I’m still so sorry that the person I am is not the person I / you / we need me to be. I promise I’m trying.
we aren’t lost anymore
we found something better
than hands to hold
or shoulders to cry on
we found awareness
that we don’t need anyone
to be everything
Every sound that you whisper to me through your soft lips and through my frizzy hair hits my ear like a wave of chills that covers me from head to toe. The warmth of your breath is nothing compared to the warmth of your words: so bright, so tender, so honest. The way your mouth forms the syllables of my name is so careful, like you know how much it means to me that my name is not easy to say. You hold the “uh” and the “ee” cradled between the “s” and the “f’ and the “nah” and it sounds like, in your breath, you are carrying something infinitely more valuable than anything I have to give. But the way you hold your words like that is a perfect parallel to the way you hold everything else: your gaze, your smile, your arms around my body. To be safe in a world like ours is such an impossible thing: the pieces that don’t stop moving, the footing you can never find, the silence that never holds, they all are motion and despite that your energy is passion and vibration, when I can’t seem to stop, you find a way to hold me still. And as your voice enters my ear, and your hands grip tighter to my skin, and you push yourself closer to me, everything becomes dark except you. And me. And I look up to you with my black eyes meeting your green ones: and in our dark part of the world, I feel more safe than I have ever felt. I smile, and I move my lips to yours. I whisper your name and find my footing. The world turns on, but we are amber. I kiss you and we are on fire. We burn and are not burnt. We are home in the chaos. We have each other.
I can’t believe I have hardly written in the last couple of months. More on that later, I think.
Regardless, it’s been such an incredible fucking year. This has been the year of my highest highs and my lowest lows, BY FAR. This year has been the most challenging, the most demanding, the most alone I’ve felt, the most stressed, depressed, strained, overworked, sleepless, crazed… but it’s also the year I’ve felt the most euphoric, the most on fire, the most passionate, driven, successful, happy, overjoyed. This has been the year of creative writing and elections and new friends and letting go of old friends and passed laws and hosted events and career aspirations and life ones. This is the year I finally lost the 20 pounds I’ve wanted to lose. This is the year I’ve realized that my principles are more important than popularity and my dedication to public service is more important than my selfish love of performing.
This is the year I met the love of my life.
Thank you, 2013. You’ve been far meaner and kinder than most. More importantly, 2013, you’ve made me feel alive.
Here’s to the hope 2014 comes with more, more, more.
I remember once thinking that without my words, I might be nothing. I remember thinking that without the way I am able to verbalize every part of the way I am, I might cease to be anything.
But, today, I have tried so hard to manipulate these letters, these commas, these line breaks into something that stands as strong as you do, feels as safe as you feel, sounds as warm as your voice – and I have found, for once, that it is my words that mean nothing. It is my words that have ceased to be anything.
Instead of the way that the syllables and syntax usually create something more beautiful than anything I could hold between my small fingers, I have found the words to be hollow, the metaphors to be disingenuous, and the sounds to be nothing similar to the feelings that I now feel. I am not a writer of love poems or love stories; I am a writer who clings desperately to loss and broken heartedness. But now, in the way that I can’t seem to find any darkness in the light inside of me, in the way that I can’t seem to feel loneliness on the tip of my pen, in the way that I can’t seem to feel anything but loved on this day, I worry that perhaps I am not a writer anymore, at all. Instead, maybe I am more. Perhaps you have taken all the words floating inside the folds of my mind and melted them all into a pile of fonts and inks and thick or slanted characters that pools together into black ink that slowly forms the only word that could describe what I have become. You have made me into a lover.
I am no longer scared to feel whatever this feeling might be called by the great authors of love of our time, but instead, I am happy to float in the water as I cling to you and the sun kisses our faces and you look at me and smile and I am happier than the stars in the sky or the moon above them, because I am not alone.
Darling, I wish I could explain how much that means to me. I feel, for the first time in such a long time, not-lonely.
I have approximately three minutes before I have to run to catch a bus I need to take to get my body somewhere in between very far away and a little bit closer to you.
You are exactly who and what I needed when I thought I needed nothing. I didn’t even want anything, and somehow, out of somewhere, you appeared with this incredible ability to make me feel so safe and beautiful and free.
I feel like I can be me when I’m with you and I love that you can be you and that we’re finding such beautiful surprise in the honesty we’ve created for each other.
I love your smile and your hands and the way that you hold me and say hello to my friends and open my wine and play with my hair.
I just haven’t felt this way in a long time.
I don’t know if I love you or like you, but I love and like this feeling.
Bus is coming.
I took down all your pictures because for once, I’m going to really try to let you go.
I remember thinking, you broke my heart. Then I realized, my heart has been broken since I was five, when my father walked out the door without looking back, (even for a second). He didn’t look back to tell me he wanted me, to tell me he needed me, to tell me that I was worth sticking around for. I was five and I learned by his shutting the door that my self-worth was smaller than my five-year-old body. That April left me broken and all you did this November 16 years later was remind me of the rules he taught me, anyway.
