I recently looked in my journal and saw 7 months of empty space. 7 whole months, during which the pain in my head was so great, to acknowledge it with ink would be the kiss of death. To write it down would be far too permanent, almost as though admitting pain is what gives it power.

I now know the opposite to be true. That the ink that seemed so permanent, in fact acts like a magnet, pulling the pain out and wrestling it onto the paper with all the strength of a fine point tip. The paper-pen-hand-arm-brain succession of atoms fully ready to serve you.

To them, nothing is permanent. To the pen, the ink that flows through it is as fleeting at the muscle stimulation the brain sends through the arm and hand to move. The paper, grateful for the touch of a tip before once again being left bare.  All of these things are grateful and meant to show you that good can come of something so full of pain.

There's a cause for every change in state,
but I don't how a change came about in me.
Someone who once loved hugs and warmth
who now feels fear with every physical interaction,
this isn't me? is it?
no, what's changed
think
think
was it one thing?
was it everything?

Late at night when I need to calm my soul,
You are what my mind drifts to.
But, I worry that like a song played too many times on the radio,
you too, will lose your magic
and once again I will be left defenseless against my own thoughts.

Did God send you?
That smile of yours just shines of hope,
not a specific hope.
Not hope for love or lust of some sort of romance,
but,
when I have used up the last of my reserve,
inexplicably you are what keeps me here.
You, your color and strength.
You're a giant! Do you know this?
Bright gold, stronger than the sun. God, I wish you could see your color.
It must be hope.
you must be hope.

God must have sent you.

I often wonder if
that sparkle in your eye
is actually there, or merely
a figment of my rose-colored
imagination

I do not see what you see.  For if I did, maybe then, I could love myself the way you love me.

Love my legs for the strength and beauty, rather than for the way you whistle at them.

Love my smile and face just because, rather than for the way it brings light to yours.

Love my heart and soul, for more than the way they try so hard to please you.

To feel comfortable in my own skin and body, only seems possible when you are there to agree. I never learned to love myself before you, and now I fear,

*What happens when you no longer whistle your affection for my legs?

What happens when my smile no longer brings light to your face?

What purpose will my heart and soul have, when you no longer wish to be in their company?

I thought I could watch
as you laughed and looked into her eyes

I thought I could stay
because sometimes it was my eyes you were looking into

I thought I could bear
the pain of not knowing how you felt

But I've recently decided
I can't.

"Use your words" you tell me, in an age where words are like cockroaches, invincible against time and indestructible once uttered.

What if I told you, when I look at your face I don't see words. The letters and syllables that love to flow out of me and fill every empty silence suddenly don't fit right in the space between us. You and words are like oil and water, not meant to share the same bowl and only used by those too impatient to wait to let their *** boil.

That's the thing with words and oil, once spilled you never really seem to clean every trace left behind. A greasy film coats the surface no matter how much water intends to purify it.  

But I can wait.

I know there is no rushing the tide while you wait on the shore the same way painting you with oily words won't hasten our journey. The heat of silence fits you so comfortably that I can't help but reach towards the fire when you say to me,

"use your words."