writing

Did you notice that a
four leaf clover,
luck,
is a genetic mutation?

Positivity is just a deformity.

The only time when an abnormality is appreciated
is in plants.
We spend hours looking for one in the grass
but
If a person was a four-leaf clover,
passerbys wouldn't look him in the eye

it's that special something right.
keeping us either entertained
or
keeping us away.

Your slow caress and trembling chest heighten all emotions for constant pulsating passion. Heart pounding tenderness pulls me in closer with every touch. Your lips gracefully touch every inch of my soften skin leaving me wanting more. Heavy breath touches the side of my face sending a rush of blood down my spine. Throw me up against the wall, restrict my arms, bite my neck::::shallow breath::::letting go of all control.

And, it was just wishful thinking.

You were adamant about these rules, these made up reasons
for why you don't fall for people, why they should not fall
for you. You wore them loudly, telling everyone who stepped
too close, you even told him, a long time ago, before even you
understood that these two lights were connected somehow.
You told him and he laughed at you, and you rolled your eyes
towards the ceiling with a stubborn sort of half-smile,
like you were oh-so-wise. Like you knew better. But look
at the convincing that never had to happen. Look at how
it snuck up on you, maybe it was in broad daylight, maybe
it was in the most dead and buried part of the night, but it doesn't
matter, because it hit you pretty hard, didn't it? It hit you,
and you still have the print on your face, and baby,
there hasn't been make up invented to cover those sort of marks.

So you dress yourself up on Friday nights and you step out
your front door talking about kissing potential something-or-others,
then you get there and your heel breaks and you sit at your corner table
whose shape you never bother to notice. Sometimes you are silent
and sober, out of place, sometimes you drink a little and kiss a little,
with your eyes shut tight, of course, because that way you don't have
to think about how you're going to lie your way out of this one
when you get home and start wishing that it was him. But it's all right,
isn't it, because isn't he off on explorations of his own? Well
you wouldn't know because you never ask. You wouldn't know because you
knot up a little bit thinking about it, but you don't tell us that part,
do you? Who do you tell your secrets to these days?

Then you let your head slow down, and it's all written out neatly
in your tan bathroom tiles and on the tiny bumps of your bedroom ceiling,
the ones that appear to reflect the bumps on your arms when you squint
enough. You stop answering your phone and your voicemail fills up and
everyone keeps texting you with useless questions and statements
that you can't bring yourself to respond to because what are they, really,
in this grand scheme of plots and cycles, and maybe the damn thing
would be at its best when it's flying out your window wishing it had knees
to hug in those seconds before it hits your neighbor's brick wall.
This is where you make your big decision. Red light, green light,
remember when it was a child's game, and all you had to do was watch
someone's back and base your movements on quick shouts and direction?

It is 11:20 in the evening. You have disappointed approximately
two-point-five people today. Now you are hiding in your kitchen,
writing lines on napkins, saying to yourself, it is better this way.

He crawls between my legs,
making amends with my inner thighs.

"They're still pissed," I laugh.
 

He presses his head to my breasts, tapping
at my chest. Laces his fingers between the dips
in my ribcage and pushes at my stomach
until I suffer from a coughing attack and my eyes turn red
with love. He whispers wake up...
quiet and slow,
relentlessly repeating until his tongue dries up
and his lips began to bleed from the cracks,
almost
as red as my eyes.

"I think your heart hates me," he says,
making an ugly gurgling sound as if trying to swallow
his own tears.

"Of course it does."
I reply,

as I gather up his pieces; lay his head to rest on the pillow,
pick up his legs from the floor and leave him there
to go search the house, hoping to find the rest.

I throw what's left in the trash and make my way back to him,
crawl along the edge of the bed and perch on his lap.
Slowly, I take off my night time pieces and rock as his breathing pulls
me up, and back down again.
I push back and hold his favorite piece against me,
watching as his voice shakes but his body does not.

"Does it love me now?" he finally asks.

With only muffled moans to answer him, he calls out once more...

"Wake up," he screams, "Do you love me now?"

"Maybe in the morning."
I reply.

She said "If we're gonna make this work
You gotta let me inside even though it hurts
Don't hide the broken parts that I need to see"
She said "Like it or not it's the way it's gotta be
You gotta love yourself if you can ever love me"


I don't particularly love the song, but they make a good point. I think those lyrics are a perfect representation of why many young relationships don't work out.


Things are good right now, no real complaints - only small, annoying, unimportant factors.

