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One stitch at a TimeYou're not really listening to me and I'm not really listening to myself.
We're both absorbed in other things and I'm talking just to talk. My mind is a thousand miles away from my lips and hands.
However, a particular thought has my entire body momentarily paralyzed. The pencil in my hand stops, the words forming die before they leave my throat. The lapse grabs your attention and I meet your gaze almost on instinct.
A small smile plays on your lips as you cross the room and join me on the couch, pulling the paper and pencil from my hands, "I know that look," you whisper and I feel your arm around me. I'm lost, not knowing where to start as I feel myself begin to fall into doubt. You coax me, "who is it this time?"
My anger flares at the accusation underlying your words but I swallow my pride and realize that this happens far too often. "I just...she just came out of no where."
There's knowledge in your eyes and a softness in your voice, "I was wondering when you'd ask about her. She j
You're always sleepyYou're awake, but just barely, your lids are drooping, your speech slurred. You're always sleepy when we talk, but I like to be up later than you. You stay awake because you like to be with me.
I swallow the nagging feeling of mistrust as I scribble away at the paper on the bed in front of me. You're yawning, struggling to stay awake, and I'm lost in a world of darkness trying to find the light.
You say you don't notice, but I know it's a lie. We've had this same discussion for years now. There are glances in your direction, whispers, leers, and the occasional bold touch on your arm from strangers. Yet you claim you don't notice.
I quell my anger with a well placed laugh and call it endearing, but slowly it's eating away at me. You may act dense and uneducated but you're smart, so very smart and I know that you're not as dumb as you play. You know just the right words to say but over the years they've become a recording and have lost their sentiment. They are an echo of past hurts.
Where Do I Go From HereI'm frightened. So very frightened.
I know, he likes the thought of me.
I know he likes the idea of me.
I know he likes the dream of me.
But I'm afraid because he doesn't know me.
The me that's quick to anger and holds a grudge.
The me that's lazy and sleeps until noon.
The me that hates cutting grass and weeding,
That would rather stay at home than go out,
That spends hours on a game only to quit the next day.
The me that gets lost in the garden,
The me that suffers with a sunburn because I deserve it.
The devil inside of me that threatens to spill out.
The me that will never say I Love You
Even if I do.
I will never marry him. I will never tell him I love him.
And I'm afraid that when he knows me, he'll leave me.
I'm frightened that I won't miss him.
But more frightened that I will.
Dear Ben 03/29/13Dear Ben,
March 29th 2013
Sometimes, I wonder at things. I am not a genius. I do not ponder mathematical algorithms, the meaning of life, or even what makes people do what they do.
Rather, I wonder.
I wonder at a tiny wildflower growing through the heated cracks in the pavement. I wonder at the feel of a breeze on my skin and the way it turns the hairs on my arms in the wrong direction. I wonder at the clouds moving at such a fast pace that it would make even the most devout New Yorker envious. I marvel at the grooves in the dirt, the patterns in the bark, the blades of grass the form a carpet.
I see the grooves of history in the wrinkles of skin, my heart aches for the story in them. I notice the tobacco stains on the cracked nails of a veteran and I wonder. I stand amazed at the beauty a single hand can create.
Sometimes when I'm listening to music, I feel I am a thousand miles away where the sun is just rising. I can feel the chill of the dark on my skin and as the first rays touch
MausLove doesn't come easy when you're not exactly batting for the right team. Childhood was a dangerous pitfall of innocent comments only to be reprimanded for saying that I like Michael more than I liked Lucy.
At the time, it was innocent and overlooked. However, little social clues had me closing my innermost desires inside. The fact I was gay was locked deep inside me. I wouldn't let myself dream of a life with anyone else because it simply wasn't allowed. Why dream of something that couldn't happen?
To that, it was no surprise that my first love wasn't until my late twenties.
He was tall, dark and handsome. Everyone was drawn into his circle if by sheer gravitational pull.
But he was innocence walking. He didn't understand the implications of his actions, there was no such thing as personal space when it came to him.
There was one time, a fleeting moment where my dream sparked and I thought that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't alone.
We were crashed on my couch, his large white dog stretc
Barbs, Thorns, and DarknessIt's all barbs and thorns when she speaks, like a million tiny razors in a piece of candy.
