The shadow of what we had haunts me.
I remember you, and how you'd hold me.
Always keeping me safe.
Reminding me in all of the little ways, that I was too naive to notice, that I was loved.
I ache to make you understand how sorry I am for breaking you.
For breaking us both.
I don't regret leaving.
I regret that it cost me you because I crave you in a million ways.
You don't need me, you learned that lesson, grew stronger.
But I still wish you could see in side my heart.
The memories I cherish,
The way I view you,
And the happiness I feel at being your friend.
If you only knew, you'd never doubt yourself again.
It'd be an Irreplaceable gift.
Like the one you gave me.
Of being my first love.
1. I am difficult to love, with impossibly high walls, but I am worth it.
2. Being a mother will always be my first priority. Love me as a mom. Love my kid, he is worth it too.
3. I won't give out chances like candy. Life is too short to be miserable questioning someone's honesty. And I'll pick my own happiness over you every time.
4. Don't be afraid to talk to me about how you're feeling. I can tell when I'm being shut out, and I don't like it.
5. I am here to enhance your happiness. Not make you happy, or save you.
6. My insecurities don't define who I am, but they do haunt me. I need you to respect that.
7. I am damaged. But I don't need you to fix me. Be gentle with me while I fix myself.
8. I'm scared of how you'll hurt me, and that makes my walls extra high.
9. I won't need you. But I will want you. If I am with you, it's because you enhance my happiness and I want to create a life with you. But I will never allow myself to need another person again.
10. Show me what you're passionate about. I fall in love with passion.
Try as I may, I never seem to learn.
My mistakes return to haunt me.
Reminders that I'm still not good enough.
They stand before me with judgement in their eyes:
"You're the reason no one stays. "
It hurts and angers me that I can't let them go.
They carry the faces of the ones I love.
The ones I've lost, and who haven't left yet.
I know one day they will.
I only have so long to love them, before they dissappear.
One day I'll be completely alone.
An island of my own making.
Will I even feel pain by then?
Will their words even ache my soul?
Their angry eyes, able to shatter my heart?
Maybe I'll be a rock, withstanding the ravages.
More than likely I'll be a puddle.
A fresh start is never possible when the past comes back at will.
Maybe one day I'll learn.
I know I'm not the only one, who regrets the things they've done.
But sometimes, it feels like it's only me, who hates their face in the mirror.
I never became who I thought I'd be.
I'm still trying to love myself as unconditionally as everyone else.
Build me up and I fall apart.
This heaviness in my heart a constant companion.
Waiting to remind me, that try as I may, I never seem to learn.
Not all of my scars can be seen.
But close your eyes and you can feel them.
They pulse like rain under my skin.
Haunting my bones and all of the lovely corners of my memories.
I'm staring at a thousand little pieces,
each one is needed.
How to make them whole again?
I no longer know if I am worth rebuilding this time.
Looking ahead, and all I see are lack luster efforts of starting over.
Walls are either falling a part or getting thicker.
How do I let go without losing myself?
My life lays smoldering in front of me,
leaving behind more scars for me to try and explain away.
A haunting ache that trails behind me always.
Not all of my scars can be seen.
Some pale in comparison to the big gaping holes that never heal.
But I know them all.
They pulse like rain under my skin.
An attempt to feel alive.
An attempt to feel.
A luxury I can no longer afford.
Not all of my scars can be seen.
I never counted the cost to myself, of what it meant to stay.
Continuously trapping myself in a cycle of pain.
I was too busy trying to convince you I was worth staying around for.
I never stopped to wonder if you were worth it.
So willing to pay any cost, no thought to my own needs.
I bought every word you read me with pleasure.
Begging for more, not caring if the script was believable.
The result was that I got so caught up trying to save you,
That I lost myself.
I existed invisibly.
Eventually even you stopped noticing me.
And you didn't stay.
I sacrificed everything.
And then you broke the last of me as you walked away.
Now that I've swept up the last of the mess you made,
All I can see,
Is that you were never worth me.
I'm glad I didn't stay, waiting on a soul who was never here to begin with.
My checkered past has made me who I am. It has made me more interesting, possibly more appealing.
It has given me my unfathomable depths; full of mysteries that have yet to be fully revealed, even to myself.
