heartsick

Fran Pulido

I went down for a bit

most nights I am tempted to invest in
the desires of the fickle flesh
although my old self is dead
its influence still runs in my bones
my skin is illuminated
by the yellow refrigerator light — a reminder
that light will meet me in starless wild places
as it always has
but I fail to follow its voice for the enemy's
cadence is so enticing; it provides what I want
not what I need though, even though
I beg for efflorescence
I am shoved back with nothing in my tainted hands
but shame & regrets
they are my old friends
but they never knew me
eating me up as I eat all that is contrary
to who I was called to be
I am empty, suddenly heartsick
airborn worms that look non violent
sing to me the songs from when I was eleven
I cover my eyes with my hands
You remove them along with the disgusting thin film
formed above my eyelids
the skyward tale is not that complicated
but it is one bridge of clay shaped and reshaped
considering where you have been
and the choices you made
this process of pruning is pain
but I prayed for this didn't I?
my soul travels to a stream of water panting
my veins are mapped and known
let me dive right into beginnings that
I walked upon but never seen the ending
tell me how to go home
I want to return; cater the one thing I really need
to my very being

triad

I.

even in the midst of people passing by 

it would rather stay and revisit a hidden trauma 

to ponder, a lot, thinking, "may this be the last 

you'll ever see me." 

I picked up the pieces I believed were mine 

stitched up under one of my hands, carefully structured, 

are rusted musical instruments playing for free 

engineered to awaken something in everybody 

but not one wounded would turn up even during 

the weekends

I suppose this was not as loud just yet 

I never had anybody who'd choose to be a moth 

riding on the back of a doe with me 

and stare only, single-mindedly, at the stars 

that wasn't made for us

sit and finish the murky lake's highly anticipated 

dramatic work for the stage 

there's nothing grand about it 

but it changes my anatomy with its command of 

language and grace  

carrying me fervently, violently, gently 

until I couldn't recognize the difference

II.

twenty years later, that brings us to now 

making friends as an adult and the only thing 

that could calm me is the sound of the printer, printing
pictures that my eyes are too small to truly parse 

back in the nineties where it's always morning, 

even in the afternoon, you were my kid wonder 

I still have your speeches 

memorialized monologues about time machines 

and leaving lasting legacies; I put my head up 

surmising something must be right cause I now know
what is wrong 

I can tell it apart and painstakingly refine it until it
can seamlessly be honorable and legitimate 

indeed it is wrong 

because the truth is simplistic and unembellished 

I'm fumbling to pull together fragments of what used 

to be what kept me afloat, maybe 

it's time to give it up 

times are changing and so are we 

III. 

I gravitate to a wall, where I go to be seen 

or even talk, I forge a new normal (better to be 

pursued during New Year's Eve or when you're quarantined) 

behind closed doors, it is You and my longing heart 

a world that is between boundless oceans and matters-of-fact

in my reckoning, I am exceedingly glad

the treasure that I found is beyond the reach of decay 

redeemed from the traditions of this perverse 

generation and the last; a better word was spoken 

that I must now play the noblest part; join the remnant

now is the time

this is the beginning stemming from the Cause that 

created my restored lungs to grow in the uphill climb

that was inquired for earnestly from before;

their services aren't meant 

for themselves - they were intended for me 

a sobering truth that holds my hope and future 

I am coming home and I will bring

as many as I can back to Galilee

same breath

time is quickly passing and persisting through 

the timeless thoughts that my brain produces

but it seems 

my fingers are too tired to type them 

I don't know what I want to convey here 

the words I have are but memories that 

can't properly take shape

they are wondering if ever I have them written 

behind the back of my hand 

so when I'm lost, I could return 

cause you know 

I love returning 

suddenly the night had found its voice 

the hot air is compressed in my lungs 

and it is burning in my lower back, too 

what have I been doing? 

I am not down to sleep at 3am again 

but here I am 

and I only want to be who I am 

what am I saying? 

maybe I should just close my eyes 

and feel the safety of falling 

everything, all this, so much 

under the same breath 

I left the nightlight on 

I hope I find what I am looking for 

as I grow

at the crack of dawn

I hear the bird's song above me 

the morning light gently appears

my skin turns darker than usual 

I look at the back of my hand memorizing

the words I said in the conversation 

I just had with a mirror facing towards

the box of sentimental things I hide under my bed 

my legs have garnered enough strength to 

walk a mile back and see the bigger picture 

I hope winter ends

and takes my fears as well 

kind of like how the navy blue sky 

folds back in the outer space and 

meets the brighter blue sky that envelopes 

the mornings each time your name comes around

leaving doesn't always mean changing 

so when I left I left with this in mind 

that if ever I come back I have grown and read

as many books as I could ever and loved so much 

two decades it took 

how different are your 6PM family dinners from

the ones that you took when you were eleven? 