I've been dreamy eyed lately, which never happens. Nothing unrealistic, in fact - the complete opposite. I just want to lay in bed for hours with the lights off, music playing and lots, of kissing. I want to fall asleep, knowing I won't wake up alone. I want to say nothing and everything at the same. I want to talk with my body, laugh for no reason and then do it all over again the next day. Make it happen, please.

I find it amusing that regardless of the amount or level of sorrow one has, love can heal it. Romance can lessen life's burns. It seems as if even the most dramatic of problems can seem insignificant if you have someone. While I do think this is one of society's biggest problems, I am by no means saying that I would take back any of the many problems my person has extinguished. Maybe love is the final step. Or should possibly be the first. Above therapy, and pills, and expensive vacations - we should all just go on an escapade to find our other halves. There is something so pure about affection, that our troubles seem pointless next to it. Worrying seems unnecessary.

1. Everything happens for a reason.
2. Anything is possible.
3. Love your life.


Don't forget
Don't forget
Don't. ever. forget.

So much has been running through my head lately. It's abnormal, not in the sense that it is odd, but more so that it is just.. not the norm. For me at least. It's bitter sweet really, I don't know what to make of it. Which is ironic because I have a personal talent for writing, analyzing and picking up on feelings - but not actually feeling them. That's my weak area, experience. Well maybe it's not experience as much as it is execution or application. I experience things, and they affect me and yet they have no real impact. I think the overall effect is a subconscious one that I am too cautious to acknowledge so instead of ignoring it, I let it build. And build. And occasionally I burst. But not often or dramatic enough to change, even to question.

I want to know if this is dangerous, I want to ask someone. The only real feeling that emerges from this revelation is nervousness. Fear of the final result. Like those girls that eat, and eat and eat but stay skinny. And they laugh about compulsive eating habits - until the fat girl begins to laugh too. Only she is not laughing at the metabolism's unusual skill, but rather, its collapse. That's my emotional... destiny, for lack of a better word.

The problem is - I want to feel. Oddly enough, against personal presumption, I have been lately. And what's odder, is that it IS enticing. Despite the seldom but apparent lows, I like it. And when I consider the causes, one person comes to mind. And when he comes to mind, there are no lows, just strong fears of never having the chance. The chance to capture the highs, to never fully experience the good and the bad, and the real. And so I apply this to the rest of my life.

I am missing things, parts of my own individual environment and world and genius. I am missing a father that I only met once or twice. A father that did not want me but could be dead. I often say I don't think about him, don't necessarily need him, that I. am. okay. And for the most part, all of that is true. But I do think about thinking about him, or if I could potentially need him, or that maybe by knowing him - I would be BETTER than okay. And so that plays a role in the many factors that keep me spiraling in this illusion of a life where I'm not just surviving, but actually living. 

Unfortunately, I don't quite know just yet what home actually is. And that's okay, it really is. I don't think one's "home" is decided upon birth. I think it depends on your path and decisions, as to where you (happily) end up. I do, however, know that mine will involve water. Unless my husband is willing to order pounds of sand and turn an entire bedroom into a shower, I have to be near the ocean. No more than three hours, or I may die. Will. die.

I've also been thinking about children lately. There is no intention of baring them anytime soon, but I've been rethinking my theories. In the process of considering and studying religion, one thing has become completely apparent to me. In my opinion, the purpose of life is to provide and contribute. I think we were created under the requirement that we give back to the earth. Whether that means in upkeep or reproduction, I don't know. But I do know that the two are closely related and without each other, they would fail to exist. So I wonder to myself, why not children? Why not do my part? I worry though, that without the persuasion of a husband, I may not want to physically give birth. I'd rather do my part by adopting, removing children from an unstable and potentially dangerous environment, and loving them with every fucking piece of me. This is probably forever away, but it's so indescribably important to me. In the process of better understanding myself and my belief system, I have changed my mind, which ultimately means that I'm becoming more aware of my identity.

Honestly, I think I've reached a time in my life where a new obstacle has risen. Except, I don't think this one has an particular focus. The purpose may just be to help me deal with feeling, and understanding myself so that later in life, when obstacles larger and scarier looking than ever emerge or the skeletons learn to turn a door knob, I will be ready. After all, it's not the roommate I'm beginning to hate that matters, but the best friend I need to make more effort to see. It's not the just below excellent grade I'm receiving, but the missing motivation to attend class. It's not the extra 5 pounds I could lose, but my inability to eat healthier and exercise on a regular basis. The outcome will never be as powerful and rewarding as the drive.

Right? Right.

