So you love me, do you?

So "you love me and always will," eh?

"How do I know that I'm not the dream girl that you want in that dream mansion with you someday?"

So you want to "treat me like a queen," eh?

You "miss listening to me," huh? Was that the sounds in the bedroom or the conversations that we had that you miss hearing?

Do you know who you love? You love that image on your phone as your hand strokes your genitals to ejaculation. Your dream girl is this fiesty rapunzel you keep locked away in your bedroom and out of sight of your friends. Your queen is a dull smile and an accidental touch to your back at the absolute most. You want to hear the sound of my voice, but you do not want to listen.

.

.

.

You're watching porn in bed, I'm just trying to sleep my drunk off so I can drive home. Somehow I become a target. My jeans get ripped open, fingers are shoved inside of me, all while I'm screaming "No, I'm married!" (quietly, however, because we are not alone in the living room). You're drunk too, so you do not listen--not that you would have. I don't know if you got off, in fact I can't remember what happened next. I just remember leaving the next morning, but I know you told me you loved me. 

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.

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It's the same story over and over. Before, during and after my marriage. I'm too much, too drunk, too emotional, too social, too much of all of it but goddamit you "love" me. You love me so much you tell me what photos I post that you jerk off to (when that was far from my intention). You love me so much that you wish me a "good morning beautiful" and tell me that I will soon see how real your love is---weeks later, and I haven't so much as seen your face. You love me so much that whilst still married you would write me dirty paragraphs and dare me to drive to a secret place and reply. You love me so much that you let the janitor at your work believe he has a chance with me when I've only ever been to your work to hug on you. You love me so much that you insist that you'll wait until I'm ready when I am very persistent that we are going to remain just friends. You love me so much that you'll call me at precisely 1:40am, right as last call is happening, and ask "wanna meet up?" You miss me so much that you'll like every single photo I post on instagram, regardless of content, but you won't write a single message to me.  You miss me so much you'll send me a photo of your phallus and ask me to "help you get off" when I have never once sent you a photo exposing any amount of my skin whatsoever. But this is normal. This is what love is. Well, at least the love y'all are talking about. 

No! I don't wanna meet up. No! I don't want to help you get off. No! I don't want that kind of attention. I never did. I just thought if I lured you with sweetness and smiles that you may cherish the moments of vulneranility I gave you. Not once did you ever. You stole those moments from me, calling an orgasm or lack-there-of a full payment. Just get drunk with her, then maybe for a few hours you can turn her into your own Carmen Electra. That must be what you're thinking. 

I am worth more than that. An orgasm is like a sandwich, I can get it anywhere or make one myself. You are not special just because my eyes roll to the back of my head and I scream. In order to be considered special, in order to be given any non-pessamisamistic, non-complaining, non-man-hating, not passive aggressive attention from me you've gotta be honest with me and let me in. You've gotta hold me and ask if I need anything. You must care. Loving my cleavage or the lips of my vagina might do you well in your imagination, but that is a fantasy and I am no fantasy. I'm a woman. A beautiful woman. A strong woman. An intelligent woman. The creavaces of my brain will wow you far more than the squeeze of my groin. 

I'm tired of being treated like the girl in the magazine. I'm sure those pages are sticky and wrinkled and "well loved" but I am not. I am young and I have such a heart to offer. Leave me alone in the corners of your imagination where I belong because in real life I am way too good for you. I deserve a man who makes me feel so cherished and so stunning that I spend my whole day being beautiful at everything I do and in all of it find ways to make him proud and show him how much I adore him and sparkle in the magnificence of his attention. I deserve a man so respectful and yet tantilizingly sensual that he makes my body quiver. I do not need another admirer, I need a man who brings me bricks with which to build our empire together. 

I am a fool for ever handing you my vulnerability and accepting any other payment than respect and dedication. I am a fool even more for ever holding on to the idea that when you said you love me, you actually mean it.

Peaking Out of My Shell

Every time I brave looking you in the eye, you interact with the insecurity hiding behind them and silently try to caox them out.

It's like you make a beautiful braid out of the things you hear me say, and you let the braid be, no challenges.

When your lips press up against my eye lid and cheek, I get a little bit weak--out of vulnerability, not loss of strength; though, your embrace is so deliberate, it somehow eases my fragility.

I could swim in the butter of your beautiful skin; but even just the vibration of our silence stirs up some dust inside my chest.

You could be talking about anything and I would be eager to listen for I smile from something deep down inside me when you're around.

Fishing

Pretend I'm on a little fishing boat
I'm surrounded by soaring high cliffs
and a few entries for boats to pass,
but it's a good place to get crabs that hide here
for it being a good spot, I certainly get myself in a pinch somtimes.
Literally.
Sometimes there will be two ships coming in through the entries,
and here I am, this little single human out on a fishing boat
providing only another obstacle for the ship captains.
It's awfully frightening for me as two ships try to merge while
avoiding little me.
If I make efforts to communicate with the captains,
and try to row steady, I can let them pass smoothly.
But as their gone, there comes the waves.
The waves run counter parallel
and strike my little fishing boat.
The boat is swaying back and forth
and each time it sways it scoops a bit of water into the boat.
So again, I try to row steady and hold my calm.
I can here the crabs crying for me to put them back,
back in the ocean so I can continue to accomplish nothing.
It's so tempting because the boat is creating it's own body of water inside,
and I just want to give up,
but I did find a good fishing spot,
and the ships have passed,
and the waves may be getting smaller, it's hard to tell in this little cove.

