking to people I’d like to, but to those people, awkwardness would come into play. But you and I both know that our meetings are met with coldness, and that would be because you are LGBTQ-phobic. You made fun of the first plus-size model on a magazine cover, and said all women should be eating well and staying thin. You are more irresponsible than a kid on his 21st birthday, and you generally make everyone around you uncomfortable.
So yeah, maybe I am too stuck on myself to talk to you. But maybe you should figure out why that is before ignorantly pointing fingers.