Tuesday, November 20, 2012
It shouldn't be so difficult, I've done it before.
Write what you know, write where you've been, write how you feel.
I've been the ingénue, seeking a taste of glamour and gambolling in rain-soaked frocks. Chasing epiphanies and waiting for the world to reveal the secret blueprints that must exist for existing. (A girl can dream.)
Once, I believed in balance, in rhyme-schemes, and trite paths to trivial endings.
My words had to change with me. To give voice to the edges of my thoughts-- the things that fit nowhere, but begged sweetly to be said aloud.
I bombarded you with ephemeral eloquence-- glimmers of finesse.
I almost became inured to the face-crumpling regret of routine tragedy. Almost.
And almost, I accepted my own place in that flawed tangle of rights, and wrongs, and very wrongs, and seemingly inevitables.
The deluge... was a stream... was a trickle.
And what is left?
I fear sometimes that I have lost you. That you have waited, and languished in disuse.
That I will never be able to capture a scintilla of your essence on paper again.
But you are here.
In the lilting tangential lines I struggle to subdue into recognizable diction.
In the way I listen. Sifting through countless ragamuffin syllables tripping over teeth like puppies to sleep, tumbling head over heels for the sumptuous aural fragrance of a graceful phrase. Mooning over the vestigial remains of you on my tongue.
In the truth I force myself to tell.
I feel you.
Always your gossamer strands catch at me. A cobweb of now unravelled, unrivalled beauty.
In rapture I remain, a palimpsest-- a pastiche.
A patchwork girl with poetry in my hair.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Snakes are lovers looking for warmth. Composed of a single all-encompassing hug, just waiting to happen.
Fire plays on every sense. The heat caressing your skin, the crackle and hiss of a new log, the smell (oh the smell!). Fire smells like joy and childhood. Like dusky nights and freed secrets. Even cave-men saw it-- equal parts danger, practicality and beauty. I could stare at it for hours.
They leave me elated; my nerves sparkling, and every breath I expel is victory set precariously on the edge--veering recklessly ever closer to laughter.
They also cause mothers everywhere to frown (as only mothers can).
What do you expect? I'm just an overqualified monkey-- an adrenaline junkie. I'm a moth to a flaming chariot. I'm a girl who loves to feel alive. To snub my nose at the incredulity of existence and let awareness flood every iota of being that I possess.
You give me all of that, when you can. But it's cold now, and I miss you.
Thank you for existing.
Monday, June 25, 2012
I come to you when I feel extra hot, and I leave feeling like the coolest girl around.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
A cosmic release, a bug in a jar.
The motion of the ocean, and the commotion of
There is a fire, making it's home in my bones, burning the marrow till tomorrow,
But neither is my greatness.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
The evidence is as follows:
I have never been normal. The days of wanting to change that are long gone, but you make me feel like I could be... stable. Like everything is just a little bit easier than I thought it was. I've been struggling at things that can just... be.
You make me feel real, like a real person. And for years I’ve been living like that’s not me: like rules don’t apply to me, like other people aren’t speaking the same language as I am. It feels like I’ve been trying to communicate with crude charades without getting through, until now.
When you feed me, I feel cherished. My parents fed me for my entire life and never made me feel like this. At dinner every night I am warm inside, from more than the soup.
But you also care about me— not just for me with meals or homework help. You care about me with private telling glances and appropriately-placed worrying. You care about me with early morning wake-ups and late night (occasionally comatose) cuddling sessions.
I never know how to say the things brewing inside me, but you make me want to. You make me want to tell you everything, and not just the stuff I know you want to hear. You make me search for myself and turn what I find into words.
You teach me so much. Not only with the astonishing array of facts you carry around in that head of yours, but with the way you live. You teach me to be better, to be kinder, to think more and to try harder.
You show me a man that I could love— if love were an acceptable, operationally defined term, that is. But if it is never defined, how do we know we aren't missing it?
What if that sleepy smile you give me over oatmeal and chocolate milk, and the kiss you leave smouldering on the back of my neck when you go to work is—
What if the comforts of my embrace as you shift between nightmares, or the purposefully neglected silk I leave home in favour of your discarded clothing is—
What if it isn't? I'm much less prepared to accept that.
In conclusion, I love you.
By default, by design, if not entirely by definition.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Firsts; you can be beautiful, educational, cruel.
My beginning was not for me—my first steps, my first words, my first injury. They were for my parents; to show them my growth, to reassure them of their good parenting and to remind them how very delicate a life is. How delicate my life is.
Next it was my turn for some revelation and along came my first day at school, my first bully, my first crush. And I learned that being different isn't easy, that not everyone is going to like you, that learning could ignite my passion...
and that boys are stupid. And so are girls.
But they are both pretty great.
And as I grow, I collect more and more of you: first time I got drunk, first time I thought I was in love, my first apartment, my first driving lesson, my first car accident, first time I had sex, first time I had sex outdoors, my first vote in a federal election, my first surgery...
The first time I thought I might die... right there on that hospital bed.
I needed to learn my mortality too. Learn how delicate I am... learn how fucking strong I am.
I needed to know that good comes around but so does bad and both make you live harder... if you're smart.
I needed to know that people come and go in your life and the most important person to love is yourself. Even when it feels like someone else is your whole life... which would be a first for me.
I guess I learn fast.
Some people live their lives afraid that they will run out of firsts and be left with only higher denominations of "been there, done that".
I am not afraid. I will not hoard my experiences; lock them inside little boxes of achievement to prove who I am and where I came from.
I will wait, and one of these days, this stage will end. Firsts will once again stop being for me, and start being for us— whenever I find someone to be an “us” with me, of course.
We can explore them together, the triumphs and mistakes and unpredictable staggering blows. We can be human, and act like we’re children, and live like we love being alive— because that’s important.
And one day I will watch my baby smile for the first time, and know for sure, as I've known in my heart... that life will never, ever get old.
PS. After writing this, the word first has lost all meaning.... the down-sides of repetition.