Lonely

You don't understand what lurks in the silence; 
it's darkness stalks me. 
I can hear the gnashing of its teeth, but when I turn to look there's nothing there. 
Can't you just keep me company? 
I've made it so far into this nightmare, I just want to see it come to an end. 
But it will never end for its just a flashback haunting my every thought.
Can't I just close the curtain on it?
Is it better to be inside a tent by a hungry bear where you cannot see him or to be outside the tent looking him right in the eye?
If only it was actually there,
something I could face.
Until a remedy appears I'll just go find a way to drown it out.

I linger too long

Is it the warmth of your skin? 

Or the feeling I get in my heart when I lay my head on your shoulder?

Is it the magnet in my groin or the intrigue circling my brain?

Nothing makes me writhe like craving the person I've imagined you to be. 

Possibly, it's the tally of memories we share. 

Possibly, it's the sound of your voice softly caressing my ears. 

Possibly, it's the hugs in which we choose not to let go for awhile. 

Possibly, it's the way you make me laugh at myself. 

Possibly, it's just you.

Then again, it could just be my imagination. 

Is it a feeling like an orgasm: one that's wonderful, but fades fast?

Is it just a random accent note on the lines of an unfinished melody? 

This has to disappear quickly like drawings in the sand,

(for this is just my imagination).

I don't look into your eyes and feel home, 

I look into your eyes and know that I'm on an adventure. 

There's a chance it's just because you're unavailable.

or  because you don't exist. 

or because you're already gone. 

Either way I can still feel the blood pumping in and out of my heart.

Maybe that's just because I'm alive, though. 

You'd probably clip my wings if we ever did tie a knot. 

Then again, maybe this whole time I've been wrong about being a bird. 

I may just be human. And there may not even be rope.

Don't take this so serious, though

(for this is just my imagination) 

I may just be sailing alone on a clear day, capable of seeing everything in sight. 

I still wonder what makes me linger, though.

Is it time between the sheets?

Is it the gentle lullaby I swear I hear when our lips are clasped together?

Is it just your ability to scoop up me and all my drama without fraying? 

Is it that you're always interested in the nearest tail and it's never mine? 

Maybe it's just the challenge of the kill in the end. 

Then again, this could just be in my imagination. 

Anyway, I think I can hear your persuasion ushering me to meet you in my dreams tonight.  

I better get going or I might miss you. 

You

Goddamnit, I need you.
I don't know who you are other than some voice in my head who just stares blankly back at me when I get you down on paper. Sometimes you're my parent,
sometimes you're my whole heart's desire. Other times, you're just me--lonely and sad.
Either way, you're not here now and I need you so badly I can almost feel it choking me.
There's no time to recover or think this through, there's just now: and it is just full of nothingness and hot air.
It is the most hollowing feeling of void.
Like even though I have so much to give and think and change, really, all that is just nothing.
Because we aren't even here. We are wherever we are. And it is most certainly NOT together. It's not some completely different ingredients being mixed together to make something wonderful. Nope, it's just a bunch of bad flavors rotting with their lack of use. And that's how we want it--or at least how we choose it.
And I know this doesn't make you love me more. Then again, did you love me? Did you love me for more than the shared blood or the pretty image in a picture?
Oh yes, yes, love myself. Believe me, I do.
Someday I will create everything I want, even if it's just on paper and never in the real world. Wait, is the world real? Do you even exist? You're just in my imagination. Some security net I've always wanted but never been able to find. It's okay, I'm really learning to stand on my own feet and get up by myself when I'm knocked over. I know I'm worth it, I know I can make huge waves of change that would have incredible results. You don't though. You just sit there saying that my observations are too precise and changes just aren't in the cards. You make it this way. I am not going to live my life just letting things happen. I am going to learn, and damn it, I'm gonna teach it after I do. Maybe someone will listen and it will save them some serious heartbreak, let alone cash. I have something. Maybe you don't want to hear it, but someday you're gonna really read it and you're going to wish that you were here all along.

It's a slow climb

I think I found my compass.
I'm pretty sure I did.
It was broken there for awhile.
I kept trying to fix it, but I didn't have all the parts.
I think I've found it.
I've been using it for a little while now,
and it hasn't broken again (yet).
Or maybe it won't break again.


I'm finally doing my own thing.
I'm finally organizing my life the way I like it.
I'm finally conquering struggles faster than I was before.
I'm finally creating a life that I want to live.
I go through life now trying to only do things I'm proud of.
I welcome learning experiences that solve something.
I'm finally in love with me.
I like how I live life, and who I am
(I make mistakes)
But I'm happy with the direction my heart wants to go.


It's everything from being able:
to play You've Got Mail on repeat if I want,
to always always always playing classical music,
to make sure the shower curtain is open so the water drips off,
to have little surprises like hidden cash or forgotten candy,
to always have clean laundry,
to make sure my kitchen doesn't smell,
to let my cat on the porch,
to hang all my hippy stuff as a collage on my walls;
I love my home, and I love what I have created.