So… I’ve started writing. Something that I’ve never liked to do. I’ve been urged many times in the past, but it scared me; seeing my words on paper was like seeing them in stone. The permanence of what I say or think embalmed for the rest of time. But fear and love are the two reasons we change, & both have become a driving force in the past year. So in light of the new year, I give these to you. The beginnings to a new journey accepting the writings in stone in hopes that they help me change into the person I want to be.
12/7/18: Chicago Midway Runway
I trust you when you say it’s different.
The feeling. The proximity to my persona.
I don’t know if it’s different, I just know it’s beautiful.
Beauty holds it’s own when you have nothing to compare it to.
At times I wonder what it is you see
Although you tell me,
It’s as if those words are made of cotton candy,
So sweet your taste,
as it melts down my throat
yet leaves me no fuller than when I came.
But I do feel full- I truly do.
at least I tell myself that.
But then as tequila drips from my eyes, the cotton candy comes back up my throat because it just doesn’t sit right.
It’s too sweet.
You’re too sweet.
The cloying sweetness clouds my taste for the bitter- if only by day
the salt to my second round,
as the lime juice slides down.
The bitter wins out,
your pillow tear stained.
12/7/18: In flight
I never thought I’d write in this journal again,
that it would sit there with one heavy body story, a few drunken scribbles, & a lot of blank pages.
Therapist number three suggested journaling, just like the others
& you know my rule of 3’s.
This time it feels good, though
Shocker- I know.
Is it his love that gives me confidence in my thoughts?
Those that use to make me so angry at myself?
Those that I deemed ‘not mine’?
Or does his love simply fuel my own love for myself?
Is it all the same?
Is this how love works?
Someone should really write a manual.
12/7/18: In flight #2
When do you know a shift is coming?
A shift of the self in relation to the soul
one must feel,
when the shift is longer feared.
“You’re a creative” she said almost a year ago.
“You’re stuck” she said, making my veins stop cold,
as she waves her hand over card #3 I’m brought back to my seat on the plane that’s held up making me focus on things that would usually make me shut down,
& then up we go…
Even with the sweet somethings you whisper in my ear,
About how this big ass & my thick thighs have you smiling ear to ear
But It’s the ache- dull & real- that brings the shift to my forefront of thought
As she deals the next card and says ‘It’s all internal,’ the flames from the card start to make my blood boil
Because I know she’s right. I hate when they’re right.
Cause when they’re right, I’m wrong, & being wrong is not a choice I seem given as 2018 is a place where your voice must be strong & unwaivering & when you’re wrong you’re not perfect & I’m already not perfect because my knees creak from week to week & I can’t salvage the parts to make it seem worth it.
The world is messed up. Comparison is a plague. Black & heavy with every swipe & scroll it lays thicker until darkness is all you can sense in a way.
I bet ‘her’ knees don’t creak.
It just makes sense.
So why push my patellas through the agony when physically I know that I’m spent. The money I don’t have, I keep on spending trading passion and perseverance in lieu of what I lack.
But when you can’t pick up the slack,
Perfection slips away.
to another way to say what you see & how you feel & it’s there, totally real, you just have to have the balls to say it’s ok to shift from what was expected of you, so that a new day will bring hope & passion & drive you to pursue your potential.
Dust off the soot & venture through the new growth, because what you find amongst yourself may be exponentially better than what was expected of you.
The shift was unwanted, unexpected, unwelcomed,
But the only constant is change.
Accept it. Take it in.
Let the inevitable take you for a spin.
The value of waiting slides on a scale only as long as your patience for whom or what you wait for.
Time is precious, it passes so soundlessly
slipping under the scale as you sit waiting for what’s to come
never knowing if what you’re waiting for will ever arrive as you see it done.
But those worth waiting for, wasting the time
all outside the lines
of the things you saw at the end of the scale as you sat & swung your feet lightly through the air.
Those things don’t waste time,
They fill it with hope that all the other time wasted was all just a joke
& we laugh at it now, with tears in our eyes
As we sit on the scale & let time slide right by.