love, kinds

There is vicious love
There is love that robs you of your freedoms
Your air
The feathers in your hair

There is love that is becoming
That wears on you like a Bottega gown
Love you need to live up to
Love that you need to learn to love

There is love that makes you forget who you are
Where the planet is
There is love that rapes
There is love that makes you disappear

There is love that makes you hate

I am scared of these loves
I want love that comes in on a gentle breeze
That entwines with my neurons, the palpations of my heart
I want love that…

I want the scary love
The terrifying love
The one you could live without, with dulled senses

Back from Hiatus- Take 2 (?)

Hi Everyone,
You may have noticed I have been a little (ahem) a lot emo as of late. I stopped writing, and instead entered the:

rambling, I will now write emotional love poems in the hopes that someone hears my pain, or that he does, and takes me back realm.

phew

For many reasons, I have been down in the dumps. It has not been pleasant. Everyone got fed up, I got fed up. I have not mentioned it before but I am about 9 months into

"program"

(that's whats the regulars call it). In other words, I have for nine months been willingly going to something called an al-anon meeting every Monday night with a room full of strangers, talking about our feelings and such. Al-anon is a program designed for loved one's/ family members of alcoholics or those that have been affected by alcohol. I fall into that category for many reasons. Despite the fact that we are not alcoholics, we go through the twelve steps ourselves. The premise is that we are also alcoholics, it just doesn't manifest itself with alcohol. In short, we are addicted with the alcoholic, whatever form that may take.

Sounds crazy, right? so after nine months I almost feel like I've given birth to this thing. I don't know if it's beautiful or this mutant unrecognizable creature...maybe a little bit of both. After nine months, I'm not even in step one (my sponsor says I'll be ready when I'm ready- I think she's just being nice). But I keep sticking to it, and for some reason getting deeper into this, for lack of a better word, cult. I find myself going to more and more meetings because, quite frankly, it's the only thing that makes me feel sane.

Meanwhile, I continue working at a locked psych facility with individuals with both mental illness and substance abuse problems. One of the things we stress constantly is the importance of scheduling your day. Then it hit me. Because truly we are all addicts in one way or another, why not do this for myself? Why not apply the therapy I give to myself? Hey, I'm not the first to think of this or try this (thank you Freud and Jung for preoccupying yourselves with yourselves and coming up with some hooky theories). So, I'm creating a schedule, and because I know I stick to things better when I have the possibility of being watched, I'm posting it here, for you lovely people to see. And, also, you get the added bonus of seeing how not all 24 year old lives mirror jersey shore or...heck, I don't even know any other references, that's how lame I am.


Wednesday 4/24/12 Schedule


7:00am: wake up
7:30am: read news/jezebel
8:00am- 4:30 pm: work! (leave phone in desk)
5:00pm- dinner (yum)
6:00-9:00pm- get ready for al-anon meeting, go, come back
9:00pm: shower
9:30pm: mad men,call syl, look up good books to read for future
10:30pm: bedtime

That wasn't too bad- let's see if I stick to it.

When Love Dies

When love dies, there is no parade.
No one holds your hand and tells you it’s going to be alright, and if they did you didn’t hear it.
Like a bad guest, it doesn’t even announce its departure.
Rather you come across it one day, as you are picking up some socks.

When love dies, it does not wait its turn.
It does not wait for both parties to stop loving.
Nor does it tell you how to prepare for the passing.

Rather, you stumble through the planet with the same confusion of a baby learning to walk.
There are no maps or directions.
It doesn’t even leave you change for the bus.

When love dies, it does not care how good you were,
or how many times you dived in, not even knowing how to swim, in order to save it.

When love dies, it only cares about freeing itself.
It tiptoes out and leaves no note.

So you make do.
You act like there is not a piece of yourself missing
And you accept the clichéd advice
Because you have no better rules to follow.

When love dies, it takes piece of you with it.
But soon in that hollow space new things emerge.
At first it’s just weeds.
You hack away.

When love dies, you learn to accept your place in the order of things.
When love dies, you learn to save the only person you could save.

Thank you, too

I had no words to say last night when you thanked me. Now I can't say them, except for here.

Thank you for...

making me feel giddy and showing me that I could be that person that sings in public

for introducing me to enrique bunbury and shock top and all of those incredible movies

for holding me that night you saw one of my first panic attacks

for holding my mother's hand as she went into surgery

for staying up with me to talk about nonsense and the world and us

for falling asleep in my bed and kissing the back of my neck when you thought I was asleep

for that amazing sex

for telling me I'm amazing

for allowing yourself to be vulnerable and allowing me to do the same

for challenging me when I was wrong and communicating with me

for loving me when you could

for teaching me to cry, really cry

for teaching me trust, and teaching me to know when to stop

for teaching me to let go

and again for loving me

thank you for loving me

unfinished

What happiness lied there, in that barren land
That makes me want to search for it?

Gravitating toward it like all the atoms and particles of this world
Recording every detail
Allowing my brain to betray me
And my spirit to leave me behind

Perhaps it is the hope that it is not a barren land
That there are seedlings lying there, waiting for your warmth, so that they may blossom
And unveil their concerto

It is always the hope that kills us
damn

Our love

I will make the lie easy for you
I’ll make it so that you don’t even have to say it

Look away when the tear rolls down my face though
You owe me that much

And I’ll stop asking what happens to those painters hands when their not enmeshed in mine

If only this love wasn’t so fragile
And I so weak that I tiptoe around it and whisper in its presence
afraid of what happens when it realizes it could do better

afraid it will never flourish under my green thumb
I’ve watered it
What more do you need, sweet love?

