What I want.

It's hard to describe,  difficult to explain, mostly because I can barely comprehend it myself. I find myself thinking about you, these thoughts that inexplicably turn taboo. It's not about the way you make me feel when you devour me with your eyes, or the way your hand grabs roughly at mine while we're fighting for the most carnal type of power. No, the forbidden thoughts come from a much quieter place, a place where languid kisses turn into playful arguing about football; a place where the frantic push and pull of our bodies turns into fighting over the single-player PS3 controller.

But are you what I need?

For so long you've been what I wanted, someone available and able, someone who needed me in exactly the way I needed someone -- physically. No strings, just sex. Kisses sharef in elevators in the evening,  casual hugs in the morning with a cup of coffee to go. And I was absolutely okay with that. You scratched an itch, you calmed an urge and, best of all, I did the same for you.

No, scratch thay. The best part of it all was that you never wanted more.

But then we started making plans. Stupid, empty, imaginary plans, but plans nonetheless. Running away to far off places we've both always wanted to see. Weekends away to hide in cozy hotel rooms that overlook vistas we wish we could wake up to every day.

Like I said: stupid, empty, imaginary plans.

But last nighy happened. You made love to me long and slow in the dim moonlight. You looked at me and held my had and I was suddenly stripped bare, more naked than I had ever felt trapped in your gaze. You whispered how much you had missed this then confessed what you had never admitted before -- that you had missed me.

Coming undone had never been so intense before.

Then, like I said, came the camaraderie of football and video games; warm sticky skin against warm, sticky skin as we talked about adult things like bills and rent and travel for work. Conversation interspersed with kisses and caresses that didn't immediately scream, "fuck me blind!"

This qas new between me and you. But I can't say I didn't like it.

But the best of all was the sleep. No awkward pretense of cuddling, jusy the mutual, muted decision that we were done, turning in for the night on our respective sides of the bed with your feet nudging between mine just enough to say, "I'm here, and I'm glad you are, too."

Best sleep I've had in months.

Faking it

Sometimes it's the only way to get through the day.

When I walk through the doors and I see those people, the ones who I have come to hate through sheer proximity... I remind myself that I do good things here and I mean something to some of the people in this place. Then I plaster on a smile as best I can and go through the motions as I keep to myself as much as possible.

Fine lines

Fine lines are what define us: the relationships we have; who we were, are, wish to be, end up becoming.

Fine lines can be drawn in sand, taped across carpet, spoken in the passion of the moment.

Fine lines can be the difference between loving someone and wondering where everything went wrong.

Fine lines are a test: of strength, of endurance, of patience; of truth, of pride, of worth.

Fine lines are the failsafe, the hiding place, the door into Narnia or Hell.

Fine lines are laid out, respected, tested, crossed, and redrawn -- a vicious cycle of lines crisscrossed across lives until there are no longer any sides, just one giant, scribbled mess.

Life is the outcome of lines crossed, lines avoided, lines bleached out of memory by sunshine, lines washed away by torrid rains.

If there are no fine lines in life then there is no risk, no reward, no happiness or pain. That's what these lines do: they prove that we deserve everything that comes our way; they prove that we have earned the next day of our lives.

Don't talk to me about your fine lines, I know all about them.

I'd like to forget myself, just for an hour.

I want to forget what it's like to be me, have all the duties and responsibilities I have, leave behind all the complicated things and the people, too.

I am aware that what I would like is too much to ask for.

I have (re)learned that I much prefer Missy Martyr over Miss Moron.

Dying

"It's the same old story of love and glory that broke before it bent; I'm dying to live without you again."

Reinforcement

This.

All this drama just reinforces my point: I'm done. There's just too much dependence on everyone else and it's healthy for me at this point.

Sometimes I just want to shake people and tell them that they are not perfect themselves. Would they listen? Probably not. Would it make me feel better? A little, I imagine.

Seriously, some people need to grow the fuck up.

Missy Martyr in particular. Just because everyone else thinks you're fucking perfect doesn't mean that I do. And using the phrase, "When you get in trouble later," makes you sound like you're six, not in your twenties.  If you don't like something, quietly voice it, don't be rude and barrel over others. It makes you look immature and it pisses people off.

I know it makes you feel good to be right all the time and to have all the attention on you (no matter how much you deny it) but sometimes being a part of something means to work with people, not dictate or bully. That's a lesson you better learn quick before you lose all your friends.

She is among the reasons why I am pulling away. I'm sick and tired of some of her shit, like randomly punching me or putting me down for no fucking reason. So, Missy Martyr, when I'm gone and you're wondering why, go think back. If you're still stumped, you're stupid and blind.

This is me being the grown up. I'm done, I'm out. Sayonara, bitches.

What it takes

I'm trying to find courage.

It's harder than it sounds.

Winston Churchill said,

"Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen."

I've stood up and spoken; I've sat down and listened. Neither has gotten me very far.

Martyrdom.

It a wondrous thing to watch.

What is the sound of a single heart breaking?

It is not loud and monumental, it is not the roar of a lion in the jungle as he fights for his last breath.

It is quiet, silent and stifling, hiding behind a smile that is painted on for the world to see.

What is the sound of a love's last breath?

