hard things
on the way home i think about love, and how i want to come home to you.
on the way home i think about getting to know your shoulders. reacquainting my lips with your clavicles. memorizing the skin over your heartbeat. i think about looking into your eyes. and not looking. about the way you press your fingertips into me. and the way you don't.
on the way home i think about limitations, and words like grandiose, idealistic, impulsive, and regret.
the way, if one perspective rules you, an hour can seem like a week and a week can seem like a year sometimes. then i think about need, and i judge myself for having it. and then i think about changing perspectives. still thinking everything...
on the way home i have stories banging against the inside of my head. stories about children watching disney's version of romance and stories that others have been telling me. and their stories are more than that simple damsel and her prince. and i don't know where to put it.
fairy tales are for the lucky ones, i think. and i hope i'm one of them. i think and hope and think and the reality of days strikes me, stares me dead in the face. i want idealism, but i've got stories to tell... and none of them lend themselves to that word. not any of them.
so here goes...
i've got a friend who loves her husband. and he loves her. and they are middle aged and happy together. and i haven't seen that in ages. and two years ago a man who was jealous chased the two of them down in his car while they were walking home, his intention was harm. my friend's husband pushed her out of the way, and was run over, and died. just like that. and two years later his clothes are still in all the drawers, and she still waits for him to jump into the shower with her, everyday. she still thinks he's coming home....
i've got a friend who talks loud. she is angry, and defensive, and insecure. she takes handfuls of medications to help her anxiety, stabilize her moods, calm her aggressive nature. she's been arrested before for assault, more than once, and she is trying to desperately to help herself. when she talks, she has trouble listening, but she wants to. and when she's done blowing off steam, over her second cigarette she sits there and cries. and she's lost, and her battle is all uphill, and she doesn't know what to do, and i rub her neck sometimes so she can relax.
today a stranger opened up to me. she told me she thinks her husband his cheating. and she cried. she has two children and she loves him. but he wont even share a bed with her. she is nearly 40, and he is depressed. and i see how having choices doesn't make a situation any better. to separate, or suffer...
i've got a friend across the country who doesn't think she'll make it back to the east. she left the mental hospital early, "against doctor's orders," and is too sad to even speak. i said, what next. and she said she wants to die. and i wonder if this is why she'll never make it out this way again. somewhere in there is a heart so bruised its faking apathy. and things go silent...
on the way home i want to pretend like the world is full of happiness.... like the love or the need or the passion we feel drives us to do grandiose, idealistic things.
on the way home all my daydreams are just daydreams.
the reality is, im lucky to be anywhere right now, with myself, with anyone at all.
i am lucky.
i dont know...
on the way home i think about getting to know your shoulders. reacquainting my lips with your clavicles. memorizing the skin over your heartbeat. i think about looking into your eyes. and not looking. about the way you press your fingertips into me. and the way you don't.
on the way home i think about limitations, and words like grandiose, idealistic, impulsive, and regret.
the way, if one perspective rules you, an hour can seem like a week and a week can seem like a year sometimes. then i think about need, and i judge myself for having it. and then i think about changing perspectives. still thinking everything...
on the way home i have stories banging against the inside of my head. stories about children watching disney's version of romance and stories that others have been telling me. and their stories are more than that simple damsel and her prince. and i don't know where to put it.
fairy tales are for the lucky ones, i think. and i hope i'm one of them. i think and hope and think and the reality of days strikes me, stares me dead in the face. i want idealism, but i've got stories to tell... and none of them lend themselves to that word. not any of them.
so here goes...
i've got a friend who loves her husband. and he loves her. and they are middle aged and happy together. and i haven't seen that in ages. and two years ago a man who was jealous chased the two of them down in his car while they were walking home, his intention was harm. my friend's husband pushed her out of the way, and was run over, and died. just like that. and two years later his clothes are still in all the drawers, and she still waits for him to jump into the shower with her, everyday. she still thinks he's coming home....
i've got a friend who talks loud. she is angry, and defensive, and insecure. she takes handfuls of medications to help her anxiety, stabilize her moods, calm her aggressive nature. she's been arrested before for assault, more than once, and she is trying to desperately to help herself. when she talks, she has trouble listening, but she wants to. and when she's done blowing off steam, over her second cigarette she sits there and cries. and she's lost, and her battle is all uphill, and she doesn't know what to do, and i rub her neck sometimes so she can relax.
today a stranger opened up to me. she told me she thinks her husband his cheating. and she cried. she has two children and she loves him. but he wont even share a bed with her. she is nearly 40, and he is depressed. and i see how having choices doesn't make a situation any better. to separate, or suffer...
i've got a friend across the country who doesn't think she'll make it back to the east. she left the mental hospital early, "against doctor's orders," and is too sad to even speak. i said, what next. and she said she wants to die. and i wonder if this is why she'll never make it out this way again. somewhere in there is a heart so bruised its faking apathy. and things go silent...
on the way home i want to pretend like the world is full of happiness.... like the love or the need or the passion we feel drives us to do grandiose, idealistic things.
on the way home all my daydreams are just daydreams.
the reality is, im lucky to be anywhere right now, with myself, with anyone at all.
i am lucky.
i dont know...