So, I have no desire to take find a man who is flawless, who has no baggage, because I always want to know, what living have they done?
What have they experimented with?
What have they failed at?
What risks has their heart taken?
Instead, I know that I want someone who is messy, dirty and not at all perfect; someone who understands my wild impetuous gaze and who would never mind getting down and dirty with me.
So I simply ask any potential future to bring it; all that which is stained and imperfect.
Bring me deep scars and epic battle wounds.
I want his untold secrets, with enough baggage to fill a cab headed out west into the blazing setting sun. I dream that his stories will keep us awake late into the night—the meanderings of “Oh, I should have never….” and “I wish I had known…” while I am anchored against his side, his strong hand tracing the shadows of the burning fire against my bare hip next to his while we travel the darkened allies of his past together.
Bring me grit.
His most buried mistakes, especially those that he shakes his head in disbelief and still physically cringes at. I want to see not the man that most of the world sees, but the one whose good intentions are stitched together with hope, mistakes and maybe a little bit of glistening luck. I will believe in the part of him that questions life on a daily basis, but will still rise with the sun and try even harder tomorrow. I want to see the side of him that he’s put effort into hiding; into disguising as someone that actually walks the line.
Bring me a calloused heart and skepticism.
All of it; unlock that tightly woven chain and let it all out. His heartbreak and pain; tears falling, staining my skin, tasting of warm Jameson and a loss so deep it still leaves ripples upon the surface. Memories that bring him to his knees on the dusty road, and that faraway look when he drifts off to that other time…that other place…the one that is filled with the handfuls of things that he wished he had gotten to do, the sunrises he wished he had seen, and the kisses he wished he had taken advantage of.
Bring me honesty.
Truth is but a deception according to perception; instead I will ask him to drop the act and lay it down like he never has before. Misconceptions and fears don’t matter much to me, and neither does what may have come before this moment. I hope he has made a million bitter mistakes; I hope he’s been hurt and I hope he’s done the hurting. I hope he’s been so wild, he thought he’d never be tamed (because he probably won’t be).
I hope he danced along the edge one too many times, and I want to hear it all. Every crazy story, every mistake, every regret; because I too have a woven basket full of the “I wish it had been different,” but yet I will understand that every single thing that has happened on our separate journeys will have made us who we are in this moment, and I wouldn’t want to change a thing about it.
Bring me real.
Bad days, and long nights; his morning stubble against my soft skin, his strong confident hands, and the deep kisses that will make my knees weak. Life unscripted; unglorified. If he and I have been doing it right, we will have a collection of experiences and memories that make up the story of who we are. He and I may have pain, fears, even trepidation; the key to all of that will be the ability to have learned from where we have been so that we can determine where we want to go.
I don’t just want messy, and dirty, but the knowledge and intelligence to find the meaning in all of it. I want real; the ability to admit mistakes or to be able to say that there is no such thing, if we were able to learn from it. I want uncomfortable honesty that will make me shake down to my bones, because I’ve had enough skipping through shallow puddles to last a lifetime.
It’s ironic that the very parts of myself that I’ve gone to great lengths to disguise end up being the very same qualities that others fall in love with. I am intense; crazy at times, complicated at others; honest and loyal to a fault. My bare feet are often dirty, my messy hair smelling like sunshine; dreaming far too much, and speaking from my heart probably more than I should.
I’m about as messy and imperfect as they come.
So bring it. All of it.
All I will ask of him is to bring me his messy, dirty imperfections; his scraped knuckles and his good intentions.
To just bring it.
Have you ever received a compliment that you don't feel as though you deserve? I get told I'm brave. I hear that one often actually.
1. I'm brave because I left home at a young age and took care of myself.
2. I'm brave because I live 2000 miles away from my family.
3. I'm brave to have stayed married to a liar and cheater for 12 years.
4. I am brave to be a single mom.
5. I'm brave to travel across the country with only my Son.
6. I'm brave to run races alone.
None of these things depict bravery in my mind. To me, a brave person is someone who sees danger coming, and faces it. I am just a survivor. I cope with the difficulties life throws. But I rarely see them coming. I just survive day by day. Baby steps.
