Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Take the Box

It all goes in the box.

The particular cadence of my name on his tongue. All the years of inside jokes and the steady stream of laughter. The signature curvature of his smile. The music we once traded across the distance. The way he likes his eggs.

It all goes in the box.

The comfortable tangle of my legs around his and his fingers and lips marking large swaths of territory across my bare skin. The dive of his voice after 2am or too many Makers Marks or both. The hours of people watching. And the beer he likes. The songs I've sung. The desire to take up years long study of the majesty of his skin. Pages of prose I wrote because I couldn't say. The hours of dreaming about what a life with him could have been. The messages laced with innuendo. The feelings sheathed in words less intense. The small things I let myself hope in the wee, small hours of the morning. 
The hope at all, really.

That all goes in.

This is where I excel; the leaving. The packing away of the remnants of monuments I did not build to lovers I did not keep. I am good at this. I am efficient at the clean up; clearing the space without scorching the earth. That took me years to learn. I am fluent in the languages of walking away; the ways you can bring ending with kindness and grace if they are so earned. I know when I need to leave, be it because I'm ready to go, because I want to flee, or because I am not welcome. It's an instinct; I've already started to protectively withdraw into myself long before my head catches up to what's happening. I am adept at packing neat boxes of memories and storing them in the attic of my mind, way back in the back behind all the other things I actually need. I let go. I am good at this.

The way he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking. The winding conversations shared in quiet confessionals when we were both brave enough to shed our armor. The weight of his body on mine, the exquisite tug of my hair wrapped tight like a rein across his palms. The places we could go. The tears we couldn't hold on to. The Butterflies. 

It all goes in the box.

I can do this. I am good at this. I know when I have to go. When I've reached my limit. When it's not gonna work. When I am not wanted. I am good at leaving.

But I don't want to be good at it anymore. 

Tuesday, February 18, 2014


Something is missing.

This is my last thought before I go to sleep. It hangs over the bed, turning the air around it crisp and cool. I toss and turn underneath it all night.

Something is missing.

This is my first thought when I wake up in the morning. My eyelashes have barely left their perch atop my cheeks before the thought rises over the horizon of my brain, sending signals to my limbs to look for this something. My feet hit the carpet and I push the thought away, stumbling to the bathroom, brushing my teeth and splashing my face with water. I have too much to do today.

It stays with me. This thought, this feeling. It feels like a muscle memory, like when you forget to put your watch on in the morning and spend all day looking at the empty spot where your watch should be. I can't put my finger on it, but I feel vaguely unsettled all day, productive but removed, my mind pinging and taking inventory; did I forget to do something? Did I take out food for dinner? Run all my errands? Did I drop the ball on a project at work? Did I lose something?

The day is brutal. I stagger home long after the sun has gone down, exhausted and heavy. After I lock the door behind me, I stand in the middle of my living room looking around and hoping something will catch my eye that will tell me why I feel so unsettled. I come up with nothing. I decide the only thing that can fix this is wine.

I open the fridge, the frigid air settling over my face, and inside is the answer so clear I can't believe I didn't see it before.

His beer is in my fridge. His cereal in my cabinet. His towel on the rod in my bathroom. There’s red, heart shaped balloons kissing the ceiling in my living room. His scent still on my sheets. Instinctively I touch my lips- the last place he touched me- and his taste is long gone. I look down at my hands, having spent days lazily intertwined with his, now empty.

I close the fridge. I leave a trail of clothes from the kitchen to the bedroom, lifting the covers and tucking myself underneath them in one smooth motion. I settle in, the scent of us commingled settling around me like a hug. I inhale deeply, knowing I should get up and change them but not having it in me to do it just yet.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll clean this up.

Tonight I settle into a restless sleep, my body refusing to even roll over to the other side of the bed closest to the window.

Something is missing, I think before exhaustion finally overtakes me.