I have written out the last words I will ever say to you
approximately one dozen times in the last three days.
You said that you hate lists.
Well so do I. Mostly because I don't want this one
to exist. Lack of communication, sleepy 2:30am calls,
days and days between, no mention of December,
and the sub-list, which is a growing list of fair faces
taking me aside and whispering, "You deserve better,
you know." No, I say, I am not such a good person.
I have done my share of terrible and hurtful things.
But I get better and you get worse.
I wait and wait and wait and wait. While you go on
about how it's necessary to make one hundred thousand dollars
a year to be happy and forget to say I love you.

Today I was talking about you, and I said
that you are running so fast and grasping at such material
things, that someday you will be one of those businessmen
that is never at home and your children will hate you for it
and your wife will cry herself to sleep at night
and maybe eventually find someone to warm your side of the bed
when you're away.

october,
be good to me.

He wants so badly to fuck your name out of my mouth. I pray every night that he can.

Love is a funny thing. You expect it to be easy. You expect it to be a world of roses and laughs and perfect moments that you find only in movies. You expect him to always say the right thing, and always know exactly
how you feel, or exactly how to react to it. You expect him to calm you down when you're yelling or to chase you when you run away. You expect so much that you feel entirely, and utterly defeated when something doesn't
exactly match up with all your plans. But that's the thing, love isn't a plan. It doesn't have a certain beginning and it certainly has no end or visible finish line to those deeply in it. Love happens; and it is so incredibly messy.
People around you can't comprehend why you do the things you do, or why you fight so hard for something that seems to cause you so much pain, because simply, they can't see. They can't see the invisible ring of insanity that surrounds you when you're in love. It's inconvenient and painful and devastating at times, but we can't live without it. We can't breathe the same way or function quite right without it. See, that's the thing about love. You hold it up to all these images you've learned to attach to the word 'love' since you were little. We learn so many things about love before we are even capable of falling. Don't rush in, keep steady, prince charming will fix everything. What you don't learn is how hard love is. How much work it takes. How much of ourselves we have to put into it. How it isn't
worth it until we are complete and utter idiots about it. Don't rush in? What if you practically dive with your eyes closed; fully aware that you had drowned before. "Love is a battlefield", never really made sense because it is contrary to everything we have been taught to believe how 'love' is supposed to be. But it is so entirely different. Love isn't him calming you down when you yell. It's him yelling, just as loud, just as hard, right back at you, right in your face to wake you up and to keep you grounded. It isn't him bringing you roses everyday or pretty things that make your relationship appear more presentable. It's after a long fight, that drains the life and bones right out
of you both, and yet him showing up at your door the next morning anyway. It's not him saying all the right things or knowing exactly how to handle you. We are human beings. We don't handle one another, and
we can't be handled. We are mutable creatures that need something different everyday. Need something more or less to keep us going, to keep us believing that it's not all for nothing. So no, it's not him caressing your hair and telling you everything is going to be all right. It's him standing there, admitting he's just as scared as you are. You have to remember that with love, you're not the only one involved. You've unknowingly put your life, your
heart into the palms of another persons hands and said, here, do what you will. Mash it into mince meat, or forget i ever handed it to you. As long as you have it, that's the thing about love. It makes us crazy. It makes
reality invisible and it erases all the lines that we shouldn't cross. Because love isn't about fencing ourselves in; feeling safe, feeling sure about the future. It's about scaring the shit out of every nerve in our body, but
pushing forward anyway. Because all the fighting and all the tears and all the uncertainty is worth it. and it's a hell of a lot better, than being one hundred percent happy without someone to show us that there
is a world of a difference between feeling 'happy' and feeling whole.

I'm trying to replace you. I'm sure you've had no trouble doing the same. I want nothing more than to be wrapped up in someone's arms. For the first time in my life, I'm bottling up affection and I must admit, it's harder than even anger. I want to kiss someone just because. I miss having someone who can make my endless sex/love poems come to life.


I'm so dumb when I get romantic.

 Every time I care about something, every time i attach myself to something... it never fails. It never works out. I'm tired of being so hard, I'm tired of having to be so tough. I just want someone to fucking give a shit about me, I want to be enough for one single person. I want someone to ask me not to go, to not let go. I'm tired of holding every fucking thing in me, until I burst... until it hurts so bad, that everything goes numb. I don't know what to do anymore, or how to act, or who I am. But I'm obviously not good enough, have never been good enough, and will never fucking be good enough for anyone to just... stay.

I can't do this anymore.

I would like you for Christmas. Please.