Is it the gasping sigh of ease and absolution, full of knowledge that it had loved at all, disregarding any lingering dispute and resentment for having lost in love in the first place?

Or is it the heartwrenching sound of a ragged sob before being torn away from the tender embrace of what used to be?

Or, still yet, is it the quiet, gentle letting go, more significant than any monsoon but with no more power than the flutter of a butterfly's wing?

There is such shame in losing; but is there shame in walking away? When enough is enough, who is stronger: the one who dies in the losing battle or the one who lives to fight another day?

And the Best Supporting Actress award goes to...

I hate feeling secondary in my own life.

I hate that I've become unimportant in my own story.

It sounds so stupid and selfish and so woe is me. I've become a Best Supporting Actress in my own life. I don't even feel like a Meryl Streep; more like a Tilda Swinton, only without thee possibility of a win because my George Clooney isn't George Clooney, more like Quentin Tarantino minus the luck and the ugly mouth.

I hate that I've let others consume me and push me aside, that t.ie let other people and other things take precedence over me and what helps to make me grow. I hate that I have to find myself amongst a sea of everyone else.

Maybe when I get past the anger I'll be able to find the positive, the siIver linings. Like how I will definitely come out of this rut a better, stronger person. Like how I will have learned to (finally) put myself first, make myself a priority while still balancing the people and situations I find myself in. And maybe I'll be able to love myself a little more, too.

Or I can just drown myself in weed and alcohol until I don't give damn a anymore.

Trying

You can try and try and try and try but when it's not good enough then what's the point?
Maybe the problem is that I'm trying too hard? Because Lord only knows I'm not not trying.
Whatever it is, I'm sick of not getting results. I'm sick of feeling unappreciated and undervalued by the people in my life whom I respect and whose opinion matters to me. I'm sick of the short end of the stick coming from people who are supposed to be helping me grow as a human being. I hate that I'm gleaning superficial confidence from things I believe are common courtesy, but are seen as minor miracles by everyone else. l hate that I dread waking up in the morning because I know that today is going to be just as bad as yesterday, if not entirely worse.

Most of all, though, l hate that I let myself be affected by it all. I never used to be like this, so... co-dependent on other people. Its'strange and uncomfortable, like wearing wool when it's too hot.

I. Don't. Like. It.

Now I'm tying to figure out whether or not it's just me being oversensitive or if this is really an issue that I need to bring up. But how do you even start a conversation like that?

"Hi, I love you but I can no longer be around you because you treat me like shit and I don't appreciate it and I swore to myself that I wouldn't let myself be treated like this ever again."

Yeah, that'd go down just super.

I know I'm stronger than stuffing my feelings away but who am I to try and challenge the status quo? There's an establisted pecking order here, and I'm pretty far down the line.

Maybe I'll just keep on trying and see where that leads me.

Talking to the moon...

"At night when the stars light up my room, I sit by myself talking to the moon, trying to get to you, in hopes you're on the other side talking to me, too. Or am I a fool who sits alone talking to the moon?"

Days like today, especially today, I feel like this. Is this what prayer is like? Faith? Religion? Belief in general?

I don't like it.

People suck.

They suck even more twelve hours later when their mood has followed you into the next day and you have to see them and you're anticipating having to deal with them and not bite their heads off because today is a new day and you're determined to leave yesterday to yesterday.

Happy Saturday. My ass.

---

Amendment, fifteen minutes later...

So much for leaving yesterday to yesterday.

Where do moments of pure clarity come from? And are they truly that, pure and clear? Or do they change the second you realize what they are, becoming tainted with the stain of realization?

I like to think I have many of these moments. Deep in the night when the rest of the world sleeps away, I sit at my desk (or, alternatively, my couch with my lapdesk) and am hit with these miniature meteors of understanding and profound insight. The world makes sense for a split second before I begin contemplation. All is right in the world until I begin to deconstruct the epiphany the universe has given to me. Then everything comes crashing down: apocalypses and chaos reigning, multitudes of horsemen are galloping over everything I am continually trying to keep at rights.

Then I open my eyes, stare at my keyboard with my heart pounding in my chest (wait a second -- I have one of those?!) and realize that I am my own destructor, my own creator, my own foil and my own fortune. How ironic that I am so much yet I feel so little towards myself. My magnanimity can extend far, further beyond what my mind's eye can imagine, yet I cannot pull it back enough to extend over me.

I'm good with pretty words and flowery prose, I must admit. ::insert the sound of my own horn being toot-ed::

In the eternal words of someone else

Sometimes I can't find the right words to express myself. With the billions of words in the English language alone, I seem to continually fail at relaying just exactly how I feel in any given moment. It's so difficult; every moment is fleeting, as is everything included in that singular moment, making it seem almost futile to even attempt to write down the words that truly portray how I feel. It's easier, I find, to fall back on the eternal words of someone else, to use what profundities they have articulated and manipulate it to suit my own means, my own mind.

But sometimes I feel like a cheater, a liar.

Is it fair? I ask myself.

It isn't, but I can try harder.

Try harder.

Try harder.

Try harder.

♥

Old dog, old tricks

Looks like you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

But this bitch sure will try.

♥