I know, for me, what it would mean to be brave. And I have not done it.
I doubt a kiss can predict the future, but if our lips should meet I'm sure I'll taste the next chapter of my life.
I know that people aren't medicine, but when we talk, I can forget I'm sick.
I've been warned not to write of a new love, but when my pen touches this book, my words find a way out as though they've been imprisoned.
I don't know if I believe in soul mates, but I have faith my head will rest comfortably on your chest.
After all the time I spent dancing out of tune with another heart, it's you who will help me find the rhythm again.
And I should tell you.... I should.
Wood. Tea. Cars. Water. Dogs. Books. Spoons. Cushions. Socks. Rain. Toast. Wind chimes. Children. Everything has a connection to you. The way you might feel about something, how you might look at something, what you might say to someone... You are everywhere. As if my mind was not consumed enough by you, your essence is everywhere outside of me too. When I say I miss you, what I mean is, I stare.
I catch myself after a minute or two and am never quite sure what I was thinking about. But I know it was you. Maybe it wasn’t even a thought. Just a feeling.
I look forward to your eyes seeing mine. Clear, easy love with none of the torturous thoughts that once barraged my mind. I look forward to me not caring about the negative, harmful things I have cared so much about. And I look forward to being able to love you, just as you are, with all of me. No hiding, no denying, no judgement, no fear. I look forward to us.
When I say “I love you,” I mean I trust you. I respect you. I admire you. I adore you. When I say “I love you,” I mean my life is better with you in it. I’m a better woman because of you. And the more I come to know you, the more I want to know. I miss you when you’re not around. I’m grateful for every moment we’re together.
When I say “I love you,” I mean I want to be the one you turn to when you’re hurting. I want to be the one who listens. I want to hold you in my arms. I want to take care of you. I want to give you something to stand on in this crazy, constantly changing world.
I want to wake up next to you in the morning. I want you beside me when I close my eyes at night. In a universe of infinite possibilities, on a planet of seven billion human beings, I want only you.
I love you. And not a day goes by that I don’t tell you.
But the silent poetry that throbs in my chest cannot be uttered in three little words—or 3,000 for that matter. Whenever I try to describe the way I feel for you, every word seems trite and hollow; the whole English language insufficient. Because how do I explain a feeling that encompasses every piece of me?
And I don't know what I'm seeing.
All of a sudden my dreams seem perpendicular.
The world can't hold me in.
You have a dark edge that calls to the predator in me.
Maybe I'll let it consume me.
Revel in it.
Or walk that fine glittering line that defines the darkness and the light.
My imagination tires of wandering the world for my amusement.
I'll paint my eyes in shining golds.
All the better to catch the sun with.
Make her whisper all the secrets that lay within her folds.
Then scatter them like ashes on the wind.
Laugh in the face of her tears.
Because I can.
Because it gives me a false sense of power,
and falling through the floor feels so much better when it hurts the most.
I could give myself to you, inspire my imagination for a night.
But it's so cliche.
I'm so much more mysterious when I walk alone.
I can pretend that you can't read me like sheet music played down my spine.
"So I will hum alone, too far from you.
All that I say now is nothing to you.
We will lie under different stars.
I am where I am and you're where you are, you're where you are."
Different Stars -Trespassers William
The way my hair curls and frizzes and becomes a tangled nest by morning's arrival?
How I lay in bed each morning, stretching like a cat in the sun, until I'm awake enough to get up for coffee?
The scars and tattoos, cutting in and out of my body, describing my life?
How about when I'm book hungover?
Or when the urge to discuss a medical journal is bursting out of me? (Would you fall in love with way my eyes light up and I talk too fast while I'm desperately trying to learn and explain it all?)
Would you think of me as a flame or a hurricane?
Would you love how my house stays cold so we can cuddle under the myriads of blankets?
If I asked you to build a doll house with me, would you be thrilled or annoyed? Would you love that time we spent together, or would it be a placation?
Would my love of hiking, pink, nature, sweet tea, writing, learning, animals, cleaning, singing, flowers, and making love, be too much of a contradiction for you to want to stay?
Or would these little silly things be what makes me matter?
I'm just a silly little bit of whimsy. Looking for a safe harbour.