beginning of june, three guys rejected me all at once. the span of one week. for a month thereafter, i began every story with that preface.
things is, i owe each of those three men a thank-you-note.
....................................................................................................
the languages of love.
mine will be memory. i will remember + record.
b/c i won't be good at voicing the i love you's, the kind words. i won't offer up compliments freely, and i won't take them humbly. but i'll remember it all. your shoes. the cut of the light across the floor.
.....................................................................................................
it begins under the skin. gets caught in the throat. lines the undersize of the collarbone. lodges below that first set of ribs. trickles down to the stomach.
it's only when it gets there--bottom of the belly--that you're sunk. in deep shit, so to speak. or just in deep.
......................................................................................................
october 20.
i took an elbow to the boob at work tonight. boy did that grant some perspective. big picture. means to an end.
getting into the cab at 2 am. it reeks of cigarette. makes me think of that one guy. that totally wrong one. he's married now. i hope he's well and happy. i hope time and a new love...
...........................................................................................................
she wanted to tell him, he was her christmas morning.
..........................................................................................................
to try + compare our beauty to someone else's is a moot point.
all we strive for is to fulfill our own capacity to be beautiful--it signals worth (reproductive +...)
to say i'm more beautiful/ less beautiful than her is a waste of energy. waste of time
..........................................................................................................
she didn't want to say it. didn't want to give voice to it. to answer his question. mutter it aloud, make it real, create a boundary--a set of rules, gift a road map that would mean more lives must pass before they'd see each other again.
but the truth always surfaces. it must
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
11 comments:
sigh. more, more! xx
beautiful.
these are amazing. i so appreciate your love language (memory) and how it translates on paper (screen?) thanks,
I love to hear your deep, intimate thoughts. I'd love to read more!
xo
I'm also thinking...
You should do a little post about journaling and writing thoughts. You should offer tips on freeing the writer within and how we can better write the raw, true feelings inside us. It definitely takes practice, and I would love your advice.
There is nothing, nothing, nothing better than a peek into someone's journal. That's where the purest thinking happens. It's the first place the thoughts fall out.
Thanks so much for sharing.
I've attempted to carry journals or notebooks, but nothing this creative ever comes out. I am better sitting in front of a computer, or best when I don't have any means to record my thoughts at all. Hmmph.
christmas morning as a person. I LOVE. your posts are always laced with magic, dear.
b/c i won't be good at voicing the i love you's, the kind words. i won't offer up compliments freely, and i won't take them humbly. but i'll remember it all. your shoes. the cut of the light across the floor.
i agree. i'm not all that great with the spoken word, but in memory and writing, it is all so much clearer.
"her Christmas morning." Oh, Meg. Love that.
I can't even comment on which of these 'scibblings' I like most. each is so honest, so thoughtful, and beautiful.
Post a Comment