To love me is to put up with a messiness I inherited from my mother.
The displays of self loathing and self sabotage i work on daily.
The clothes I leave on the floor.
The coffee cups in the sink.
The bed unmade and the too many shoes.

To love me is to deal with an annoying amount of independence I inherited from my father.
The acts of self serving that I work on daily.
The know it all moments when I’m working on something or fixing something.
The confidence in my work ethic, my persona & who I am.
The laughter I have over everything.

To love me is to know the loyalty and respect I’ve inherited from my stepmom.
The empathy I still long for and work to find daily.
The care over details.
The nurture I give when you’re sad or sick.
The standing up for you but also putting you in your place.

To love me is to cope with the stoic coldness and wandering spirit I’ve inherited from my grandma.
The parts of me you’ll never fully know that I work to show you daily.
The look of dismay I sometimes don’t know is on my face.
The inability to stay in one place for too long without going insane.
The moments I want to run away and never look back.

To love me is to cope.
Cope with knowing sometimes I’m mean.
Sometimes I’m sad.
And sometimes I love fiercely and passionately.
To love me is to love all of me.
Everything I’ve inherited and everything I’ve learned and unlearned over time.
To love me is to be loved in return.

I’m convinced I’ll never feel at home anywhere I go.
I know people say- home is where the heart is…
And people say- home is the people around you…
And people say- home is where you rest your feet….
But people also say a lot of unnecessary words.

I’m too in love with the world.
I want luscious mountains, and the tallest of trees.
I want hot sandy beaches & rivers flowing freely.
I want volcanoes & lagoons.
I want fairy forests & willow trees to read under.
I’m looking for sweltering heat of summer while dreaming of rain falling in autumn all around me.

I’m convinced I’ll always want more.
I’m convinced I’m staying in a place that feels like a burden & less like a home.
A place with nostalgic memories I don’t really want anymore.
A place that holds old love and deaths I can’t forget.
A place with unnecessary words from unnecessary people.

My youth has passed me in a hurry.

It feels like yesterday I was 20 and still living with my best friends hanging pop punk flags on the walls of our first apartment together.

It feels like I was just 21 and my friends surprised me with a party and we drank until we passed out and sang karaoke like never before.

I’m sure I was just 22 or 23 and I was dating someone I hated with a passion while still crying over you.

But wait I know 24 and 25 are around the corner and it’s my first time moving out of my hometown and I want so badly to love you again but I’m ready to find myself first.

Ans 26 and 27 came in a flash- I’m living with my friends again, I’m traveling and I’m moving back home to find a different version of me again.

28 I was starting to be ready to settle down and you weren’t around anymore but I was getting used to that for once. I was living alone again and loving every moment of it. I was hiking every weekend, day drinking and starting my photography business.

And then 29 came and he came into my life without me even knowing and showed me a love I didn’t know I could have. We travelled and loved and dreamed.

And my youth passed me by, 30 and 31 have already gone with a flash. I’m getting a little more scared of the future. I’m seeing the fragile way of  life with my family and my friends.
People get older, loved ones pass on and memories fade softly.

In my 32nd year and I wonder what’s next for my grown up years ?

Fractured pieces of a fairytale lie in front of me.
The broken boy meets the broken girl and they stitch up their pieces while substituting lust instead of love.

We watched the secret gardens bloom and the paths fill with overgrowth that was never tended too.

I love you finally felt underrated & i one this drowning feeling was the emotions I kept hidden for so long trying to surface too quickly.

I stopped believing in fairytales when I was the young age of seventeen. When I watched the prince take his arrows and shoot me in the heart over and over again.
When I realized all the my friends men were nothing but liars and cheats.

I stopped believing in romance at the young age of twenty two. When I gave that prince another chance and he dug the knife deeper in my back than anyone else has ever done. When I started to notice the Icy chill run through my spine in each new bed I would try.

Here I am the ripe age of twenty eight trying to solve the puzzle of lust and love at first site and wondering if there is such thing. Wondering if maybe there is a chance for salvation and happiness somewhere down the overgrown path we haven’t taken.

That maybe, just maybe, that broken boy and that broken girl can hold hands and walk the wild path together.
That maybe, just maybe, we can wander the secret gardens and plant our own seeds of beauty.

But, then again, aren’t we just two lost souls desperately trying to find ourselves in the end?