untitled

I miss him you know. I feel like I’m not entitled to miss him, but I do.

There’s a history there. I’m not proud, but it’s ours.

And the guilt and frustration Cuts into me like a drug

Those moments where he understood me more than anyone else

will not be forgotten

He breathed life into me when I was alone

Shattered. Broken.

I said crazy.
He said crazy hot.

We agreed to disagree.

He saw me at my worst. But still saw me.

Knew me.

Understood me.

I can’t explain why it matters so much.

But it does.

I see him all the time; on campus, at the park, near the bridge.

But I know.

I know he’s gone.

We made a muck of things and I couldn’t be there

He saved me, and I didn’t even know when he needed the same.

I feel like I’m not entitled to miss him.

But I do.

unfnished thoughts

I make a habit of exploring the possibility of pragmatism

It doesn’t suit me well

Of course not, “she who complicates the uncomplicated with over analyzation and rhetoric”

It seems childish to want to do something so completely contrary to one’s nature

But what am I, if not a product of paradoxical idealism and happenstance

11/14/15

There are so many things I want to say to you.

I still remember making up reasons to see you.

I remember the first time you kissed me

The first time we fucked

and the first time we made love.

I remember that first betrayal

when I threw your phone against the wall.

I remember the first time I knew you really loved me

and the first time I knew there was no one else I'd rather be with.

This is what makes this so incredibly hard.

Those first times full of promises and hope,

shared dreams and plans that withered as the years went by

I want to say that this is no one’s fault.

But really the responsibility lies equally between us both.

My heart is aching for the broken promises we made to one another

I feel empty and lonely inside.

What is left when we start hiding and avoiding the truth?

My authenticity is draining

You deserve my best. I deserve your best.

And this is not that.

Afterthought

I have always been in love with your language.
A man’s intelligence will leave me weak
I feel your whisper against the span of my skin
Rescinding my every inhibition
My musings look like kindergarten finger-paints when compared
To your Matisse-like keystrokes
Every word imprinted on the page
With no apology; no regret
I always imagine you asserting how it doesn’t matter
Spilling into a dramatic rant
My insecurity both a disappointment and an opportunity
I could stay and watch your body fill the distance between us
Though your voice carries me
And I feel you
But I was never there
You were never there
We were never there

December.

Gasping.

Grasping.

Those sheets pressed between my white knuckles.
They don’t breathe. I can’t breathe. You won’t breathe.

You can still see the imprints of my scratches. Hours later. Days. Weeks even.

Primal sounds unrecognizable to even me. It reverberates in this darkness. I feel it in the air. I am left stunned. I don’t take the time to try and comprehend it.

My face flushes with just the thought of it. Of you.

12 hours later.
And there it is. conflicted.

Those sheets remember.

I wouldn't want to love me either.

You are so difficult to love.

(That isn't what he meant, but those are the exact words he said.)
And it stuck.

It stuck in the back of my mind each and every time he said he loved me.
Hell, it stuck in the back of my mind each and every time any man said he loved me.
(of there were many)

I wouldn't want to love me either.

I am stubborn. Insecure. Complicated.

Need I go on?
Broken.
That's the word.

I'm broken.

My head and my heart wage wars against each other. I never let either of them win. It wouldn't be fair. So I watch the battle, hoping someday one will come out on top and end the war. Someday I will sleep through the night without remembering one of a hundred scenarios I could have done differently in my life. Someday. But I pull the rug out from under both of them, and then I cry when it doesn't go my way. Sometimes I even stop to remind myself that I never placed a bet on either one, so what does it really matter if I didn't win? And none of it makes sense. Not one bit. The war? It doesn't even exist.

I wouldn't want to love me either.
I fall. I falter. I fail.

And it does no good. I still remember the look on his face when he said it. I knew what he meant but I made damn well sure he knew that the words were all that mattered. And he did. And I don't know if he ever forgave me.

That's not what I meant.... You are easy to love, just difficult to be with.

I don't care. It's too late to change me with your language. I read that line somewhere. In some book, off some bookshelf. Or perhaps in a tattered copy of something I loved which I kept in my back pocket. It's too late to change me with your language. You are difficult to love. It means I wouldn't want to love you. And sometimes I wouldn't.

Settling.

I don't even know where to begin.
My heart torn between its own idealistic tendencies reminds me that I've felt this way too many times to count.
I've been on either side of this coin.
Watching it spin, precariously, my heart pounding with each revolution
And as the gravity around it seems to shift, it falls.

Tails.

What does that even mean??

I lost?

He looks at me. I can't read him. I'm not used to that.
It drives me mad on the best of days.
I want to know what he is thinking.
I don't ask.
Perhaps, I only think I want to know what he's thinking.

I want him to look at me. Not through me. Not around me. I want him to want to tell me every secret he dare not admit to even himself.

Of course, that fantasy has long past died.
I feel like he's settling.

I hate it.

Settle somewhere else.

I want him to know. Just to know when he looks into my eyes that no one will ever love him the way I will, if given the chance.

I'm not ready for it.

But then again, I have always refused to settle.

In the meantime, I feel that shift in gravity, and the precariously ever revolving coin, prior to its reluctant surrender.