As always, it's him.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014


As a child, I attended an exclusive private school in a tony suburb of my hometown. There wasn’t much about it I loved. I was one of the single digit population of brown people in a lily white sea of affluence I was entirely unfamiliar with. And a clumsy brown girl with unruly curls, (too black for the black kids trying desperately to be less black and therefore less threatening, not well off enough to for color to not be an issue) there weren’t many places of refuge.

The silver lining was the days my grandma's sky blue Bonneville would inch down the carpool driveway, knowing that her being there meant I'd get to hang out with her until it was time for my daddy to pick me up for his visitation weekend.

We'd sing (or more accurately she'd sing and I'd giggle), her voice full and lovely with just a twinge of smokiness from the cigarettes she smoked. There was a silly song about a bee. And one about a bunny. She'd buy me a coke and weather my insistent questions with patience and humor.

I don't remember when or why she stopped, but I do remember missing her, even as it felt like a betrayal to my mama, to my maternal grandmother, to admit it.

I was in college before I really came to understand what a force my grandma was. A whip smart, steel eyed touchstone that raised five kids after her husband died too young while still managing to build a successful, meaningful career. She is lovely and crass, a combination we both share, and profoundly generous; a trait she has leaned into and I have built fortresses around after the jagged edges of life necessitated it.

My grandma has been retired for all the years I've been alive and the running joke became a kind of game of “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?” On the rare occasion I came home from school, I was never sure I'd see her, as she spent the vast majority of her time on a plane to somewhere, more than likely to a casino not in the city where we lived. She spent almost thirty years the way you hope you get to spend retirement; traveling and indulging her whims, from gambling her money to painting her nails bright pink. When people shared tales of their aging grandparents- the ebbing sharpness, their losing their ability to see and hear and drive and live alone, eventually moved into a basement bedroom or shuffled off to some nondescript building named after a tree- it was foreign to me. At 86, my grandma was still driving, still traveling all over the country, still going to watch her beloved baseball team, still smoking and drinking Coors Lite, and stubbornly wiggling her jeweled, poppy pink fingers in the face of anyone who asked her when she would slow down.

And then suddenly she wasn't.

I spent my birthday with her this year, by her bedside in a hospital, after she had a stroke. I sat there for hours, watching her swing from consciousness to slumber, repeating the things she couldn't remember she said to me the last time she was awake, but smiling every time she recognized my face.

We talked about nothing. I pretended not to be alarmed at how much weight she'd lost when the nurse came in to change her. I waited patiently while my brilliant grandma struggled to search her muddy brain for basic words. I smiled thinly through the ice sliver of anxiety in my stomach at this familiar scene. I'd been here before and I said to myself what I wasn't brave enough to say to anyone else; I could be about to lose her.

May brought a new job and a move back home, and a vow that I would not make the same mistake with her as I did my maternal grandmother before her.

I go see her as often as I can. I spend hours talking to her and laughing at her, fussing at her stubborn refusal to do the exercises her physical therapist gave her to do. We watch TV. And I wait patiently as her mind spins and whirs, as she plods through sentences she once would have skated over with aplomb. I listen intently to every random recollection, my heart heavy with the responsibility of possibly being the keeper of her memories if her long term memory goes hazy and less sharp around the edges the way her short term memory has. I spent a couple hundred dollars to get her great seats to go to her first baseball game in years. I travelled with her for Thanksgiving to spend with our family, watching her intently even as I mingled, coming when she called and hustling when she needed something.

But it kills me. It kills me. To watch my razor sharp, educator of a grandma struggle for words. To listen patiently as she repeats herself, or call her back repeatedly because she doesn't remember she called me an hour ago. It kills me to watch her wry humor turned inwards on herself. It's awful the way her freedom has been taken from her, suddenly and without warning. Mere months ago, while she might not have been running marathons she was certainly still getting around. It kills me to watch her struggle to take even a couple steps, aided by a walker she can't stand. I hate to hear her apologize or thank me profusely when I have to help her to the bathroom or get dressed, as though she is a burden. It kills me to watch her slip away.

