"Letting it wash away what little I had left of myself..."
Most of the time I'm only scared that the I love you's will one day get so worn that I can see through them to the end.
Most of the time we can talk in our own voices, our own words, but there's so much history and weight behind the feelings and the motions we're going through that the sounds that come from my mouth are thick with other people's lives. I do not want the meaning of my words to get lost among all the things you're supposed to say after you get it on, but by that time I'm so dizzy and at a loss for air, that anything other than 'you're perfect' or
'I don't know what I'd do without you' escapes me. I like it though, when you tell me about how this was meant to be, because there's no way it would work otherwise. When we are lying in bed talking about the chapters of our lives before this, and we're both opening up to each other, I don't feel that heaviness, that compulsion to read lines from someone else's script. When I can feel myself wanting to cry inside all I want to do is curl against your stomach and let everything that's happened wash away. You crush me against your chest and tell me how sorry you are, how you can't believe that this is so good. Then, I can see the shape of what needs to be said to pry the windows open more and more, all the beautiful things I could say to you; but my throat gets so tight that those thoughts are left suspended and all I can show you is how we were made to kiss each other.
I tell you by the way I touch your hands, your neck and I know that is enough. I can feel your heart beat against my back and I know that I am making the right decisions… but something hits me inside when it’s all over
i spilled kisses into your palms like an offering, i felt the creases in your skin
tonight I’m all parts rape and grief, the abandoned girl whose boyfriend has bloodshot eyes. tonight I’m all parts bitterness and regret because i had "no film and the lighting was perfect". Always I’m all parts emptiness and sweetness, waiting on a phone call or an apology that never comes.
I’m sadder than one glove laying on the snowy ground, I’m witnessing my own slow downfall and I don't even love my own name enough to sign the love suicide note.
I feel so small sometimes, sipping on juice, barely able to eat, my skin so white with this mother-of-pearl sheen to it. My eyes are coal. and I feel so loved and cared for, and the strong ties of a relationship again- and somehow weakened by it all, though not diminished; just overwhelmed. Like I’ve spent so long standing in the shallows jumping waves, but here I am caught in the riptide and it’s beautiful and incomprehensible.
i don't know how to handle myself. mercurial, volatile. i am not an easy person to live with, even at my calmest. i never know how to thank him enough. symbolic gifts and a home made dinner. all i could say was I LOVE YOU.
the nights are quiet, all whisper and wet kisses, sweaty palms and a lot of "i love you" over and over and over, like having to say it again and again after temporary lapses in memory
There is a remarkable difference between his body, the way it curls & curves & stretches & fails to stretch properly. The way it fucks up & matches your chips & sobs into sleeves worn out by someone else's arms. This body & the thousand-&-four ways it can show you all the thrill & thrash & tumult caught up somewhere inside. There is such a remarkable difference between this & me. Even that isn't right.
But when we sit side-by-side or not even, sharing a glass of water or not even, we don't have to speak to understand each other. There are no subtitles or clues hidden in the ceiling cracks. It is at these times that I feel you exist in this space of mine silences that make the most sense out of everything.
I thought about my sadness as such a perpetual thing for so long.And there is it's own fractured kind of beauty in being wrapped and soothed by that hurt. Hurt of abuse from my drunk friend knocking me to the ground at a party in front of all my friends when I was growing up, fear of the dark where my house got robbed and my dad fought a guy with a gun... the gun shoots still ring in my head from time to time, stoned boyfriends and desperate loneliness of always needing someone, but it was only beautiful because every once in awhile someone would fall in love with me and need ME. Eventually I learned how to breathe in that state and I forgot my face, my hands, woke up in the early afternoon and wondered how my life had gotten that way. I'd sit on my roof through freshman year of high school with a bottle of vodka that I stole from my parents and try to pick out the stars when they were blocked by the ambient light and tall trees around my house. The only time I could ever see them was if I ran out into the street and stared hard at the dome of the sky where the muddy brown darkened just a little.
