the fabric of your flesh feels as a wedding dress
I’ve been taking each day as it comes lately,
trying to worry very little and fill myself brimming with joy and profound love for all that life has given me.
And life is truly, good.
I know that all I need is patience. That everything I want to do, and want to accomplish will happen—but with time.
For the first time I said something that moved someone. I watched the way my actual words washed over this person-
I watched his brow soften and head tip slightly to the side, I saw his face give way to some sort of awe that had been working up inside of him as a result of what I had said, which was:
Someday, I just want to be enough for someone. Some one person.
And isn’t that what we all want? To never again fear profound disappointment, to find someone that just has to have every complex angle of you no matter how good or bad.
I am so happy for my baby sister and her soon-to-be husband. I wish them all of the love they can possibly tolerate, bundled up in impossible detail—I wish them technicolor delight in every moment spent together.
“Whatever you may be seeking, is also seeking you.” -Rumi
no might
I wanted to watercolor paint our whole world
in dewy, running pastels.
I wanted to lift up the sun with my strength,
lasso it and the moon-
as the only appropriate gift to you.
Because for a brief moment, you painted mine in electric shades-
all blue and stutter sun-shock;
red-lipped, pink palm sweat
and now it feels like basking in shades
of grey.
“I wanted to conquer the world, so that I could give it to you.”
It will hit you like a ton
of bricks
this word? Miss
Missed opportunities,
misfired;
misappropriated-
misfortune,
missed;
miss
miss me.
This photo looks like the epitome of happy.
take me
I dreamt I was in a house full of people that I know; each room a different face. The entrances to some of them are small, and the rooms just as tiny. I squeeze and contort my body to fit in the door frames. I compact myself, knees-to-chin, to fit in others.
And I think to myself, Why do I feel so large here? How can I stay here, crawling like this always?
I pull myself into a white doorway, compacting all of my limbs. I look into a mirror and realize it is a bathroom. I primp in front of a mirror; smooth out my long black locks held back by a headband. I pucker my lips together and brush my eyelashes with the tip of my finger to assure they are smooth as well. And then I move onto the next room.
I don’t want you to be someone I once knew. I want you to be close to me.
And it’s true, perhaps, that we know not the depth of our own love until being separated. Until we feel that hollow, gaping space between someone you once shared your heart with; someone you made your family, no matter how long.
And that’s the thing with love—too easily it feels desperate, if you let it be. When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable we also allow ourselves to be hurt; that there is always that option no matter how much we might resist it.
And it’s all so terrifying.