But still I come. I come sit with her and I call and make sure she knows that I love her and that she is more joy than she will ever be a burden, and I tell her she will be ok, and I will be ok and we will all be ok. I tell her how beautiful she is because she is still so lovely, and that I love her, wholly, deeply, as all-consumingly as I did as an awkward little brown girl for whom she was a daily refuge.

And I pray. I pray that she stays healthy and as well as she can be. I selfishly pray that I have many more years with her so she can see me indulge the wanderlust I inherited from her and fall in love the way she was with my grandfather and so she can sing the bunny song to my kids.

She gave me my first prayer rosary way back when, and taught me what saints to pray to and if I was as smart then as life has made me now, I would have guarded it, and her, far more fiercely.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Keep it 100

I am intoxicated by the real talk. Drunk on the luscious sweetness of being wanted wholly, unabashedly, out loud. Of the ferocity of my craving being match at every turn. I feel dizzy by the things laid bare, remembering what it means to be forthright, frank, how much I've missed it. The not needing to guess where I stand. Not having to resort to decoding inference and weigh actions in relation to silence. Not having to devote any time to wondering and waiting, freed to devote myself wholly to wanting. 
I am reveling in being desired, each declaration, clear, to-the-point, a stake in the emotional landscape he's determined to claim. I like it. It's refreshing. There is peace in knowing. 

But am I ready? To keep up this breakneck pace. To match this energy at every ebb and flow. To let go. To give myself over to something I was unprepared for. When my thoughts, my heart, were elsewhere. 

I like it, but do I WANT it?

"I'm coming to get you, La. Believe that shit."

I do. But am I ready to be got?

Wednesday, October 30, 2013


The phone rings right around my second swipe of red lipstick. I assume it’s either someone finalizing tonight’s plans or the only person who calls me at this time of night that I actually answer for.
It is neither.
I stand a few feet away watching the phone light up on the charger. The me on the display looks back at me, a picture from months and months ago of me wrapped up in his arms, my hair blowing and a smile stretching as wide as my face. His face is nuzzled in my neck and hair, his smile sliced by the strands.
That smile used to undo me.
I watch the phone light up over and over. Twice. Three times. A few more times after that. I knew this was going to happen. I knew there was no way I was going to be able to come to this city where he resides and he not reach out to me. I knew it even before I ran into his homeboy in the airport- too tired and on my way to drunk from the whiskey on the plane- to remember to ask him not to tell him I was here. The text message chime goes off not too long after the last call is disconnected.
“You’re in my city?”
I don’t wanna do this.

We down the shots his homeboy just poured us, discarding our glasses and heading back out to the open space that has been cleared to make a dance floor. We snake around each other, leaning in to hear the other talking over the music. We laugh and dance, my body tingling from the shots and his touch. We’re easy, moving like we’re connected, and at one point I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him as gently as a drunk person can, and tell him, “I’m glad we’re here.”

 “You already know the answer to this.”
“You came and didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t think I needed to check in.”
“Yeah, you were never good at that.”
“Neither were you. Clearly. But aight.”

I put the phone down and head back towards the bathroom as it begins to light up and chime in rapid succession, pages and pages of angry texts flooding my inbox. He’s angry. I’m putting on my eyeliner.

An old school R. Kelly song shuffles on, and he spins me around deftly, his entire front pressed against my entire back without space for even air to pass between us. We dance like we’re in high school, all slow grinding and groping, his hands all over me. He’s saying slick shit in my ear, and with each comment that is more outrageous than the last, I meet him with the same dare; “Do it,” I tell him. “Or shut the fuck up.”

My phone has finally stopped singing the symphony of the disgruntled and I glance over the messages I’ve gotten. All the CAPS lock. And exclamation points. Accusations and victimizations. I sigh, heavy and resigned. This shit was over months ago. I don’t wanna do this.

I fish a thong out of my suitcase to wear under my dress with one hand, and type lazily with my other.