She has an heir of self imposed superiority but it's hidden underneath a thin veil of circumstance.
She walks with a limp and expects those around her to do the same. Her tongue is laced with sweet poison and you don't know you've been bitten until you've lost your sight.
She pushes, she pulls, and despite being forty years her junior I'm tired. She brings my mood to a low it hasn't been in years with a simple word.
It's not because she means a lot to me, in fact I care little for her. However, she affects those I do care for and I wish nothing more than to push her the way she's pushed me.
Her voice drips with brightly colored acid and the sunshine is stolen in favor of a pale glow of warning.
I become self conscious apologizing to those around me for things I didn't do. It's because I'm angry and in an effort not to lash out, I go inward.
She makes a point to 'correct' me and my soul cries for
Do you believe in love?"Do you believe in love?"
She blinks at the question, knows what the acceptable answer is, and yet it won't form on her tongue.
He's staring at her now, his eyes wise and crinkled around the edges. He's not asking because he wants to know, he's asking so she'll know.
But she doesn't want to, and so she shakes her head, "no, not at all."
"What do you believe if not love?" his voice is old, slightly gravel filled and faltering.
She's all suspicion and artificial sweetener as she answers, "I believe in truth and lies. Everyone lies and no one wants to truth."
His skin of leather stretches as he smiles of sunlight, "but you want the truth - what if that truth is that someone loves you?"
She laughs and it's cynical laced bitterness, "that's rich. Even if then, love is fickle and changes with the tides." A sneer of cold, "you know this after your recent divorce."
He ignores the barb, but knows it's seasoned with poison and he'll feel the affects later. Instead, he offers her a thought, "so y
The Un-BirthdayShe smiles, sitting alone in the restaurant, tucked away in a corner and munching on a piece of key lime pie. She's stolen away from the rest of the world and as she swipes the dollop of cream from the cracker crust she hums a tune and licks the tip of the spoon. With a sad smile her eyes crease as she whispers, "happy birthday to me."
A cynical chuckle and she attacks the pie. However, this is how she likes to spend the day of her birth. It's the one day that she can celebrate and not feel guilty or embarrassed in some way or another. Because she does feel ashamed of this day and of being happy. The days around her birth were filled with pain and sorrow and she feels guilty that she survived.
Her thumb eases over the scars on her wrists and she again smiles but this time there is sorrow lacing the corners of her lips and tugging at the wrinkles of her eyes. A mistake that cost her dearly, again marking the day of her birth and cursing it to a painful reminder.
She shakes her head, thi
Dear Mr. PresidentDear Mr. President:
I apologize, but you've got it all wrong. Your biggest mistake was not that you didn't inspire. That is not what the American people need anyway.
If one were to ask the millions in America what they need most, it would not be inspiration. Those standing in the meal lines at seven in the morning on a rainy day, the men that spend their last dollar on a can of beans that has to stretch days, the women who go without health-care and life saving medicine, the children who don't see their father because he's working three jobs - ask those people what they want from you.
It will not be inspiration.
We wanted a president that would stand for the people. That he would not use flowery words and empty promises, but a leader who would stand beside us; who walked with us through the turmoil, even if he was unable to do anything else. At least then, we would know he understood.
We wanted hope.
A light at the end of a dark tunnel, a cool hand on a fevered head, a promise of bette
When Home Becomes a Prison (Strength)When your pillow is no longer the fresh place to lay your emaciated spirit
But is now the chain on the ball that is your bed.
When a door is no longer the entrance to a retreat from the world
But a metaphorical lock keeping you ensconced, never stepping foot out into it.
When windows suddenly become looking glasses that never break,
Just heckle you with what you're missing in their transparent prisons.
A token of what you used to be in the faces of the people walking passed.
The people who pay no note to you;
Who have no inclination of what they are; the symbols of your long-ago life.
The sharp splinters of nostalgia that just glimpsing upon their face sends into your heart.
Every time they walk their dog,
You grimace because you cannot walk long enough to do the same for yours.
Constant reminders in everything everyone does in everywhere you go
of the things you are losing without control.
