you believe me, don’t you?

Anger churns in my stomach

Rises, like bile, in my throat

I fight to push it down

So this is what alone feels like

No tethers, no warm bodies to press against

Be wrapped up into,

False words, false love

I love you so much,

You believe me don’t you?

Echoes in my mind

I did, and how foolish I was

The days tick away, 10, 9, 8…until we part

Until she can be free of me, continue on with her life

Unscathed, undaunted, and I’m left,

Strange coast, strange place,

Not a single familiar face,

This is what fear feels like

Last night, I fell asleep curled up into my bags,

I wrapped myself in a blanket and covered my face with my grandfather’s shirt

To feel safe, protected, a nest of my making, of things that cannot make promises and so

Are unable to disappoint, bags, clothes, books

I huddled against them and sobbed

Pain and panic pulsated from my body

Tiny bits of liberation, in the form of tears escaped me

I felt the weight of my solitude press against me

I told her I was angry with her yesterday

She didn’t sleep next to me

She has already started to leave

I’m not entirely certain she arrived here with me,

The distance is all that remains,

I’m not just going to leave you on your own,

You believe me, don’t you?

Time Heals

It is said that time heals all wounds.  A trite statement, to say the least, yet as time wears on, I find more and more truth hidden within its depths.  To say that time heals, is perhaps an oversimplification, let us say instead, time allows.  Time allows for things to move, for us to learn, grow, evaluate and evolve.

Today, I did a thing which I expected to rip me open, expected to tear the flesh from my breast and expose my beating, battered, heart.  I re-read an email I had received from a woman I used to love.  Or to be more precise, a woman onto whom I had projected ideals, and having done so, fell in love with who I perceived her to be.

We had a falling out.  To be more specific, I professed my bleeding, broken, baby queer love and was slapped down, like an upstart kid.  Rightfully so.  But fuck, did it hurt.  Like salt in a wound I throbbed.  My entire being throbbed with the pain of rejection, of confusion, of denial.

I raged against the idea that I could have possibly misunderstood the aspects of our relationship.  I raged against the thought that my perceptions, the lens through which I viewed my life and the people I let into it, could possibly have been clouded by the circumstances of my past, rather than the perceived reality of the present.

Thus, a period of discovery was entered.

I wrote and wrote, poem after poem, rant after rant, pages and pages and pages and pages of text. Of hurt, of pain, of longing, of lust.  I recounted, I recanted, I remembered, I misremembered, I raged. Months and months and months passed.  Years passed.

I do this thing, which my friend thinks is crazy; she thinks it is just begging to sink me into the deep, dark, depressions which are so often my truest lovers, my dearest friends:  I re-read my journals. Often. My pages and pages and pages of text.  I rip myself open again and again to see.  To see what can be seen.

And that is what I did.  I read and re-read and skipped some sections and went back and read those sections and became so infuriated with myself.  So sad about myself, because I had been – was still so lost and deluded and sad.

I had projected so much onto this person, this woman.  She was never who I thought she was.  Nor was I ever who she thought I was.  We were merely sets of ideas and experiences and thoughts and emotions coming together and drifting apart and coming together and drifting apart until the drifting was all that was left.

She told me this thing, which has stuck with me, to this day…so many days later, she said “I am not who you think I am.”  I didn’t understand what she meant.  It took me years of writing and reading and knowing myself to understand, a bit, of what she was saying.  I didn’t see her. I couldn’t see her.  I was looking through glasses which were so thick and hazy that I couldn’t even see myself.

Until I ripped myself open.  Until I let the wound bleed.  Let it fester and sore and puss and run and dry and crack and heal.  I looked into myself.  I sat in silence and knew myself.

Parts of me were hard to know.

Parts of me screamed in pain and anger and pain and anger and rage and pain and anger and rage and hurt and betrayal. But I began to see myself.  I read and re-read my writing and I ripped myself open and I discovered something.  Something beautiful and surprising.  I saw the distance.  Saw where I began, and how hazy and clouded and dripping with pain and trauma my perception was.  I saw how I had been conditioned, opened up, made ready to be broken.  And I was broken.

But I learned about myself, and learned how to begin to love myself and learned how to love others well and true.  Or begin to.

I retraced my steps.  Listened to music I loved when I was younger, watched television shows, read books, read essays.  Delved deep down into the psyche of my past self and wandered through the corridors of my mind.  Walked and walked and walked until I arrived at that moment.  When my beating, bruised heart was broken and went further.  I walked until I met myself.

And I did the thing.  I did what I thought would break me, what I had been so averted to for so long, I re-read the e-mail she sent me.  The e-mail that deluded me.  That I clung to with some distant, tenuous thread in the farthest reaches of my subconscious.

I was not averted.

My vision was clear.  The haze which had clouded my view for so long had lifted and I thought to be angry.  Thought to rage at myself for clinging so long to someone and something that was never meant to be mine.  Then I realized that had I not, I would not have the perspective that I have today.  Would not have been ripped open and so would not have written and written and read and re-read and arrived here.  I would be elsewhere.  Still battered, and bleeding and broken.

Shattered.

Because I did, I am mending, healing.  Learning and evolving and no, time may not, perhaps can not heal all wounds, but it certainly allows. That is a lesson worth ripping myself open for again and again and again. It is a lesson I will never tire of learning.

Tell Me More

I remember kissing you,

Rolling over and pulling your body into mine

Inhaling the musky, earthy scent of you.

Somehow, I worked up the courage to

Look into your eyes and you,

Lovely you,

Gazed back, unflinching, unmoving.

Tentatively, I ran my fingers through your hair,

I touched each strand,  and let them fall through,

Weave themselves around my fingers and watched

In wonder as your eyes drifted slowly closed,

Contented.

Your smile sent warmth directly to my soul

I lived to see that smile tug at the corners of  your mouth,

Watched as your lips ordered me to kiss them,

Swooned while your eyes begged me to love them,

Wrapping my arms around your body

I buried my face in your neck and felt

You open to me, welcome me.

You spoke to me in the language of my heart

A language I had thought only I understood

But that first night, I looked into your eyes and

From the moment our lips touched

You spoke to me, fluent and clear,

Whispered your understanding,

And I heard my heart say,

Tell me more.

Mystery

She wants to know why I can’t talk to her.  How do I explain to her that my mouth is full of cotton, she asks me questions and I spit out fibers in place of words.  She is filled with brilliance. It drips from her lips every time they part.  How do I explain to her that I ache for genius to flow from my being.  I want nothing more than for her to look at me and see a reflection of herself shining through.  She is my highest reverence. I am of little or no consequence to her, and that fact makes my heart ache.

She tells me that she doesn’t understand my behavior.  Doesn’t understand why I say the things I say.  How do I articulate my insecurities?  How do I map out the ways in which I overcompensate for the areas I come up lacking?  That is where my behavior stems from. That is why I do the things I do, but that is not answer enough, doesn’t spell out the ways I let her down, let myself down.

Chasing the Moon

– I chased the moon last night.

What does that mean ?

– I don’t know, I left your house and walked toward home. I found myself running down a street I hadn’t been on before.  I caught glimpses of the moon behind houses.  It was large and orange, just over half full, shrouded in clouds – calling to me.

Did you catch it ?

– Sort of.  I made it to the prom, kicked off my shoes and let my toes feel the wet grass. I walked along the hill and held the ocean in my gaze.  The moon cast a shimmering glow on the water and I took it in. It was perfect.  The moon and me.

Moonchild chasing the moon, I’d expect nothing less.