“We’re not doing this.”
“Don’t you think we need to talk about this?”
“We coulda talked about this months ago. You showed your ass. So, your opportunity to talk to me is over.”
“We need to resolve this.”
“It’s been resolved.”
“Why are you being so cold?”
At that I laugh, loud and long, tickled down to my red toes that this is a problem for him.
“This is what you wanted.”

He turns me back around to him, hooking his arms around my waist and settling his cheek on top of my hair. We sway to the music, probably drunkenly off beat but not caring.
“Hey, did I tell you I was going outta town next week?” I tell him no, figuring it’s one of many business trips to somewhere that he takes often.
“Where are you off to?”
“Mexico.” This gives me pause a bit. Mexico doesn’t sound like a business trip.
“Mexico?” I parrot back.
“Yeah. Mexico. With Carey.”
I rock back on my heels away from him, look at him like I just watched him grow two heads.
“You’re going to Mexico. With… your ex-girlfriend?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
“Thinking is clearly not your strong suit, then.”

“Can we meet somewhere?"
“We’re not doing this.”
“I just wanna talk this out.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Don’t be like this.”
“This is what you wanted.”
“You know, I know where you’re going tonight. I could just show up and make you talk to me.”
“I think I have more than proven I am willing to and capable of showing my whole and entire ass in public, so try me if you want to.”
“It shouldn’t be like this.”
“No, it shouldn’t.”

I push through the double doors that lead out to the backyard and he is close on my heels.
“What’s the problem, La?”
“What’s the problem?! I can’t tell if you really don’t think it’s a problem, or if you’re hoping that if you act as though it’s not a problem, I will be convinced.”
“It really isn’t that big a deal.”
“You’re going on vacation with the ex you thought you’d marry and it’s not a big deal? That shit doesn’t deserve discussion of some sort?”
“I mean, you know what this is, La. This trip doesn’t mean anything.”
“Nigga, you must think I’m stupid.”
“I never said that. But we never said we were cutting off other people.”
My mouth falls open,and for once in my overly articulate life I am actually speechless. I didn’t think it needed to be said to this friend who’s gotten to know me and watched me date other people for five years that I expected that while we’re dating, he isn’t going on a Mexican rendezvous with his ex. I try to rack my drunken brain for when and if over the last few months, I have in some way given the impression that this type of thing would be okay with me. And I realize that by assuming that he knew me- that the stretch of months we’d spent together meant the same thing to him as they did to me- was my mistake.
“You know what, you do think I’m stupid. But that’s my fault. Because I have been acting that way. We 'bout to get that shit right right now, though.”
“La, you know what this is.”
“Obviously you and I have very different ideas about what “this” is.”
“I expect that the person that I’m dating not be going on vacation with their ex.”
“But we never said we were exclusive though.”
“You’re absolutely right. And that’s my fault for not being clear about my expectations. But this is not okay with me.”
“I don’t want to be bound by all the titles and the bullshit.”
“So all the benefits and none of the responsibility. That’s a change from that shit you were dream selling.”
“Yo, why are you being such a bitch about this?”
I absolutely fucking lose it.

“Please just meet me somewhere so we can talk.”
“Why are you being like this?!”
“This is what you asked for.”
Eventually I agree to meet him outside my hotel, so we can settle this once in for all and I can go on about my plans for the evening a few pounds lighter. I promise myself that this won’t turn into a shit show like it did last time.

“La, you are fucking trippin’.”
“You think so? Cuz this is me on about 6. You ever call me a bitch again and I will spend the rest of the time between then and when they carry your ass to the hospital on 15.”
“Why are you so mad?”
“Would you let me do it? If it were the other way around, would you be okay with me doing it? If I told you that I was going on a trip, say with the friend that you’re so intimidated by, would it be okay with you?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“That’s because you refuse to be wrong. And you know you’re wrong as fuck.”
“I didn’t expect you to be such a girl about this.”
“You know what, fuck you and this argument.” I turn to walk back into the house and gather my things to head home. It’s his turn to lose it.

