Thursday, February 11, 2010

I'm the hero of the story
Don't need to be saved
I'm the hero of the story
Don't need to be saved
I'm the hero of the story
Don't need to be saved

Expiration dates and escape routes.
Breathing into metaphorical brown paper bags.
Digging holes and falling in.
My good enough is never quite good enough for me.
Not being alone fills me with more panic than loneliness.

The first real snow where love played a part.
Glittering blankets and embankments of white.
This isn’t the first of winter, but it’s the one I’ll remember.
When it falls in heaping amounts as it did, clarity
and I become temporary bedfellows.
The temporary presence of clarity and the like
always precedes an onslaught of confusion and doubt.
That's where I am now.
This is where I've started
to dig myself out.

I waited on the porch and let him in.
“So, this is it?” he said in a sideways manner.
He traced the maps with his fingers and shot disconcerting glances at
the cluttered coffee table,the kitchen sink stock piled with dirty dishes
and the empty liquor bottles lining the counter.
With knowing nothing of my life, I could see him painting careless
images of how I must be living and how neglected I must be.
We drove to where chickens walk the streets,
sipping water from puddles, darting under stationary tires.
The restaurant was still.
We did our best to keep our mouths full as to avoid the small talk
We hoped to never encounter.
Wild World by Cat Stevens
A song that has always successfully provoked
feelings of nostalgia and lament from within me, came onto the overhead stereo.
The sound of our forks scraping the bottom of our plates, the ice rattling in our glasses;

“Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world

and I'll always remember you like a child, girl”

I looked to the window for comfort. I knew that if we were to make eye contact,
the things I was beginning to fear would internalize with a single, damp glaze.
“Beautiful song.” he said.
I agreed, quietly.

Handing me a wrinkled wad of money, walked me to the door and
with a biting tongue and coldness that burned,
he inadvertently showed me his feelings.
I cannot change his mind. I will not change my life.
But I can convince him that
I am safe,
I am happy
I am loved.
If he has even the slightest bit of faith and trust in me
then he will see that who I am is who I have built.

I'm not sure what the true definition of what a friend is,
but I most certainly know it has nothing
to do with ruining something great.
It's one thing to confront the situation.
It's the right thing.
It's another to confront the situation
in whispered tones and sneaky secrets.
I appreciate the willingness to help me realize what it is I deserve
but I can't justify the dishonest, malicious nature
of what is happening behind my back.
I never asked for help. I never asked to be saved.

I am not skilled in the art of feeling secure in myself.
However, I am fluent in the language of being inadequate.
Only recently have I come to see what a jealous,
easily overawed, sensitive person I am.
These unfortunate qualities that have made
themselves exponentially more apparent
over the past few months are tearing me apart,
threatening to dismantle the progress I've made.

His livelihood triggers nerves I never knew I had.
Looking for girls; girls that are easy to fix.
I don't fit into that category, or so I imagine.
There are things I can try to help control
the bitterness and the jealousy.
But these efforts barely numb the fact that I will
never love myself the way he does.
And although he assures me of this
overwhelming affluence
of love every moment of every day,
the world will always win.
The compliments make it worse, sometimes.
The countless guarantees make it hurt, sometimes.
Above all, I feel guilty for not believing him.
Loving me is most certainly an exasperating juncture...
or so I imagine.

Every morning, when my eyes peel themselves
awake and I am draped in his warmth,
I can’t believe how lucky I am to be in love.
It’s unfair of me to compare what I have to those around me.
If this were to end, I don’t know where I would begin.
I try and imagine other relationships I know and
how they could never satisfy me
after having been in a love like this.
Every morning, I’m scared to see where I am
when my eyes peel themselves awake
because there’s no reason as to why my wish
should constantly come true.

It's frightening how love can change.
She was in love with someone
and now she's in love, but alone.
How to you pick yourself up?
How do you find the will to
try it all over again?
Her tale of heartbreak and strife
inspired me to do whatever it takes,
to make our love work.
I'm not strong enough to start over.
I just want to be in love forever.

It’s the discouragement that comes from the success of others that
I use to justify why it is I don’t have a chance.
This attitude and personality flaw is completely destructive.
I am positive that it is this very attitude that will ruin the chances I do have.

I’m doing what I set out to do and
what I’ve said I would do since I held pen to paper.
But because I am writing and turning a
few mislaid words into sentences, into paragraphs,
I’m beginning to see how much further I have to go.
My imagery is repetitive.
My adjectives are elementary.
My sentences are too long.
I make everything sound epically important and special,
even though the mundane truth is just as much.
I'm searching between the lines to find
whether or not this is what I was want.

If only I could write myself as a beautiful hyperbole.

I'm coming back. Slowly, I'm coming back.
I promise.

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