BLAH

Dear self,

Why don't you know you have every right

to feel how you feel? You do.

His sun should rise and set on your every whim.

Can you feel it?

Your face should not strain to squint,

purposely holding in tears.

What's with the chip on your shoulder?

What do you need that you aren't getting?

stronger

stronger I need to be

like the roots of the maple,

grounding. the

limbs of the laborer never quit.

they're far stronger than I

to not need you

would be easier, I think, now.

"give me more" sounds selfish,

how do I find another way to say it?

I'm picturing the roundish petals

of the flushed pink roses you gave me this winter past,

and I'm wondering why not now?

sometimes I miss having someone who understands and relates like you did

"I myself am made of flaws, stitched together by good intentions."

I'm starting to believe that, for me, life is a series of internal conflicts, and my learned response is to push everybody out. Sometimes, somebody reaches out and pulls me back into the thick of it. Sometimes they let me go. And it's just relief and disappointment, relief and disappointment, over and over again.

braindump to be refined later

Sometimes I feel like a lily.

Other times, I feel like a rose.

Lily--starts out nondescript,

bundled tight, blooming glory

controlled, clasped close.

Until suddenly, the insides are exposed,

and the flower is beautiful,

and she hides nothing, not even the seeds

that got her here.

bursting with energy.

Rose-- delicate,

romantic,

stunningly beautiful--

a breathtaking specimen

that can stand alone

and perhaps be even more beautiful.

Layered, mesmerizing.

Thorned without shame.

Happy Third of July

the scent of scorched timber

lingers strong in my hair.

last night I lit the fuse

for the first time.

it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be

it was just fitting in in my own quiet way.

you may have sat a little farther away in the beginning

than I would've liked,

the patio furniture felt cold.

but I barely give a voice to the steady murmur of anxiety.

I felt it as we got into your car and headed out--

the nerves

like a part of me, inseparable,

maybe it really is just a part of me--

I can't really be mad at you for not making me feel like I belonged,

after all it's not your battle.

stepping outside of the box

was a good idea, even if I feel awkward

like an animal in the wrong exhibit

like a different species all together.

you kissed me at the end of the night

harder than usual. another diversion from

the norm. your lips couldn't have tried any harder

to conjoin us,

and I wonder why I wonder why

you would want to be a part of someone with this incessant trepidation

about all unfamiliar.

but then I remember the way I hold your face and kiss you

and look in your eyes and tell you it will be alright,

steady and consistent when you need me to be,

and maybe that's why.

meh, mind-dump

I lose myself from time to time,

forgetting what I'm all about.

The dull clamor of anxiety

overtakes my ability to

accurately perceive myself.

I start asking him questions:

Why do you love me?

Who do you think I am?

What is it about me that makes me so goddamn special?

He mistakes it for insecurity in our relationship

and tells me to stop trying to quantify his love.

It's really just me being lost

when it comes to myself.

I don't remember

what I look like without looking in the mirror.

I couldn't tell you

how my voice sounds.

I don't know if I'm religious,

if I have friends,

what I like to eat,

or how to make scrambled eggs.

What's my phone number?

Who the fuck am I?

What a frenzy in my chest,

and I just want clarity.

I think he thinks I'm too intense sometimes.

But Jesus Christ, times like these are scary as I

clutch to what others tell me about who I am,

even small comments in passing. And I

analyze them.

I'm too scared to start going back to Church,

I think it might be a crutch for some people,

and I don't want to rely on anything

but myself.

Whoever that is. So I guess Church isn't an option.