You clutch and grasp while slipping into sliding as you clasp onto what is left o
Dear JamesI placed a candle on the water for you today. It flickered and floated and gathered with candles of other losses; fathers, friends – whoever. It was as hard as letting you go; if that candle drifted away from me then would I lose you again? When they scooped the candle from the water and your flame went out who would remember that I honoured you? So I took your candle from the water and placed it into my bag. Not because I can’t let you go but because I want to remember. I will light that candle to remember you on special days.
James darling, I missed you more today than any other. I know I will miss you more again at Christmas, on your birthday and on the day you died. You are an angel but you are still with me – in the heart covered by the tattoo of your name. The ink came from within, seeping up through my skin and not down.
I am grateful for the two sonograms I have of you, yet part of me yearns to know what your face would have looked like. Would you have his thi
SaturdaysBrought into this world on a rainy Saturday morning
No memories of the years that follow
Until the pain
Eyes of a beast
Tears of a child
Walls subconsciously building to keep the child safe
But are the walls for safety or containment
Blood and bone breaking
Screaming into the night
12-12-98... I hate this date.
I loathe it.
Words cannot explain.
But I'll try my best any way.
Try as I might, this memory will never go away.
I've cried; tried to drown my tears until there was no more left. I ate. I starved. I ran. I slept.
Nothing could make me forget that terrible date. 12-12-98.
You may think it's something like, "Oh, maybe her parents said they had to work on Christmas. Jeez. It happens." Yeah, that's what most people say to me when I say I hate this date. It's different though. I lost someone important to me. My father.
I've never heard him speak. To say my name. To yell at me when I've done something bad.
I never got the chance to call him Dad. Nor will I ever.
I will never embrace him, just as my half-siblings do to their father. I guess they've been deprived too, but they'll see him again. But I've never seen my dad. All I have is a collection of pictures and stories from relatives. My mom gave me a small box filled with notes they used to pass back and forth d
One more Christmas wish.She stood in line, twisting her short hair.
Every now and then she would glance down and the scars on her wrist and arm.
She would quickly cover them up.
She was waiting in a very long line, to see Santa.
Not so much a little girl anymore, but she had one more wish.
Slowly the line would move and the giggles from the young children around her made her feel like she could smile once more, guilt free. Parents looked at her with almost hateful glances. Why would a young adult, wearing converse skinny jeans and a lighter leash be in line for Saint Nick? What on earth is this girl thinking?
Be still she waiting on.
Not so much a little girl anymore, but she had one more wish.
She was next.
She rubbed her teeth with her jacket sleeve trying to get the smell of Menthol Mavericks off her breath, but all too soon she was sitting on his knee.
His white beard flowing and nearly sparkling in the lights, his bright eyes shining with laughter and love,
DreamsDreams are merely dreams...but sometimes they reflect your deepest desires, don't they?
He stole my breath away.
He was a stunning being, a mix of a man that I could not easily describe to you. With ebony-black hair and stormy gray eyes, he captured my heart in an instant. At times he would tower over me, lovingly, his presence nearing mine, and I could feel the warmth from his body.
"Sometimes I wish I could just steal a smile from you," he murmured easily. "Write you a love poem. Give you roses. I want to love you like love from the past."
I blinked, and smiled slightly back at his beautiful face. "Why the past?"
He shrugged, then he stared at me defiantly, with the Mexican pride I knew so well. "Love from even a generation ago, it was different. An innocent love, a subtle, tender thing that was cultured from a simple fire. And it grew into a tremendous passion, showing a respect of sorts. I want to show you that I love you, not just tell you. I want to appreciate you, respect you
I DoThere was a moment when the butterflies jumped into my throat and hit my heart on their way. I stopped breathing, wishing you hadn't asked.
I tried to warn you before you fell. I tried to tell you that you were settling. You got angry when I said that. You tried to reassure me that I was everything you wanted. You were so sweet and loving in your anger that I couldn't hope to be stung by the words.
But you didn't understand and when I told you to calm down, your embarrassment stopped you from listening. I wish now that I had said something different, that I hadn't acted so flippant about your outburst.
I realize with startling clarity that you didn't hear what I tried to tell you. I won't allow myself to be weak for anyone again, that includes you. You may be the one person that I could trust to safeguard my heart for eternity.
But I cannot take that chance. You're wasting your time on someone who's heart is hollow and made of ice. A heart guarded, locked, and dead.
Each day that passe
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