Lemon Cookies

As a child the only time I ever had lemon cookies was at my grandfather’s house. They were the store brand ones with the cream in the middle like an Oreo. I don’t remember if he liked them or if he only had them at the house because of me; but every time I eat a lemon flavored cookie I am transported to his backyard. I remember the pool and the hibiscus flowers. The water wings that actually made it difficult to swim. Everything was so beautiful. 

Honesty is a crazy thing. 

I was raised to be honest. I was told people would respect me for it. I was told it would set me free. Most often I found that it will set people free of me. 

The words come out easy, for me they always have. But it’s not simply the words - it is the meaning they carry. My eyes well up with tears, my chest burns, my spirit grows. But this is always perceived as weakness. 

I’ve lost so much for the sake of honesty I sometimes wonder why I was allowed to have anything at all. 

I give too much to get so little in return, but I’m not here to hold back. Let this venom run its course. One night at a time, love in fragments. 

Rejection gnaws on me slow and steady. Was I only made to be wasted? 

I can only be lost in myself for so long. My introspection turns into auto pilot. The cats are hungry. The sink is full of dishes. I let the laundry pile up for too long. I load up the car and head to the laundromat. I cram all my clothes into the machine and feed it quarters. I realize I haven’t eaten anything in a while. Sometimes the laundromat leaves out free snacks for the customers. I walk over the food stand and pull up the lid. 

Lemon cookies. The store brand ones with the cream in the middle.