The fragile heart is famous for it does not do as you please. only as others do. you want to calibrate the risks involved in being passionately present but instead, it wishes to simply be passionately present.
lame love feels like newer excuses slipped into cracks made by others before.
feels like a momentary slip up on their part. a cautious tale never followed on yours. a side of “could never be me” for the both of you.
it’s new satin sheets on your skin but a gas mask on your face.
a promise unfulfilled; “I could do so much for you” but never actually doing anything.
lame love is like having to choose between the view that sustains your desire to live and the very air that causes you to live.
yours is a lame love.
The first time I see him, he’s sitting across a pretty redhead with an attitude apparent from miles. She smirks as she reaches over to trace her finger across his veiny forearm.
I sit approximately two feet away at the bar. Two feet of humid air and sweaty bodies. Two feet of curiosity on my part and maybe a little concern too.
Pretty redheads usually come with fire in their hair and ice in their gaze but the way this one touched him, she was all ice. All dye.
Maroon 5 diffuses through the bar just as she leans in to whisper into his ear. I catch nothing of what she says but a hard look descends over his pale eyes; an echo of how he feels inside.
How do I know this?
Because the first time he sees me, I’m standing over a redhead asking her to climb off of the man with the pale eyes and the silent madness in his veiny forearms as he lays out a defense to get her off of him.
Just as Adam Levine shouts out a chorus, pale eyes gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom. He pauses before entering the men’s and just as he does, looks back over his shoulder ever so slightly. My concern washes away.
2am at a nondescript bar is the epitome of how adventurous I am. I come to people watch; an often undervalued pastime.
“talk to me about atoms and magic and all the scholarly things” words flow into my ears as I sit waiting for him to return. I know the owner of the chillingly seductive voice even before I turn. She’s leaning back into the same booth as she speaks to a different man. This one seems to want her advances. I feel as though he won’t last.
Elevate me. Let your love gently wrap around me on our sunniest of days and choke me on our most amorous of nights. Compressed by the chests of a thousand men past, I am a siren for what I undress. I seek desire in the tip of the pen, the tip of my tongue, the tip of my sins.
Caution. A word forever associated with love. Even more so with a love that can’t be trusted. This is a story of how an unknowing man upturned the life of a strong woman. She with the ability to lure with just her personality. A story so heart-wrenching it’s all she thinks of. Even now, standing on the cold hard floor staring at her heavy silhouette.
To the times when they stayed up all night
Having simple conversations and losing track of time
To when all it felt like was him unraveling her mind
To a time when she didn’t know what half-hearted emotions were because she was too busy loving foolishly
To when all she saw of the near future was a beautiful unity
Every morning she stares at her reflection in the mirror accusingly
Lose a guy like that? “How could you act so stupidly?”
What comes to mind is a high probability
She thinks “I could spend the rest of my life roaming around thinking of arms that are no longer willing to open for me”
I want to be hard to earn.
When the men of past finally haunt me in my last moments, I want to be able to say I was difficult to feel deserved of. I want them to feel as if I was a never ending vessel that swallowed their love whole and never gave back. As harsh as it seems, when a universe of boundless space exists, one assumes boundless space is needed.
What does it take to make someone harsh in soul?
How many long hours spent in the company of the dishonest and cruel? When is one allowed to cave and submit to the nature of that which they’ve been long exposed to? And then why do we blame them for the occurrence of such natural phenomenon?
Tucked into bed each night by the cool bite of loneliness, she craves an affection that runs from her. Stirred each morning by a vivid noose of all the horrid nightmares of loves that could have been. Spent an eternity substituting love for lust only to meet her future self and be panicked at what stood before her. Unsettling no longer covers it.
Spend your time shattering the parts of you that still feel. Those still burn with humanity, however dim. Kill it and you’ll feel release. Kill it and you’ll stop feeling anything. There are options. Kill it before it kills you.
Her beasts are polite to bring guests. Guests ferocious enough to blur the lines between dream and reality. Afflicted with desire in the wee hours, she bristles in bed. Tangled in coarse sheets that remind her of something unused. Something like the love within the darkness that embraces her.
When I was 9, there was this kid with a birthmark on his blonde head that I just knew to be the portrait of love.
Come age 13, that portrait took the shape of a next door neighbor I only had the courage to say hi to on Facebook. At 20, it’s host was a wildly attractive Instagram model that was 10 levels too out of my league.
And now, at an age only known as exhaustion, I sit looking back at how everyone had the honor of being embodied by love, however diluted, except the little girl who sat behind the white man’s son hoping he’d find her fun enough to play with. Except the shy teenager that couldn’t figure out her adolescent hormones long enough to tap into the buried confidence and walk out of her front door and into the one on the right. Except the fresh adult that thought she didn’t have it in her to make others interested. At least not in the way “other girls” did.
I’m sure there has to be a name for faint hints of confidence sheathed under a lifetime of being made to believe everything that makes me who I am is undesirable. Unattractive. Unwanted.
How does it work that my sporadic feelings for others are tainted by the lack of any for my own self? How do you explain away that my young self felt like she fell short on shit she had no business reaching for?
Translate this anger when I tell you I had to face undeserving bastards that met with love before I did. Translate the confusion of staring into a mirror only to see a shell of a being stare back. Translate the irony of feeling like you’ve graced people with love when there’s none to be found within you. But most importantly, translate the bitterness of having chased a love, a lifetime that to others comes naturally.
stride into the night like a majestic jaguar. seize the infinite stars thrown your way. carve your destiny into the moon and turn your back on the filth of the earth. walk on dear one, advance.