I have seen a lot of different kinds of hurt. Almost every girl I've been friends with the last few years was sexually assaulted before. My mother has had to deal with my sister dying which I’ve only talked to one person about to this day. The few days I was in a shelter home I met a little boy who was there because his parents didn't take care of him. We were rolling a ball back and forth on the floor and he looked up at me, and told me that "if you didn't feed your kids they'll get taken away"; so I carried him on my hip and read him bedtime stories, and burrowed into my ratty bunk to cry when he asked me to be his mother. Sometimes I have dreams that I go back there and adopt him.
I lived in a fucking car growing up... sure my life is "perfect" but no one wants to fucking think about what I went through...
no one knows...
I think as much as I might have told some of my ex boyfriends I've never really told everyone EVERYTHING...
I think they wouldn't love me the same if they knew... I like that they "admire" me... and I wouldn't change that image they've created of me for anything.
A lot of times when I think about these things I wonder how this was my life.
I think about my sadness as something that is still present, but I'm not longer pressed inside it. It blinds me every so often when we are lying in his bed and I think I'll be split in half by it. I get scared of the past that he'll leave, that I'll leave, that gradually I will stop loving him like I do now. But then I focus on his hands on my back, how quiet his voice can be, and I am lulled by it. I always thought giving myself in any way to someone would make me less of the person I want to be, to rely on someone to hold me up when I couldn't do it on my own. I don't think I have abandoned myself by swallowing him and letting the sunlight move through me, perpetually. And occasionally I won't recognize my life, my face, my voice, but it's for better reasons.
Today I cried on my way home … I’m not quite sure why but he forces me to think about life… every aspect of it- he brings out memories I want left buried inside of me. I feel worn from last night… completely and utterly appalled and horror-struck with myself and my actions. Last night I wanted to vomit because I felt so sickened by the person I've allowed myself to become. I stood out of my car and ran into the shower, letting it wash away the weariness, the enormity of the night’s events- letting it cleanse what little I had left of myself.
God I fuckin love him
Most of the time we can talk in our own voices, our own words, but there's so much history and weight behind the feelings and the motions we're going through that the sounds that come from my mouth are thick with other people's lives. I do not want the meaning of my words to get lost among all the things you're supposed to say after you get it on, but by that time I'm so dizzy and at a loss for air, that anything other than 'you're perfect' or
'I don't know what I'd do without you' escapes me. I like it though, when you tell me about how this was meant to be, because there's no way it would work otherwise. When we are lying in bed talking about the chapters of our lives before this, and we're both opening up to each other, I don't feel that heaviness, that compulsion to read lines from someone else's script. When I can feel myself wanting to cry inside all I want to do is curl against your stomach and let everything that's happened wash away. You crush me against your chest and tell me how sorry you are, how you can't believe that this is so good. Then, I can see the shape of what needs to be said to pry the windows open more and more, all the beautiful things I could say to you; but my throat gets so tight that those thoughts are left suspended and all I can show you is how we were made to kiss each other.
I tell you by the way I touch your hands, your neck and I know that is enough. I can feel your heart beat against my back and I know that I am making the right decisions… but something hits me inside when it’s all over
i spilled kisses into your palms like an offering, i felt the creases in your skin
tonight I’m all parts rape and grief, the abandoned girl whose boyfriend has bloodshot eyes. tonight I’m all parts bitterness and regret because i had "no film and the lighting was perfect". Always I’m all parts emptiness and sweetness, waiting on a phone call or an apology that never comes.
I’m sadder than one glove laying on the snowy ground, I’m witnessing my own slow downfall and I don't even love my own name enough to sign the love suicide note.