“You have five minutes.”
“You think we can have this whole conversation in five minutes?”
“This isn’t a conversation. I have nothing left to say. You wanted to talk. You have five minutes to do that.”
He looks at me long and hard and sighs. He starts, his confidence obviously thrown. He says all the things someone says when they knows they have broken something they can’t piece back together but their pride won’t let them not try.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me,” he says as he grabs my arm.
“If you don’t let me go, it will be the very last thing you do with that hand.” He turns me loose and we stand there almost snarling at each other, toe-to-toe, neither of us willing to back down.
“I shoulda known better.”
“Excuse me?”
“I shoulda known better than to try to be with someone as fucking broken as you.” I stand there in heartbroken shock as the friend I’ve known for years, who’s been around through trials and triumphs and deaths and promotions and heartbreaks, runs down all my flaws, all my heartbreaks, all the things we ever discussed in hushed confidence that I thought I was sharing with someone who unconditionally had my back.
He pauses his rant only long enough to take a deep breath, and a detached calm settles over me.
“Are you done?”

“I’m really sorry, La.”
“No, you aren’t. I’m just glad you finally got to say what you felt about me.”
“That isn’t how I felt- how I feel- about you. I was just angry and drunk-“
“And that’s how I know you spoke your heart. But it’s cool. I am uninterested in being with someone who is with me as though it’s a favor to me.”
“La, we go so far back-“
“And that’s why this is such a shame.”

“You really are an asshole.”
“Yes. I can be. But that wasn’t my question. My question was; ARE YOU DONE?!”
“Yeah, I’m done.”
“Good. Me too.”
“You know, I liked you more when you weren’t so emotional.”
“Oh, you mean you liked me better when I didn’t give a fuck? That? THAT I can do.”
I turn and walk away, back through the house where people pretend to have not just been watching our heavyweight bout in the back. A friend volunteers to take me home. As I slide into his passenger seat, I am taken aback by the fact that even though I am riding in the same car I came in, I am leaving with nothing I came with.

“I think we can fix this.”
We don’t need to fix shit. Because we didn’t break it.”
“What are you saying, La?”
“I’m saying you ruined this. And don’t you ever fucking forget it. Your time’s up.”
Before he can say another word, I step into the street, hailing a cab at the busy intersection and sliding in to make my way to my next destination. I don’t know if he’s still standing there watching me, or if he’s accepted his defeat and headed back to wherever he came from, because I have no real use for looking back.   

Friday, October 18, 2013

The Reason

I think that day I was complaining about all the junk. Or maybe the filthy, dark bathroom I had to share with my little brother. Either way, I was complaining, the latest bitch session of many bitch sessions about the things that were driving me to drink (more) about living with my daddy and stepmom and brother since relocating. And my dear friend QQ, bless her heart, was still patiently listening. When I paused for air she asked me, “So why don’t you just move?”

I didn’t have any answer for that.

*          *         *         *

At the end of a long day, I finally park my truck outside the house after fighting 45 minutes of traffic to get here. I dodge the oversized potted plants and their spilled soil on the top step and walk inside. Honey greets me at the bottom of the steps, her tail wagging mightily and running around in excited circles.
“Hey Honey boo boo chile!” I greet her as she sits down and waits for her customary end-of-the-day belly rubs. When she is done, she sprints up the split stairs as I follow behind her, curling up at my daddy’s feet.

“Hey Daddy.”
He returns my greeting, using my first and middle names as he always does, as though they are one name and not two. 
“You hungry?”
“Okay dinner is almost done.”

I sit down on the couch across from him, slipping off my shoes and taking my hair down. 
“You did that when you were a kid too.”
“Rub your face when you’re sleepy.”
I pull my hands down from my face, not even aware that I had been doing it.

