I’m not sure I can write about you yet because maybe I want this to all be for you, all that’s in my head and in my heart. Maybe because it’s real and I know this won’t rip me apart. Thank you. Thank you for showing up when I needed you and thank you for staying when you heard I could be broken. That I’m not perfect. Thank you.
It’s such a simple answer to all those big questions people throw at me. Most of the time, I’ve no clue about things happening around and within me. It’s nothing but an uncertainty, right? I can’t predict and hold onto that hope of something happening that I really want. My grades are fine, my family fights, things happen, life happens. All I say in return is those three words because I can’t let everything mean something. I can’t put meaning to every damn thing because that means I’m letting it matter - it hurts when it matters.
I thought I had purged you. I thought I was done. But I can’t stop seeing you everywhere I go. I close my eyes and still perfectly picture your hair, your eyes, your wings. My heart still drops when I open my front door to see you not there, waiting for me. My throat still chokes on the words that never left my lips that night as you walked away.
How did you work your way inside me to the point you have become part of me? How did each word yelled in anger become an irrevertible truth carved into my very being? How am I still yours, even now when no threads between us remain?
Our story was twisted and perfect and toxic and wholesome and I don’t know what’s the truth or what’s the lie anymore beyond the realization that I may be broken beyond repair.
I want to escape into crowded streets and traverse new worlds. I want to reach the sky and make each electric illumination another chance at a wishing star. I want to hear the music resonate with my pulse and feel my synapses fire with each sip from my glass.
I want to see you, haloed by the night, tall but never imposing. Never far away but just impossible enough to reach.
I began to learn that progress isn’t linear and it’s okay that it isn’t. Progress is progress. I was tired a lot. I allowed people to anger me when the correct response would have been to walk away. I didn’t allow myself to cry because that would mean the mood tracker in my bullet journal would be full of blue hearts instead of the magenta ones that signify a good day. I have fallen deeper in love with the man who I’ve had feelings for since I was 18. I allowed myself to let go and I’m not scared. It’s freeing. I made time for God, family, and other loved ones. Allowing school and work to take precedence in my life can’t happen again. I had wanted this month to be full of love and it was. But I somehow forgot to remember that I need to also give myself love. I cannot continue to give out honey if my pot is empty.
What’s being mean going to do for you? I just don’t get it; you’re birthing people’s insecurities. Your comment is what they’ll think of when they look in the mirror, when they get called on in class, when they’re with someone they love but they can’t trust because you encouraged their self-doubt, their self-esteem, confidence, and love. Why? Seriously, why?
I hungered for change as I stalked unfertile grounds, hunting and starving, being stretched to an unforeseen limit, I was parched thirsting for something new in a barren wasteland longing for the moon to pull me to a sea.
I was desperate to grow in a cold impotent, completely fruitless wretched world of desolate badlands depleted of life aching for the sun.
Suddenly a germination process began, forming me into who I have long been eager to bloom into, flowering into an untainted source free from the poisonous realms of human involvement.
I am a wild wallflower with roots grounded in rich soil, growing in an environment where the air is clean, the rain is refreshing and the light never vanishes.
i think i’ll find god, one day, sitting on a bench in central park or in tower grove or somewhere nice, in some oasis away from the danger. i think i’ll find god, one day, sitting on a bench with their head tipped to the sky or bowed to the earth, contemplating love or christ or something i could never hope to understand. i think i’ll find god, one day, and sit down beside them and they will not look me in the eye, out of pride or dismissal or shame, perhaps. and when i ask where they’ve been, and what their plan is, or something else that’s stupid and impossible to explain, they’ll smile and hold my hand and tell me to ask them again.