Now I don’t know what it would take to make my heart back down.
campfire and the aftermath
I am damn good at anger. I can clench my teeth and create canyons between my lightning eyebrows, and I can crescendo to a perfect force of fury that only my own tears can wash the fire away. My lips are bows and my words are arrows and you don’t stand a chance, with your crumbling logic and curious malice. Anger is something I can do.
I am damn good at loving. I can wrinkle the corners of my eyes like bedsheets and laugh with my whole heart, and I can hold the flawed stitches of your soul so closely to mine that you can’t even see them anymore. My hands get clumsy and my lips spill warmth, when you envelope me with tender persistence and early morning murmurs. I can love.
But, I can only try and trust. I will swell with fear and try to turn to indifference, but it’s your shapeshifting semantics that guard the way to anything more inviting. It’s the dark crevices of the things unsaid. The fragility in words and the faltering of spaces between them. The way you turn my home into a trembling house of cards. The way I can see it begin to transfigure me into a seasonless tree, unaware and forgetful of what it’s like to laugh and blossom without limitations, and what it’s like to curl into myself and embrace the fall.
there’s always room for more destruction here
It always begins with the most menial things before it eats you whole. It begins with a dirty towel and ends with the sound off gravel crunching under a car down and away from your driveway. Once you’ve begun to think that’s the end of it, you realize there’s more. That’s when it gets tougher. There’s still so much silence to be had. There’s the density in the air and heaviness in your heart. There’s the part of you that knows that the morning can’t be so painful and that maybe you aren’t supposed to know what right and wrong are anymore.
once again it’s happening.
i saw love disfigure me
The air feels so stiff, like it only serves to create some of kind continental drift. I lick the sugar off my lips and the wounds off my heart. I bite my tongue because all the things I wish I could say, the things I know I need to say, seem surreal and isthisreallymylifenow and I throw things instead. I wallow in the cowardice that is my comfort and lay on those familiar pillows in the late afternoon, making bullshit conversation to distract from the issue at hand. I try not to fold your laundry. I buzz like a cicada for you until you are too close and regret the times that I took a passionate kiss for granted, because now everything is cardboard and tears and the dulled lustre of my expectations by the wayside.
Cholitas Luchadores: Bolivias Female Wrestlers.
The fighting cholitas see themselves as symbols of strength: Their opponents include bigotry and sexism. “My goal,” says one fighter, “is to lift up indigenous women, who have been treated with contempt.”
“We fighters carry within us a kind of fire that nothing can quench.”
all romantic fools have died
It was flooded and I had been thinking of you. There was talk, so much talk, of the things we quietly said we wanted but too much had broken.
It was flooded and the pastor wanted to announce you for an award you had won, you needed to go. It was flooded and you were in my house, helping me out like you always do, helping me recover my things from the torrential downpour. On your way out you asked for access to my email and smirked. I thought it was odd and that you might have lost your mind. I go into my house, a small shotgun apartment. All your shoes are lined up outside the apartment like one would do in a yard sale; the shoes you wore in when we met and the shoes I bought you for Christmas and the shoes that you bought yourself some time that I can’t recall, all in a perfect row. I enter the house and there is a dirty bed and a freshly vacuumed floor. There is a styrofoam mannequin sitting on a chair in shitty downtown lingerie. There are tiny figures on the nightstand, one dark figure coming at the other from behind, the other is face down.
I am only wearing a towel because I had just taken a shower and I needed to get my clothes. I open my drawers and there is none. You threw all my clothes away, every last item, and now I am naked. You cleaned up my house and replaced it with emptiness. Now I am naked looking at perceptions of myself that you so thoughtfully made for me. You cleaned up my house and left me with nothing but sobbing tears. You cleaned up my house and left me with nothing but myself and I never thought you could do that to me, I never thought evilness could exist in you, too; I never thought, I never thought. I wake up in a panicking sweat, and now I can’t sleep because my clothes are here but something scarier, something less tangible, is missing.
you got to lose sometime.
it would have been better if there had been a drawl
Oh, am I good at being wistful and sad. At the risk of sounding like the tired plot of a poorly budgeted movie, this is likely why I must move to a large city- this way I can curl up in my inevitable isolation and fall back in love with myself. I’ve begun to miss my long walks where nobody in the humming city knows me and all I have is my footsteps and crackling leaves. The sticky summers on this coastline have proven to do nothing but knot my tongue and break my heart.