We don’t talk about anything. How my day went. How spoiled the dog is. What’s for dinner. What’s on TV. Football. I follow behind him as he shuffles into the kitchen, his knee still sore from the surgery he had a few months back. We laugh and crack jokes as he puts the finishing touches on dinner while I try to steal food from his pots and pans when he isn’t looking. We settle in front of the TV as we always do since my stepmom is at work and my little brother isn’t fond of coming out of his room.  He finds Family Feud, the one with Steve Harvey because he doesn’t like the other hosts, makes an immature joke about farts and we eat.

A couple hours later, after we have sat and watched TV and made inappropriate guesses about the responses 100 people gave to random questions, I take our dishes to the kitchen to wash and he sets up the ironing board. When I return, I pick up an edge of the pants he is pressing and throw them off the ironing board.

“Oh, I’ma beat your ass,” he says to me faking more malice than either of us believe and smiling so hard his eyes crinkle.
“Whatever, old man, ain’t nobody scared of you.”

We watch NCIS and talk about how he wanted to be an air force pilot. We talk about the dog putting on weight and the best way to sear a roast so it doesn’t get dry. We talk about more nothing before we both head upstairs to our bedrooms, him dragging a basket of laundry, me with the dog trailing closely behind me.

I shower and then curl up under my covers, slipping on my glasses and reading a little before my daddy comes in. He sits on the foot of my bed, rubbing the dog and telling me about a comedy special he wants me to watch before he leaves. Later, while I’m lying sprawled across my bed, smiling into the phone pressed against my cheek, he peeks his head in to give the dog a treat and tell me he is making my favorite meal tomorrow.

And really, this is it, isn’t it? This is the reason why, despite my bitching, and my discomfort, this is why I’ve not left. Because I am finally getting what I thought I never would; the chance to get to know my dad.

I worried for the longest that something would happen to one of us and we would still be strangers to one another. That time would get away with us and we would never be able to mend the things that had been broken between us. And I know, logically speaking, that my moving barely ten minutes away from him isn’t going to change anything.

But if I am being honest with myself, as I am trying to be these days, there is a kid here somewhere, who is just enjoying hanging out with her daddy. And a fear that change, any change really, might ruin what I never thought I’d have.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

About the Other Shoe

I am trying to remind myself to take deep breaths. That underneath my damp and trembling hands, deep down below my stampeding heart, I am okay. I fill my lungs with air, so much that my chest hurts under the pressure. I can feel my skin flush with heat, blooming from my chest and travelling in waves over my body, each more intense than the last. There is no stillness, no quiet to be found in my brain, no clean psychological space I can retreat to for peace. I need to get up from my desk, to take a walk and seek refuge in a quiet corner or out in the sunshine, but I realize that the edges of my vision are starting to go dark, like shades slowly being drawn. Tears well in my eyes as I am gripped by the opening pangs of an anxiety attack I have thus far been successful in staving off. I am left to hope that no one sees me before I can get myself together.

Later, after I’ve calmed my heartbeat and wiped my tear streaked face, feeling sheepish at my falling apart and grateful I have not been discovered, I try to trace back a trigger that I can avoid in the future. If I am being honest with myself, there wasn’t one. There was no one moment that sent my body spiraling into panic. It isn’t my job; here I am successful, I am fast on my feet. Here I am capable and adept at producing under impossible conditions. I am clutch in crises. I am awesome under pressure. I thrive in intense, make or break, vice tight situations. And much of my work involves operating under such conditions. Here, my hyper ambition is allowed to thrive.

But my life. My life is quiet. And it’s making me anxious.

The difficulty is that there is no real problem here. Things in La Land have been lovely. I’ve moved. Landed an amazing job at a dream organization. I adore my coworkers.  I’m making good money. I’ve accomplished some major financial goals. I’m travelling and hanging out with friends I have gone years without laying eyes on. I’m spending time with family and getting drunk on patios and at outside concerts. I am dating and achieving and growing far beyond where I’ve been.

And naturally, I am a fucking mess.