I don’t talk about this because it’s so Goddamn cliche and honey, I’m fucking sorry about that. But Daddy issues are a cliche because they hurt in every place every time you walk away, every time you even think about walking away, every time I run before you leave when I sense him in you. I feel it build: I am so not worth it, to me or you, I whisper. My heart breaks preemptively. I shut my eyes and slam you out, thinking I mean nothing and I am no one but a shadow you can leave behind, and I let myself break again as if this feeling is new to me.
But it’s not. Because every time I fall to the floor when you leave, I turn back into my five-year-old self, holding a blanket and looking at the back of my front door, wondering why I wasn’t worth fighting for.
It’s not your fault he made me this way and it sure as hell isn’t a reason for you to stay, but I want you to know I understand that maybe it’s not you or maybe it is but I really hope it’s more than you. You’re not the first man to break my heart and you won’t be the last.
The last man, the one who won’t break my heart or even remind me it’s broken won’t sit and try and talk me or medicate me through all the sad. Instead, he’ll hold me as I cry, staring at our front door, and love me until I realize, all the cracks in my heart and my memory have healed. I will be strong enough to look at the door and know it was not my fault, I did not push him out, or shut it behind him, that I am strong and worth my 21 year old body and my five year old one, too, and I will look at him and see not a closed or closing person, a gone or going lover, but someone fixed and strong.
Someone fixed and strong who helped me see the same in me.
And even if one day he walks out my door, I will open it for him, see him out, and know that even if he leaves, I am not the broken person you or Dad made me feel I am or could be.
I am strong regardless of the doors: opened or closed, opening or closing.
God, it has been such a strange 24 hours.
1. I set an alarm for 4:53 AM last night and fell asleep wearing my formal meeting dress. We did not wake up until 6 AM. You got home safe. The explosion on campus did not cancel my 9 AM class. I regret drinking that bottle of wine. Actually, I don’t. The wine was nice. You are, too.
2. I had to look up on Urban Dictionary whether or not “I love you” meant the same thing in the UK as it does here in the US. It does. That was a stupid thing to look up on Urban Dictionary. You said you love me and I said “:).” I felt stupid using an emoticon to respond but I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t want to get on Skype because I am so not ready to have this conversation internationally. I asked you what use being in love was when I might never see you again. I listened to the song you sent me six times.
3. Instead of dinner, I asked if we could move our date to Taco Tuesday and hang out with 15 of my closest friends. I didn’t think I wanted to date you. But I was wrong. You were very sweet, more handsome than I remember, and we both like Blue Moon. You texted right after you left. I didn’t use any emoticons to respond.
4. I almost forgot that I am so close to not loving you. I was being so good, and today, I almost forgot and ruined everything, I almost ruined all the above, 1-3. But I looked at my phone after I fell asleep on it for 11 minutes and remembered that I worked very hard to ensure I would never fall asleep waiting for your apology again. I woke up and brushed my hair and my teeth. I put my phone on my nightstand. I opened a book. Not a single character is you.
and to think we almost lost each other completely
proud and prejudiced
we almost let everything go
Oh, how I have loved exploring mountaintops in your brain: those places considered most high and most dangerous, most inaccessible and most rewarding, most draining and my goodness, most beautiful.
To climb and climb until every peak is explored, loved, and possibly even understood, and then to watch as thousands more form: is there any other happiness?
The strangest part of the whole affair was waking up at some point between four and five in the morning, when the morning looked grey and calm, and feeling that your arm was still around me from the night before. I don’t even remember falling asleep that way, but as I awoke and became aware of myself, it was clear that my body was pressed tightly to yours, and that you were holding it in place. It was alarming to note the tenderness and protectiveness with which you held me: so alarming, in fact, that I pushed your arm off of me and moved to the other side of the bed.
I woke again an hour later, only to find myself firmly pulled back into your embrace. This time, I didn’t struggle. I leaned closer into you and fell asleep again.
It is smart to protect yourself from love. It is less smart to protect yourself from shelter.
"Consider yourself a work in progress."
Moving on is a terrifying concept to me. I don’t “move on” easy or “let go” well. I want to keep everyone and everything in my life because I prefer the idea that relationships fall and rise, break and rebuild, burn then freeze. I hate the idea that someone who meant so much to you can one day mean nothing— and not necessarily nothing at all, but nothing compared to what they used to mean.
So, I’ve been trying. To let go. And somehow, I think I have. Maybe it was throwing myself into fixing myself that helped. Maybe it was the new school year. Maybe it was moving into an environment where I am constantly surrounded by love, support, and good people. Maybe it was the fact that I put so much weight on not being alone that I would rather hurt myself than reflect on myself, and what really makes me happy. It might have been that I meant someone new.
Even then, the someone new is not someone who will be around forever, and not someone who I want to be around forever. The someone new was just a reminder that if I am open to love, I can and will find it again.
I, for the first time in a very long time, am closing chapters of my life that were written for me so long ago, that I just do not need to read anymore.
I’m ready to write my own fucking book.
- “My mother used to say to me, ‘You can’t eat beauty, it doesn’t feed you.’ And these words played and bothered me, I didn’t really understand them...”
- “I wish I could hate you as much as you made me hate myself.”— 14 Word Story (via hopelesslyhealing)