I went back and read your stuff
the old stuff
the faraway gone stuff
I keep everything
I went back and remember the time I was
passed out in your kitchen floor
trying to sleep
dressed like Audrey Hepburn
a drunk audrey hepburn who passes out after a bottle of rum
I went back and I read your stuff
I didn't cry because prozac won't let me
but I was hurning
Taylor Swift said
you were bigger than the whole sky
You were more than just a short time
And I've got a lot to pine about
I've got a lot to live without
I'm never gonna meet
What could've been, would've been
What should've been you
What could've been, would've been you

 

All good times here
are wild and happy and free
I don't know why you're so intent on trapping
on harnessing
on making a stupid statement.

I look into your puppy dog eyes
get lost in them a little bit
try to find an innocence in there
that is long gone
I'm searching for something other than
what you are trying so hard to call love.

Love is not what you think it is
you don't know how to love and be loved
you only know taking 
and burning
and turning to ashes.

I don't let you, I'm extinguishing flames
with every word and every friendly gaze
all cold air from my lungs
a gift
undeserving
yet lovely

I'm taking what you're giving,
with a pinch of salt
maybe a tablespoon or two
because I believe you do it out of kindness
out of what you understand as kindness
after being roughed around for so long
lit up with the fuel of anger.

It's in my nature to try to heal
to try to fix
put out the imminent dangers
to put things where they belong and find them a home
but I don't like losing myself in the process.

Air deserves to blow free
to freshen living rooms and 
howl near mountaintops.

Air deserves to be sighed from lungs
to be held in with breaths of passion
to ruffle pretty heads of hair.

Air returns home
at the end of the day
to push autumn leaves down trees
to wake us up with an early morning breeze.

Air returns home.
Always home.

 

27 years old.

I ran a marathon and got back in therapy. I started taking prozac and got back in track to finish a fucking degree (third time's the charm I guess). 

I feel like I'm good at my job and I like where I'm living. It looks like me. It feels like me. There's books and plants everywhere. It smells like coffee and incense and whatever I'm cooking.

I looked at the eyes I love and was honest and good. I opened my heart truly and loved harder than I ever had before. Unconditionally. Consciously. With all and with nothing.

I laughed and kissed and danced and drank. I cried and I consoled myself as if I were my own parent. I broke rules and hearts and glasses. 

I hugged my friends and looked into their eyes and told them that I love them. I teared up and missed the ones no longer near.

I helped create little surprises for others, cherishing the smiles and the true happiness. I held hands in the dark and cursed evil doers away. I weaved pine needles and cinnamon sticks into charms. I drew pentacles and sigils.

I told stories to children, I gave little parts of my heart, wrapped in the prettiest of fabrics just for them. I sang songs and baked goods, painted weird pictures.

I have smiled so hard my cheeks hurt and I have ran so far my muscles gave in for a couple weeks. I forgave. 

I cleaned cuts and gashes. I let mine be cleaned and cured. I listened and cuddled and made love. 

27 years. Feels like a milestone.

I made it out of hell once. Ten years ago. I never believed it would have gotten this good. 

I hope the next ten are even better.

 

It had been a while since I last felt this much fucking purpose. Purpose and confidence in myself (probably more than ever before). I feel like I'm doing things right. I'm checking off things I didn't think I could actually ever do. I'm less afraid of the cards that make up the castle collapsing all around me. This structure feels sturdy. And if they were to fall, I feel strong enough to move out of the rubble.

Maybe I just needed drugs all along.

 I know I'm too soft and willing to fix the hurt that you carry, I know myself for being too nosy, too easily involved, too eager to make myself your answer. 

I open up my heart and you take out the blood, like a transplant, like you need it more than I do. I find myself looking back at my mistakes, and how many are tied to my softness, to letting you live in my soul forever, the gaping wound that I don't let myself heal from because if I did, where would you keep yourself? 

They wouldn't take care of you like I do.

Not without these splintered fingers, these thorned arms.

 I'm mine.

But we can say I'm yours when I'm inside your embrace, when your breath is on my neck, when you force my sight into your gorgeous eyes and smile your devilish grin.

 I'm sorry all the time, I'm ashamed of my humanity, I don't want to bother, I don't want to be a story of someone annoying that you tell to people you like more than me, I'm always sure that people don't like me, maybe they're pretending, maybe it's an inside joke, you're nice to me because it's funny, it's funny because I want to believe it, I'm sorry.