I feel so small sometimes, sipping on juice, barely able to eat, my skin so white with this mother-of-pearl sheen to it. My eyes are coal. and I feel so loved and cared for, and the strong ties of a relationship again- and somehow weakened by it all, though not diminished; just overwhelmed. Like I’ve spent so long standing in the shallows jumping waves, but here I am caught in the riptide and it’s beautiful and incomprehensible.
i don't know how to handle myself. mercurial, volatile. i am not an easy person to live with, even at my calmest. i never know how to thank him enough. symbolic gifts and a home made dinner. all i could say was I LOVE YOU.
the nights are quiet, all whisper and wet kisses, sweaty palms and a lot of "i love you" over and over and over, like having to say it again and again after temporary lapses in memory
There is a remarkable difference between his body, the way it curls & curves & stretches & fails to stretch properly. The way it fucks up & matches your chips & sobs into sleeves worn out by someone else's arms. This body & the thousand-&-four ways it can show you all the thrill & thrash & tumult caught up somewhere inside. There is such a remarkable difference between this & me. Even that isn't right.
But when we sit side-by-side or not even, sharing a glass of water or not even, we don't have to speak to understand each other. There are no subtitles or clues hidden in the ceiling cracks. It is at these times that I feel you exist in this space of mine silences that make the most sense out of everything.
I thought about my sadness as such a perpetual thing for so long.And there is it's own fractured kind of beauty in being wrapped and soothed by that hurt. Hurt of abuse from my drunk friend knocking me to the ground at a party in front of all my friends when I was growing up, fear of the dark where my house got robbed and my dad fought a guy with a gun... the gun shoots still ring in my head from time to time, stoned boyfriends and desperate loneliness of always needing someone, but it was only beautiful because every once in awhile someone would fall in love with me and need ME. Eventually I learned how to breathe in that state and I forgot my face, my hands, woke up in the early afternoon and wondered how my life had gotten that way. I'd sit on my roof through freshman year of high school with a bottle of vodka that I stole from my parents and try to pick out the stars when they were blocked by the ambient light and tall trees around my house. The only time I could ever see them was if I ran out into the street and stared hard at the dome of the sky where the muddy brown darkened just a little.
I have seen a lot of different kinds of hurt. Almost every girl I've been friends with the last few years was sexually assaulted before. My mother has had to deal with my sister dying which I’ve only talked to one person about to this day. The few days I was in a shelter home I met a little boy who was there because his parents didn't take care of him. We were rolling a ball back and forth on the floor and he looked up at me, and told me that "if you didn't feed your kids they'll get taken away"; so I carried him on my hip and read him bedtime stories, and burrowed into my ratty bunk to cry when he asked me to be his mother. Sometimes I have dreams that I go back there and adopt him.
I lived in a fucking car growing up... sure my life is "perfect" but no one wants to fucking think about what I went through...
no one knows...
I think as much as I might have told some of my ex boyfriends I've never really told everyone EVERYTHING...
I think they wouldn't love me the same if they knew... I like that they "admire" me... and I wouldn't change that image they've created of me for anything.
A lot of times when I think about these things I wonder how this was my life.
I think about my sadness as something that is still present, but I'm not longer pressed inside it. It blinds me every so often when we are lying in his bed and I think I'll be split in half by it. I get scared of the past that he'll leave, that I'll leave, that gradually I will stop loving him like I do now. But then I focus on his hands on my back, how quiet his voice can be, and I am lulled by it. I always thought giving myself in any way to someone would make me less of the person I want to be, to rely on someone to hold me up when I couldn't do it on my own. I don't think I have abandoned myself by swallowing him and letting the sunlight move through me, perpetually. And occasionally I won't recognize my life, my face, my voice, but it's for better reasons.
Today I cried on my way home … I’m not quite sure why but he forces me to think about life… every aspect of it- he brings out memories I want left buried inside of me. I feel worn from last night… completely and utterly appalled and horror-struck with myself and my actions. Last night I wanted to vomit because I felt so sickened by the person I've allowed myself to become. I stood out of my car and ran into the shower, letting it wash away the weariness, the enormity of the night’s events- letting it cleanse what little I had left of myself.
God I fuckin love him