do you want someone who loves you simply because you’re a shiny penny? do you want them to love you because you show up on time to everything and your face always looks perfect? I want someone to love me like loving someone like me seemed impossible until they heard me speak. someone who thought I was a little bit abrasive until they saw a poem I wrote or heard me make an argument about something I really feel.
I used to sit there waiting with my hands open for something to come along. It didn’t matter who you were, how much you’d hurt me in the past, how little about you seemed promising. if you asked me for something, i’d do whatever I could to give it to you. if you asked me to be there, to give you a piece of myself, I’d do it. I’d drain myself completely if it meant meaning something to you, no matter how inconsequential your existence was to mine. as of this moment, there is nothing left for me to drain. I am empty… safe for a tiny bit i’ve held on to with everything I have, enough for one more spark of hope. I have to pick and choose. I cannot give away anymore of myself without losing myself completely.
i can no longer love indiscriminately. I have to look at all the tiny parts that make up who you are, flip them over and over and examine every side from every angle. I have to leave the room and go to another and look at you in a different light. I can no longer open my door to every beggar who knocks. I have no food for you. I have nothing, except this tiny strand of a something I’ve kept tucked away from everyone else. no one has seen it and no one even knows it exists. but I can only hope that you will know it does, and you’ll look for it even when I tell you I have nothing more to give. you’ll keep looking, and you will find me.
Maybe if I write it I will feel better.
I always tell myself this as I mark another letter
on the paper, trying not to smudge it with my hand,
trying even harder not to draw your jawbone at the end.
Sometimes I hear your laugh when the air is empty,
and sometimes I feel your hand on my hip,
just the way you used to grab me,
from behind, a surprise, like you couldn’t even handle
looking at me.
I remember how your hair on your head was always changing,
like your eyes, a kaleidoscope, always rearranging.
And I remember exactly how it felt between my fingers,
unnaturally soft and-
the thought lingers
for too long.
I try to forget, but then someone reminds me.
A baritone voice or a conniving grin,
a scar across a cheekbone, an asymmetrical chin.
I’ll see someone with freckles in perfect position
across a nose twice-broken, but still
the epitome of perfection.
I always went for blue eyes, but yours,
yours were brown.
I always went for short guys,
but you were always looking down.
Your heartbeat was never even
and your breath would catch and spurt,
and remembering your rhythm now
makes my stomach churn.
My whole reality is so fragile, and I know we all know this feeling, but it’s easy to forget that. It’s easy to forget everyone knows pain and misery when your heart is clinging to the outside of your skin, pink and gnarled and ugly like a fresh wound, and you see some guy walk by with a huge, fresh-bleached smile, and the girl on his arm has a flower in her hair. At times like these, it’s easy to believe you’re the only one.
It’s easy to think you’re living on a different planet altogether when your friends are laughing and you don’t even remember how to breathe, when you’re freezing on the inside but everyone else is taking their clothes off, when your face is melting with anger and all they can say is, “Don’t worry. Things will get better.” At times like these, it’s easy to believe you’re the only one.
But you aren’t. Just remember. We all feel pain. And tomorrow will be a better day.
Remember this moment. Remember being out of your mind with happiness, feeling like nothing can stand between you and your dreams, not even your self-deprecating inner voice. Remember love, and remember it comes naturally to you. Remember that you are beautiful. Stop comparing yourself or trying to measure up to other people’s standards. Look at how far you’ve come. Make your own rules. And when the light goes out again remember it’ll come back on. Remember this feeling, and smile.
Last night I spent the night
shedding my layers.
Still bound by the confines of my body,
I rocked over an ocean bed.
And I realized
that for all the openings we use
to escape our box
and let our souls leak out
into the universe,
like a burning bulb in an empty house,
all the side effects are psychosomatic.
But flip the switch,
We are still separate,
but we have realized
we are all in the same box.
In the early hours of the morning, before the sun has risen, before your slow, steady breath has fluttered back to life, I am here. I am listening. I am watching, hoping something might flicker, remind me again that I am not waiting in vain. Sometimes there’s that brief spark, that realization that I am waiting for something. And then, before the taste can even register at the back of my throat, it’s gone.
In the early hours of the morning, when the sounds are being picked up on the other side, when this side is dark, and warm, and thick, and no one is watching, I am here. I am listening. I am waiting. I am here, where the air is heavy with serenity. I am here, collecting your breath like ribbons in my steady arms; and I am hoping something will happen to remind us that we are alive.
#art #drawing #coloredpencil
Schedules, meetings, appointments, emails. They make me feel like a caged animal. Am I just a failed adult or is this normal? Is this just the adjustment period? Will I wake up one day and somehow feel fulfilled by this path I have chosen for myself? Why can’t I just write somewhere on the beach, the sun glinting off my pen, with the ocean being the only thing there to call my name? Just. Live. Isn’t that what we are made to do? People say you can’t plan for life and then they try to prepare for each moment. For me, it sucks the color right out of it all. The only schedule I need is knowing what time the stars are out. Each moment of night sky I miss feels like another inch off my life.
There’s something about flaws that drives me wild -
a scar, a wrinkle, a crooked smile,
a mismatched sock, a tear, a trip,
a moment of forgetfulness, a Freudian slip.
I love them all, I hold them all, in a box inside my mind;
and I know someone will learn to love my flaws, too, in due time.
For me, spending a significant amount of time around another person is like putting my life in their hands. One word, one simple phrase clinging to a casual exhale, can leave me shattered on the floor. I want to work to make sure this is no longer my truth. I want to live (and love) free from that sensitivity, that fragility, that vulnerability. I want to be stone instead of glass, I want to be marble instead of wet sand. I want my soul to be a statue, tough and unchanging, constant and memorable. I do not want others to have the power to mold me. Not anymore.
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