Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Portions for Foxes

Been up since four.
Should be finishing this assignment, but it's raining outside, and I just want coffee, and for my headphone jack to work.

I'm wondering if I'm making the right choice with this.
I'm only 21.
And at first when we talked about kids, about moving in together, about waking up in each other's arms for the rest of our lives, I felt overwhelmingly complete.

But then I wonder...
How long is this girl here to stay? The understanding and kind one, who gets up early to make coffee, who hides her irritation at the long absences, and is content with the fact that she's sharing a bed with a woman she's known for a year and drifting away from the life of a college student?
How long until the party girl returns?
Or the girl who just wants to flirt?
And the worst part is: I love her. And I never believed in this kind of love until her. And when I wake in the night crying she holds me. And when I turn into a monster she smiles and says "you're cute when you pout. now let me help". She's mine.
And after I think it's too soon, I can't do this, she can't handle me, I think about someone else's lips on hers. Someone else's hand in hers. Someone else fucking her. Someone else loving her better than me.
And I curl up next to her, kiss her forehead, her eyelids, her temples, her palms, and remind myself that nothing is final, that she knew me when she decided to love me, and even though I can't sleep a night without crying, this is the happiest I've ever been.

I've just spent my entire life knowing I'm not the kind of girl to be someone's wife.
Please, Please, PLEASE let her prove me wrong about this, too.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Some crap I've been writing and don't want to lose:

Let's pretend, for a moment, that I am what you're looking for. You could say it, think it true, and you could be right. But I am not the girl that men marry. I'm the girl that shows them abandon, and comfort. I can say just exactly what they want to hear, every time, spotless. I'll kiss and cook and quote until they find their center, locate what was lost, and go searching for what is still missing. I'm not the girl men marry. I'm the girl they think of as they sit down to coffee and the paper after mediocre morning sex on their fifth wedding anniversary. They think about my waist, my wildness, my willful certainty.
I don't want to be that girl anymore. I'm tired of being the perfect substitute. I'll do it. I've got that endearing energy, that sensual softness. I actually listen.
And before, that was enough. I didn't want connection, commitment. I didn't want to be KNOWN. But I'm older now. My miscalculations look like mistakes from here. And not the kind that lie quiet and benign. So how can I ask? How can I ask for more? No one shops for things that are already broken. And I know we all are. I know, I know.
But I wish it wasn't always like this. Men fall in love with my personality from afar. Boys fall in love with my body as it wraps around theirs. And in neither case do they ever see or know or understand. It takes a lifetime for that. And that's an endeavor that even I wouldn't request right now.
I know it takes time. I'm not really worried. Just wistful. Thoughtful. Hopeful.

There are no more "right words". No faces or colors or sounds or voices to give them name. I'm getting lost in them.
I hurt in places I can't point to.
I'm sad in ways I can't describe.
My body doesn't fit in my skin, not that its too big or too small--
It just doesn't sit like it should.
I know if I tried to escape, I'd have to run in, not out, look back, not forward. But I'm tired of looking back. I'm tired of analyzing, of holding on.
I'm so tired I can't sleep. I'm so jumpy I can't walk, so shaky I can't write,
I'm so lost, I know exactly where I am.

I wrote this a million years ago. Interesting how nothing changes, huh? :

You spend your entire life, all your time on other peoples issues, the other guys’ shit, because it is in no way connected to you(how safe), and then one day you wake up and realize that ALL their shit is YOURS, you are just exactly like them, except for now they’ve fixed their shit and you’re left with her zip-up hoodie, some pictures, a receipt, and this lumpy ache that changes places depending on how you sit but never really goes away. How is that fair?
You spend all your time trying not to get attached, thinking about their choices instead of their freckles, their problems instead of the way they play air drums when they listen to music. You spend all your time trying to make it easy for them to move on and forget about you because now they’re happy. Now they’re healthy and they can do whatever and go wherever and you taught them how to do that in style. You buy them baby clothes for the child that will replace you, you teach them to deal, so they don’t Need to talk through everything, you prep them and arm them and then watch them go, and watch them let go, and you’re still untangling your fingers from their shoelaces and trying to hold that safe, happy, coffee and perfume and spices and books and soap smell somewhere safe where you won’t forget where you put it.
Except for at the end of it you realize that you taught them what you already know, that you’ll always survive, you’ll always be ok, you’ll deal and handle, and you’ll let go. And you realize that the only real sadness is that you want them to need you like you need them, but are too embarrassed to ask, and too ashamed to look like that, so you act cool, because you are, and hope that maybe they’ll just tell you they love you, so you can know, know that they won’t forget, because the only real danger in the whole world is being forgotten.

Monday, December 28, 2009

I can't get warm. I keep going out for a smoke and end up shivering for an hour.
I'm typing in my sweater, winter coat, and massive slippers, and I keep making typos because I'm shivering.

Things are getting more complicated, but easier. Once you give up control, it all falls into the same plane of Shit You Can't Do Anything About. I'm kind of enjoying it. It burns, but only now and then.
I'm getting stronger on most fronts but weaker on some. I'm not protecting myself very well these days. I'm letting things in. I'm letting them twist and tear and sit for awhile. I need to stop.

The snow is beautiful. RR and I went for an adventure today and spent hours crunching through drifts in silence. I miss that. Just...spending time in silence. Someone there to keep you from falling too far, but you're left to your own devices. Mulling, ruminating, reflecting...I've gotten too much of that lately, but it never stops. Once you start on a subject it gets all salty and swollen and you can't stop chewing at it. And there are so many things to start on.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

One handed blogging due to delicious popsicle. This promises to be a delightful, if poorly spelled, post.

I am getting properly restless now that spring is coming. Days that smell like grass and rain. And then the fucking frost kills it. Longest winter EVER. Can I get an Amen?

I'm going to start doing yoga. I think it'd be good for me. I could use some zen.
And I fucking NEED to start getting shit done. ...maybe tomorrow...

Sunday, February 22, 2009

I'm getting tired of people telling us we're fucked. That the world is just going to do what it will do and eventually we'll just kill ourselves off. I don't care if it's true. I believe in people and kindness and our will to live and fight and dream. So fuck that.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

I can't stop stealing cookies from Linden's cupboard.

...sorry linden...

Sunday, February 15, 2009

I burned myself at work on top of the cut I gave myself at work.
On the plus side, Juanito called me "mi amore".
Sigh, Juan Simon, your gold teeth turn me on.
Also, an new guy (nameless black dude with GREAT jeans) called me his shorty. Obviously as soon as I'm out of range of white guys, this new booty is in demand.
I had best be careful though, because with all this milk duds for breakfast shit, this new booty may soon turn into this new aircraft carrier.

I dropped speech comm. I just don't have time, but I feel like I'm letting "Mr. Can Quite Speak Well Enough To Teach Speech Comm But What The Hell, It's U of I" win. Really my pride is just wounded, and now I'll have time for things like Homework and Practicing and...sleep. Suck it up.

Off to homework and toast. And playing with kittens.