It kills me how much I need you.
the waiting, knowing you might
never come back around.
It’s only a half-love anyhow,
a slight daliance into a
question that neither one of us
cares enough to ask.
This is the second time around,
and part of me wonders what keeps
us coming back to each other.
There’s not much here, mostly silences
but something in that devious smile,
in that piss and vinegar attitude
wrangles me back into your arms.
The last time we had sex, it was the middle of the day
the bed kept squeaking and we were afraid
your housemate would walk in at any time.
It wasn’t what I would recount as a good
sexual experience, but it is one of my
favorite memories. Me, on top of you,
feeling you protrude inside of me,
both of us wrapped up in each other,
vulnerable, laughing our heads off.
Maybe that’s it, right there -
the simple act of laughing -
rare as it may be with you,
that is what I crave.
I would never say it to your face,
but our friendship, fucked as it may be,
is one that is authentic and true.
That is a rare quality indeed.
As I left his place,
all I could feel was the emptiness,
the brokenness staring back at me
in the form of some dilapidated house.
It echoed back, the ghosts of feelings
we had long since lost.
Yet, here we were.
Trying so desperately to
I was a fool for thinking it so.
Still my heart persisted.
But my brain said no.
It’s a cruel thing:
a dispute between heart and mind.
The smell of him on your skin,
the pain of his apathy on your mind.
It’s a cruel, cruel pain.
Possible tattoo idea.
I could feel it in the way he looked at me.
We’ve both made careers of keeping our distance,
But tonight, on the patio of the coffee shop,
while the sun stained the sky in purples and yellows,
it was something different.
We both made space, made the time,
though we tried to convince ourselves,
it was all in our heads.
But as we made our way inside,
because of the night’s icy chill,
our’s faded away.
The warm light led to our ease,
and before we knew it,
it felt like old times again.
We were an us again.
You grasped my hand at the humor of a joke,
said you missed this.
I was too afraid to say it then,
knowing the upheaval it would create.
So I silenced my tongue.
Then later, in your kitchen,
while I sat on the counter, reading your manuscript,
you turned on an old Louis Armstrong record.
As the smooth jazz sounds silenced my stuttering heart,
I squelched the words that were aching to leech out my bones.
I didn’t say it when you read your favorite passages to me.
I didn’t say it later when you kissed me,
ever so innocently on my cheek while we stood at my door step.
I didn’t allow myself to even think it,
until the door was shut and locked behind me.
I can barely even think it now,
alone in the darkness of my bedroom.
I couldn’t say it then, so I most definitely won’t say it now.
But in case you ever should wonder,
Yes. I do too.
We have had some pretty great memories together, my father and I. I hope you have some good ones too - and if not, I hope one day, you meet a man that gives you some.
Uncertainty is a b*tch and lately, it’s as though I am immersed in the thinking that I am just not good enough. This doubt, it’s a thick liquid that gets caught in my throat, just sitting there and collecting, forming this dam that makes it utterly impossible to swallow, impossible to move on from. I’ve been grasping at straws for breathing room for what feels like weeks now.
I suppose that’s part of why I haven’t been writing.
Every single word feels wrong. I delete word after word that I type on my computer, because every keystroke feels incorrect, as if some stranger took over the controls and fed their words into me. I am just regurgitating. I am just the machine. I am on auto-pilot.
One of the worst feelings as an artist is that feeling of inadequacy, that your art is not worth doing - because in those moments, you lose your sense of identity and your sense of belonging and meaning. And even worse yet: no one voice can make you believe that those are just lies.
You have to find your own worth, inside of yourself.
EE Cummings had it almost right when he said,
"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."
I would argue that it takes more than courage:
Strength, guts, guile, and an unwavering, palpable optimism.
Because let’s just be honest,
life is one hell of a fight,
and you’ve got to have your helmet ready.
I guess I might have left mine behind somewhere.
But don’t you worry, I am a resourceful lady.
I’ll find a way to make it work.
here i am, back to this,
once again i find myself,
standing on this familiar step.
i believe they call this,
i am not who i
thought i would be.
i have broken promises
i have even told a few lies
but aren’t we all a bit
i have not learned much,
i am still so young and immature.
struggling to remember my lines,
cracking underneath all of the pressure.
i have none of the answers
but i am finding i like not knowing
so much more.
there is still so much road ahead,
full of unexplored territory.
i am spreading my arms,
feeling the wind whip my nerves
i haven’t a clue about this life,
but i am finding out, it’s all just a
million-dollar-king asked: I just looked for blogs from people I know with my phone contacts and you still have a blog tiffstatic! It hasn't been updated in two years though. I followed for like 3 seconds then I realized I was still following your blog! <3
The one on blogspot? Yeah, I definitely haven’t used that in YEARS.. but don’t you worry your pretty little head, I’ll be releasing my website complete with a blog section in about a month or so! :)