I think of you so often
The things that fill my mind aren’t grandiose
They’re quite small and dainty
I wonder what you do with your fingers while you lounge around and chat with someone on the phone
I wonder what you look like as you accidentally fall into a nap in the afternoon
Not a nap you planned,
But you were so tired and the chair was so comfortable and you dozed off as the sun lit your face
I wonder what you look like when you are so hungry and you whip something up and eat it as you run off to work
I wonder what your face feels like in November
I have so many secrets that I cannot surmise if I am simply one gigantic secret,
Or a million little secrets that have taken a human’s form.
This human form is a collection of reoccurring phenomena
Natural disasters that rise from within, often without my consent
Slowly rising from my pores, or flowing from my interior, or growing out from me
This human form is a collection of brown and beige pieces
An inter-connected network of skin, bones and flesh
Touching and feeling or breaking and peeling, at appropriate intervals.
I am grateful for this human form, though, for it protects my secrets from the world.
I loved you from the first time I cried in front of you; sitting on your frizzy-haired couch, weeping, showing you my fault lines. I knew that I loved you because I saw something in your eyes in that moment that cut right through me. I could see in your face that you were broken too and you didn’t have answer for me, and I knew that I loved you. I felt so comfortable with you because you were vulnerable to me, and I needed that. You made me feel so special, and you made me feel like I could make you happy, and I knew that wasn’t true, but I felt like it. We talked about the feeling of being a failure, and you’re the only one who knows I really am one. I hurt you so much and I can’t even apologize to you anymore.
The shots were so crisp and that Bombay sapphire was so clear but they clouded my sense
We shouldn’t have
Afterwards, I did not want to shower at your place because I did not want to get too comfortable. Because I know that this is not my place,
your place, that is, has no place for me
I hate to think of you with other girls, and I have nightmares that you get them to giggle with the same slick lines that got me so easily out of my pants, my t-shirt, my panties, my bra, and my better judgment.
Because I know that you only want me when you’re drunk,
After we’ve shared those shared those shots of gin
And that’s when you tell how much you like my mouth, my lips, my body and my mind, you tell me I’m pretty and I can not believe you
Because these are things you never say to me sober
I can never tell with you
She was a woman of reserved mien with a personality marked by taciturnity, and caution. She was thoroughly innocuous in demeanor as well as appearance, often wearing paler versions of bold colors, she could not even be found wearing black, strongly preferring gray, her wardrobe was nearly exanimate. Her face was also pale, and shrunken, she was a wraith of a woman. She did have one striking feature though, that seemed almost misplaced upon her face, her eyes. One could write a novel of cliche analogies about her beautiful green eyes, but simply put, she had almond shaped eyes, that shone like emeralds.
The common wisdom tells us
Beggars can not be choosers
But do they not have the right to have standards?
Do hopeless romantics not deserve sweet ballads?
Not just cheap, messy tunes crooned in the dark
Do the lonely not deserve the company of a kindred spirit?
Not the emptiness of shallow ‘hellos’, ‘how are yous’ and “goodbyes’
Why is it that desperation should warrant lesser quality?
A sad person deserves to be happy, not just content
I stay up until I can greet the sun because my mind races
Thinking of these things
Just because you need something
Doesn’t mean you have to take anything
Beg my dear but beg for the best
Don’t settle for less
And as cliché as that sounds it is important to remember
Because your pervasive need does not negate your worth
Your value is not defined by what you reach out your hand for
There should not be shame in necessity
I’ve always had a natural aversion to dainty things, they frighten me. The fragility and vulnerable and tenderness is not something that comes easily to me. I have no caring touch, no motherly instinct, no light foot. My room is always a mess, and I break things just from walking. I deserve nice things, but they should be nice sturdy things. Nice sturdy things I can build on.
Delicate things have always left me feeling alienated. From years of childhood and pubescent training I know not to touch delicate things, not too handle then too roughly, I must not grab pretty things, or run with them. The presence of things that were too delicate made me uncomfortable and self-conscious. I would weep when I broke small things, feeling like I was a failure.
I could have never imagined how exhausting it is to be emptyThe amount of effort that goes into smiling, and laughing and carrying on
The amount of physical strain it puts on your body to feel okay.
What is okay?
Where is okay?
Under what rock, and in which nook can I find okay? It is so elusive.