Tyra Garrett
Stories (9)
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The Boy(s) Next Door
What do you know about love? What does it look like? What does it feel like? Is it easy to find? Hard to keep? For some falling in love is like waking up in the morning lucky enough to feel as though they experience it every day. For others it’s a once or twice in a lifetime Halley’s comet deal. And for the unfortunate many, love is a Pat Benatar battlefield filled with wrong turns, hurt feelings, endless good intentioned mistakes, and words left unspoken. It’s finding yourself in the splintered reflection of a broken mirror and marching your way through those seven years of bad luck like you just know that special someone will be waiting for you on the other side. This is a story about love, its various forms, and how the best of it can hurt so bad, but be so, so good.
By Tyra Garrett4 years ago in Fiction
"King's Dead" by Kendrick Lamar
I just want to see your face. I run from you because I’m scared you’ll reject me again. Reject my presence. Reject my friendship, like a small envelope from your first choice university. You’ve cast me out, far away from where you are, like a lost sailor and a dinghy in the middle of the Caribbean. The pain I feel from the loss of you is acute, and sharp, like the tips of bone in a compact fracture that punctured and broke through skin. I just want to see your face. I feel as though I can barely remember what you look like, akin to a movie you saw long ago, which you remember the essence of, the story, the plot, but have forgotten the actors and actresses who played the characters you love. Lately I’ve been wondering how it would feel to hug you, to wrap my arms around you and just breathe it in, like smudging every jar in Walmart’s candle section and cramming your nose up to the perforated plastic on the cheaper ones to get a whiff. I didn’t know how much I liked you, until you pulled away, like not realizing how much of your diet is carbs until you decide not to eat them and thereafter realize you’re unwittingly addicted to bread. I didn’t know I would miss you this much, until I did. There are plenty of stretches of time where you don’t cross my mind, like driving home on autopilot, mind anywhere but the road, but when you do, I’m stricken, in my head and in my heart in my heart, a sinking feeling that is echoed in my stomach and reverberates through my actual bones, like your heart in your mouth on Doctor Doom’s Fear Fall drop coaster in Universal Studios.
By Tyra Garrett4 years ago in Poets
All The King's Horses And Men
It just keeps coming back to, “my mom said she doesn’t know what you see in me.” I really hope you were lying but I don’t think you were. And it breaks my heart each time it comes to my mind. I normally see the sun, moon, and stars in the guys I like, putting them on pedestals high in the sky, so that when they fall, like dear Humpty Dumpty, they completely shatter, no way to put their little parts back together. That’s the usual, and you were anything but—
By Tyra Garrett4 years ago in Poets
F(ull)abulo(f)us(hit)
Today I ignored you. Today I was you from last Saturday. I wasn’t that busy, but I was silent. And I really hope it hurt your feelings. And I hate that because, A- it probably didn’t, B- you’re you, and historical evidence shows you probably don’t, and C-I’m not the type to purposefully try and inflict hurt on people, but, you hurt me first.
By Tyra Garrett4 years ago in Poets
Shrewd
I burn, I pine, I wretch, I hurt, I think, I write. I burn, I pine, I wretch, to experience the little inconceivable thing called love. Affection, I know from my friends, whom I hold dear. Unconditional, expansive, big as the actual universe love, I know from my parents and my family whom I am grateful to have. Albeit, romantic love, I must say I am more than mere wanting of application of feeling. I think I am more than deserving.
By Tyra Garrett4 years ago in Poets
27th & Ford
“Damn.” she thinks, gulping in a big breath of air that is thick with rain fallen, and that which is yet to come. She checks the square face of the digital watch on her wrist, walking briskly past Geronimo’s. The bustling deli is seemingly overwhelmed by the crowd coming to collect on the two for one deal of the day promotion they have advertised on a colorfully loud sign to the left of the entrance. She politely penetrates the line that spills from the doorway with a soft, and polite, but firm ‘excuse me,’ her mouth nearly salivating from the aroma of fresh baked bread, and herbs and spices as she goes. She checks her watch again even though she knows not even a minute has passed since she last looked.
By Tyra Garrett4 years ago in Fiction