I’ve beat you up
I’ve cherised you
And now I lay rosebeds around you to shelter your fall

What more do you need, sweet love?

I’ve forgotten myself in my efforts to protect you

And I’ve wandered around with the pieces, looking for a way to repair it
Which way to the mender?
They told me I’d get there if I looked hard enough
And stopped asking those questions

So I’ll lay with you and feel your breath on my neck
And for tonight I won’t ask you whose nape your vapor grazes when I’m not with you
And for tonight, you won’t tell me any lies

Visceral

You are standing at my doorstep now
I open the bright pink gate and there we stand
Two souls open to knowing each other

And so it floods in
Our secrets and your veins protruding from your wrists when you sit on my bed and take your pulse because you’re scared
And as I rub your back it floods in

We weren’t cautious
And what have you done with my whispers and tears?

I’ve saved yours. Not on purpose of course.
The visceral memory of you is so suffocating it makes my bones crack
And I feel betrayed by my intellect which had spent all of its life convincing itself it was not an animal

Not this thing that sees the way your eyes droop at the corners
And your exigent laugh that cries out to fuck the world
Or the way my head fit so perfectly on your chest to take a nap and as your chest expanded to let in air I knew you were already broken
Your kisses placed along my spine and the way you reminded me to breathe
The way you reminded me to breathe…

Lungs expanding
5am and there I am in the streets of Compton looking for you
Like the crack rats I studied convincing myself I was superior to them because I could analyze and word them.
I could know them, but the only reason I could was because I was them. 5am and I’m convincing myself I’m not a crack rat while you’re convincing yourself you can conquer the world on your own
except there I am.
Fragile and in front of you, a mirror of you.

Were you afraid to be weak?
Was I afraid to admit who I really was fighting for?

And what became my medicine now poisons me
Silly girl
I should have known those eyes were a cautionary tale

When we were together I made it my job to memorize you
Guess I’m a masochist.

I walk through world with an image of you not in me but all around me.
I’m fine.
And then the wind blows and I smell you.
Or I catch a glimpse of curly hair and suddenly my stomach betrays me
Or I see that red coca-cola shirt or I feel deep within me
Deep within me.
There you are.
I’ll salute you every morning and say goodnight to you when it’s dark
And the only ones left are those with
Visceral memories that betray them.

The pink gate
That bandana
Your hands
Your hands…
The artist hands that painted my sorrow.

I could do Worse than You

I could do worse than stand at the edge with you holding your hand
Easy on the eyes and careless like the Hortensia

At other times Discombobulated and gasping for words

As they wheeze out into the hot summer air infected with mosquitoes begging for the warmth of you

I don’t know how to ask
Or how to help

All I know is I notice the dribble of sweat making its way down from your forehead glistening with rage
Or is it from your eyes that have seen too much of this world
And not enough of that heavenly planet where angels reside
Does it exist?

I could do worse than hope for it.

I could do worse than skip around from branch to branch looking for you
Creating an executive correspondence with the wind which can travel much farther than even my hardest run to search for you

And I suppose I could do worse than ask the yet living what it feels like to rejoice in your joy and wallow in your sorrows as my gaze stops even the strongest stampede

I am a warrior now
I will not stop
I could do worse than you.

Your Light- 1/23/11

I should be asking myself how the poets did it
Writing about beauty when there is little more to do but sigh

And stare at the way his eyes glimmer against the sunlight and reflect the bright pink off the setting sun
While the birds circle their own world, playing their concerto
Oblivious of the part they are playing in my love song

His hands shielding himself from the harshness the weather has exposed
Or maybe from my burning gaze attempting to save something as precious as the poets muse

Because I know as soon as I look away it will be gone
And I will be left with a vaporous trail of sweet nothings
And melt into a pool of stupidity
From where one certainly couldn’t conjure up a poem

So I must refrain and remain content letting the poem breeze through me and releasing it back into the atmosphere
Because there is no time to write what I see

Your hands, layed flat like a beautiful plane
Against the curvature of your face
As the sun recedes into the background
And takes with it, your light.

Birthday Wishes

It’s your birthday and there I have you
Sitting on my bed as you rest your head on your motorcycle helmet

I’ve done myself up
Covered up the sadness and knowing
And I try to breathe
You don’t notice and again, I fish for the compliments

It’s times like these that you make me feel five
Dressing up in mom’s high heels and smearing that bright red lipstick
Attempting, desperately, to be taken seriously

You’re wearing that bandana that I hate and we’ve both at this point gotten very good at our roles
But this time you’re uncertain, you don’t know where were going, and for once I have the power.
I’ve been dangling it over you for days
Rejoicing in how it feels
But as you sit in my bed now it feels awkward

You’re favorite word…

I walk you over to get a massage and I play the role of good girlfriend as best I can
Don’t worry; I’ve taken notes all my life
Be agreeable
Always be there, even if he isn’t
Always answer that phone
For heavens sake don’t argue

Is that good?
Stick your cock wherever you want

And so I proceeded.
I wined and dined you and prayed that this would be enough
To cover up the fact that earlier that evening you wouldn’t even take my clothes off
To cover up the fact that earlier that evening we stopped playing our roles
And simply became them.