The anxiety that always lives in a dark corner of my heart, swoops in suddenly and uninvited, ricocheting around my chest cavity, travelling out to my extremities. There is a reassuring voice in my head telling me nothing is wrong here but it is often too quiet to drown out the other noise. And if I am really honest, the problem is that nothing is wrong here.

There isn’t. This is not lip service. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG. But this happiness, this contentedness, is foreign to me. I have spent a lot of time surviving. Making it. Scraping by. And now that I’m not? I am woefully unprepared for how to navigate it all. It never occurred to me that I was the type of person who could not be still in times of peace.

I recognize that part of it is my conditioning. The deeply engrained notion that this happiness and freedom is not how life “works.” Years of Catholic guilt wrapped in large swaths of oft-repeated refrains; the personal pursuit of happiness is selfish. Self-indulgent. The desire to be free, to live according to your own whims and vices will bring you low. There will be consequences.

I find myself waiting for the blowback. For the moment when the waters of my life will swing suddenly from soothing rock to violent storm. I am incredibly anxious, debilitated by waiting for everything to go wrong. I am steeling myself for it. Though there is no indication at all that it is coming. But my mind is betraying me, unsure of how to settle in silence, not used to not having constantly plot and plan and execute. Where there is no crisis, I am subconsciously creating them, searching for any minute signs that things are maybe going south. I am assaulted by my thoughts, jumping rapidly back and forth, trying to stay a couple steps ahead of what is not happening. How can this go wrong? Can I fix it? Will I be ok? What is the thing that will fall apart?

Not realizing the thing falling apart is me.

Thursday, August 29, 2013

These Three Words

I love hearing I love you as much as the next person. I admit that I'm not the best at offering the sentiment. I'm not entirely sure why, nor am I particularly interested in the underlying psychology, but I love you is often awkward in my mouth; the edges sharp and dangerous, its texture rough and metallic tasting. It feels foreign though I make myself say it anyway.

But those 3 words aren't the ones that do me in. For me, "I miss you" is my undoing. There is something about the longing in it, the wanting and craving laced in every word. The need to replace something missing. In the French literally meaning, "You are missing from me."

It could be perhaps because I find love to be a state of being. When you love someone, when you are in love, there is a beautiful type of being that is inherent in the feeling. But to miss someone feels more like an action, with someone valuable being missing from you demanding urgent and immediate action to right this absence that feels so wrong. And I, ruled entirely by big, bold, sentiment, easily get swept away in urgent action.

Though I find comfort in the peaceful lull of being in love, I am not someone who doesn't need to be wanted, craved when I am missing- wholly, passionately. Because otherwise, what's the point?

But I am undone by, "I miss you."

Please do not leave me undone.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Urban Legend

There is a legend. It goes like this;

There was once a girl who looked a lot like me who met a boy she thought was handsome. After a couple conversations, she realized that this boy, while handsome, wouldn’t be able to hold her interest in a relationship kinda way. But she still liked him. He was funny. They shared a passion for brown liquor and football. And she was still very interested in seeing him outside of a suit (and everything else).

“So, why don’t you just sleep with him and nothing else?” asked a friend she posed her quandary to, who had an accent remarkably like my friend QQ.
“Well, I’ve never done that before,” the girl said, not even sure she could pull it off. “How does that work?”
“However the fuck you want it to.”

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

The Party's Over, My Friend

My head has already turned on the lights. It has closed the top on the piano and replaced the party soundtrack with silence. It is swishing a push broom through the streamers and glitter and confetti that litter the floor. It is washing the champagne flutes and wine glasses, tossing the red solo cups. It’s moving the tables and chairs back to their rightful places, and straightening the pictures knocked askew. It’s wiping up the mysterious substances that spilled and tucking away the odds and ends brought out only for the occasion. It is throwing away the trash left behind. It’s closing and locking the doors, pulling the drapes shut on the windows. It’s cleaning and scrubbing the places left stained and it’s almost ready to move on to the next party.

It’s just waiting for my heart to catch up.