I still don't know me and you 

and I still love dancing in the shadows of 

a mountain that with one word 

could move further and teach me lessons about

growing pains and amazing grace 

from now on

I will carry the word 'gather'

make it my active pursuit to collect myself 

no matter how hard a day could get and have my eyes

pull something out of wonder 

Thought Life

I sit and I stare

my ears open only for the distant sounds of 

strings that move within the confines of 

a jar 

a jar that we adore

with all its stories, songs, and art 

that unknowingly cleansed every affected bone that hid 

deep into flashes of comparison

to some, it seemed dull, unconventional

no matter, it was sure and rooted on the Source

of all beauty and goodness - the wonder that lands on the eyes; 

the reward for the heart that stood its ground 

not many understand it 

the apparent decision of most people 

may deny you the opportunity to stay still;

to fill up on what is true and noble and pure 

but I beg of you

stay 

remain

abide 

fear has taught many lessons 

but courage could teach more 

even when it meant going against the grain 

sailing a river never crossed 

on a warm Tuesday when I went to quench my longing

for a bit of reflection, there you were 

the hand that held my arm 

a bright memory

a familiar memory 

I shake my head and I walk away 

I don't dare to listen to the voice that led me astray 

you left such a taste that gives me chills 

twenty-six blinks it took me

to refocus and recall that 

I must begin again at nineteen 

At Midnight, After Midnight

“Do I have anything good to contribute to where I  am planted?” I asked myself. 

In my most formative years, there has always been a desire within me that gallantly
attempts to reach some parts of the world. I wanted to  make a difference. Maybe not as big
of an impact that will spark a revolution, but an impact it will be. I wanted a change in many
different aspects of society, my home life, my inner self. Many people do not like change. It
seems stifling; too uncomfortable. They’d rather live in the confines of what they are used to
rather than testing the bounds of what’s possible and going beyond them. I was a shy kid. I
was always too afraid. I was trapped in my box of anxiety, fear, pride. My midnights were
filled with discouragement, with hopelessness, with longings.

Again, I ask, “Do I have anything, any good, that I could possibly contribute to
where I am planted?” We are all the same under the surface; searching for purpose and yet
so petrified of failure. In my nineteen years of life, I’ve learned that failure doesn’t have to
have the last word. It is what builds you up. The problem with failure is perspective. The
tragedy is not being able to envisage a new path. But can’t you see it? Failures powerfully
declare that you can start again. This time to actually do something that mattered. A new
path. A new path that you must see; where you should be. 
I’ve had my bouts of anxieties and insecurities. When I lose sight, I am then choked
by the world and it is learning to break away from words that used to torment me that allows
me to breathe again. Choosing change, walking away when you know it isn’t right,
counterfeiting the patterns of this sick world is no foolery. It is wise. Yes, unconventional,
at times, but the things that you get out of it are what get you through the tough times, and
the other times. You grow. And that’s what makes it worth it. Nothing we do where the only
reason we do it is for temporal happiness is ever worth it. You learn not to be guided by
circumstances or what the majority of people choose to do but by what purpose compelled.
Even when you’re the only one there. You arrive at a place where you lose judgment, begin
to discern and stand in truth. 
I am not here to perform a routine function. I am here to live out an extraordinary
one that only I can, the way that I am able to. Not by my own strength and not for my glory.
It’s just so much easier when we realize that life is not about us. You stop to care about what
other people think of you. It is no longer about you and me. We get to be part of something
great. You and I aren’t just called, we become chosen. Goodness unites those who heed its
call. Maybe one day I’d see you running the same race. I’d watch you and cheer you on for
your desires are earnest and love is real. 
Here’s a word of hope: though you may be in your darkest moments, the most
difficult circumstance that you don’t even know where to go anymore, something’s certain
after midnight. The dawn appears and a new day begins. So, don’t be afraid to press on.
Make a difference with the little that you have. That’s much harder than it sounds, and
sometimes in the end, so much easier than what you imagine.

Fly high. 

afternoon memories

I close my eyes
as I dwell on the first level of an old,
familiar bunk bed where it seems like
the world ceased to change.

words begin to form
and get stuck in my chest eating away
the fleshly patterns of perspective. tonight we are close
to touching the sheer fabric; the fulcrum of holding
on to each breath for as long as I can.

the wind is silent
carrying the common things that used to be
what defined my personality. every written journal entry memorializing
that innocent nine year old me chasing, floating, laughing
away. what could be more of a nostalgia that returning
to the borrowed days?

my eyes never want to open again.
I tend to hope more than I expect
as mystical as the clouds
as cruel as distance
gentle and quiet and always sure
it's getting so old