Renee? Actually DOING something with her poetry? WOAH!

Hey all! I am so excited to finally be announcing that I have a poetry book in the works!

I have been writing poetry since I could, well, write. And it has been a life-long dream of mine to publish my own book. So, I have decided to actually DO something about all these endless notebooks of writing that I have collected over the last 22 years. Please stay tuned and be on the lookout for updates!!

In celebration and anticipation, I thought I would share the first poem of my book. It is one I have countlessly revised, and probably still could be revised further. But I would like to end the torment and publish the damn thing already. So without further ado, here is "To Bury Your Shell" :

“To Bury Your Shell”

Renee Comings

My best friend snores unless he is holding onto someone. He’s like a big baby that you have to coo to sleep. Something about hugging another person keeps the noise from rolling out of his body, as if intimacy alone is able to put a stopper in the wind chimes of his soul, to silence the thunder of his unconscious. That’s why I always made him hold me tight-- I cannot sleep with such loud rattling.

Things die in the desert. Four people in a three-room apartment, all basking in the California sun, heating up, crammed together like sardines. You always think living with your friends is going to be a great idea, and that you can do the long-distance relationship with your ugly boyfriend who doesn’t deserve you. I realized what L.A. was the first night I was living there, after I had touched every single wall in our apartment in under a minute. We were all frogs sitting in the pot of water, obediently waiting as it warmed up.

My best friend, the snoring one; we went out together one evening, to the red carpet and the big theaters. We had sat, watching famous stars speak on stage. And I was right next to his body, hovering. We were almost touching, just almost. You know, I think being friends with someone for so long, for years, is a lie. It is a lie to say you don’t fall in love with these people, to say you never thought about touching them. To feel this deeply in the dying desert-- it was enough to make you scream.

Sitting back at home on our own shitty couch, which the cat had been working on shredding, we wanted to feel famous, too. It only made sense to kiss. To kiss like teenagers. Desperately, trying not to wake our roommates. Secretly, like our parents might walk in at any moment. Three years of curiosity, killing us. He wanted to romanticize everything, like a horny middle-schooler. He wanted to be loved the way you read about love in books and see in all the movies. I was inching along the edge of a building, reckoning if I should leap off or not, deciding if I would fly or hit the ground, hard.

But our kiss. Rain on dusty desert dirt; strong magic. I cried so much that night, sobbing on the phone with my horrible boyfriend. I trusted you, I trusted you, he told me. I hate you, I hate you, I told him.

My cat lay awake with me that night. Neither of us slept. Victory can feel very lonely.

It sometimes doesn’t feel like a victory at all.

And it is peculiar how sometimes something can take a huge weight off your chest, then add another 20 pounds. People seem to like carrying weight. We carry it like shells on our backs. Huge, stupid, lusting tortoises, hoarding the most painful memories on our shoulders like shiny, gold medals. Cats don’t hold on to pain. They clean it off themselves each night before bed, so that they can be agile in the next day’s early morning light.

My best friend used to love going to the gym. I assume he still does, but I wouldn’t know. He loved looking good, clutching the weights close to his body. We were growing out our hair then. We drank most nights, like teenagers. Desperately. Secretly.

My cat watched me change like how she watches bugs. Patiently, attentively. Like sprouts popping out of the soil in spring. I never understood people who hate cats. Dog people-- ugh. They just want something to control. Cats do not care what you think about, what you feel. They sleep soundlessly, carrying nothing on their backs. They are patient and light. They are not slaves to the human agenda.

He owned two dogs. He never let them sleep in bed with him. I always thought there was something so annoyingly elitist about that, to force your pets to sleep on the cold, hard floor while you slept in your comfy, warm bed. I think he just wanted something to love, to love hard. It didn’t matter what. Why not me? Why not? Yes.

Of course I could not be with him. Of course.

We all want someone to cut off our shells and bury them with us.

You can’t always do what other people want.