Thinning fabric

We broke up the other day, I’m trying to pretend not to notice

Truth to tell we were never really together

I try to recall the times you’ve broken my heart

I’ve let them fade into the fabric of our story

Fabric worn thin by my worrying hands retracing patterns again and again

Trying to commit us to memory

I glance at your piece of our cloth, you’ve cut out bits of us, leaving patches in our truth

I wonder if you remember what it looked like before you erased us

Does your mind recall how beautiful we were?

Threads woven together bright and dark, hazy and shining

Like sun breaking through clouds after a raging storm

These days, you see only the storm, can only take in the chaos

Should your fingers try to retrace us, they’d find holes held together by trivial pieces of our memory

I still see us, breaking boldly through clouds

Weaving our story together with threads of tenderness, laughter and pain

How could you cut us apart?

I’ve kept my piece intact; fingers retrace our history at times lovingly, at times mournful

Feeling always where we’ve thinned out

Our fabric is worn, the time has come to put us away

Tracing patterns once more I fold us up and place us in my dresser, next to old faded sweatshirts of love gone by

What you choose to do with your fabric, I have no say

For my part, I’ll keep mine hidden and safe

Neatly folded and forgotten as we carry on the aimless game we play

We broke up the other day and today, the sun is hidden away

Skies are dark, dreary and grey, contented to stay that way

These Women…

I’m attracted to women the world says are broken.

They drink plenty of water, out of bottles and jugs. They’ve lived a hard life. Know what it takes to make themselves get up in the morning. I’m attracted to women who see their scars as blessings. Who fight daily to survive. To exist.

The world judges these women. Calls them reckless, lost. They’re not. They’re on a quest to find themselves, searching in cracks and crevices rarely visited by daylight. Turning over rocks and pawing through the damp, musky dirt, unearthing broken seeds, and crushed rotting leaves with insects dancing across them. These women sit and watch life, in all its forms. You’ll find them on bar stools and in alleyways staring at the stars, if they can find them though the din. Always watching, looking, a passive sort of quest.

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The world which was shown them was harsh and cruel, and attacked at such a young age that it forced them to retreat into themselves, crawl into the haven of their minds and close the door. Lock it shut with barricades of chairs and dressers and books. A haven from the world they were too young to escape, one which guides and weaves them through life as adults.

Adult children, refusing to grow up because they don’t want to become like their teachers. The ones that lied to them, and abused them. Misused them. The ones called safety. Family. Adults.

See, they have learned not to trust what they have been taught, because they have learned that the people who taught them cannot be trusted.

So they make their own rules, go by their own code of conduct. These women laugh the loudest, dance the biggest, love the hardest. I’m attracted to them and won’t never ever stop, because these women?

They are on a quest to find what it means to be alive.

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.