Stare out the window.
He gently squeezes my knee.
Just keep staring.
He changes into 3rd gear.
Pretend not to hear him ask if I'm okay.
He squeezes my thigh instead.
Cant pretend now.
His eyes are gentle, searching.
Small smile, shrug.
He leans in for a kiss.
Turn back away.
His hand slowly lifts away.

This is everyday.
He patiently waits for the mood to change.
This is going to be everyday.
He cant see the fresh cuts under denim.
This is his everyday.
He wonders where he went wrong.
This is not his fault.
His love will run out.
So maybe it wont be everyday.
He will get sick of caring for the sick.

Pained effort in reaching out.
His smile is audible.
Lace fingers between his.
One, two, three, his secret signal.
Theres a lump growing.
He is oblivious to the tears.
Turn back to the window.
His lips warm against white knuckles.
Resist the urge to scream.
He cannot hear the restless soul cry.
Find too much interest in trees zooming by.
I think I must sleep alone tonight.

Once again, I return to my first love,
Falling back into the arms of words and expression.
It infuriates me that it takes major loss to come back to my core.
Instead of praising the joyful times, I end up expressing the pain of loss and tumble back into my own voice as if discovered for the first time all over again.
I know the words will comfort me, caress me, and carry me.
I’ll try to define me for your convenience but I’m sorry I can never speak an absolute truth.
Here, within the lines that make up letters that make up words that make up sentences and paragraphs and entire novels, is where you’ll find me.
Me. Whoever that may be.
I am as much the space between each word and the actual ink.
Selah. Pause and appreciate the silence and reprieve.
When the words begin again you’ll find me complete.
The yin and yang of emptiness and wholeness.
I am the fight in struggle and the calm of peace.
I am the audacity of words and the gentleness of silence.
I am the unbridled joy and the bone deep suffering.
I am so much more than the words can say.
But sometimes I think that if I try hard enough I can get so close to really showing you who I am.
Regardless, here I stand at the beginning of a new chapter.
To hell with the previous ones.
I’ll hop out of this book and begin again.
And again
And again
And again.
Until the cover, the ink, and the very language are unrecognizable to the previous versions of myself that failed to be immortalized in a way that feels aligned.
Until I create a home of my story.
The lost little girl that wrote of longing for death would be so proud to know that this adult me will fill my life with poetry and be happy for the chance to write reality into existence.
Words are power.
Words are channeled intention.
Words are direction and momentum.
Words are community celebration and vulnerable individualization.
I am the ****** last period at the end of a novel
And I am the gold leaf on the special edition prized only by a few romantic hearts.
You dont have to like my voice.
But its all I’ve got and I like to share.
Words bridge the gaps between people and ideas. Or at least try.
I write my heart on my sleeve and pray for someone like me to appreciate the misplaced flourishes and inconsistencies.
My heart is made of so many words that my tongue refuses to taste and release for fear of overload.
All this to say, I’ve gained back a part of me I love; I am the author and the reader, simultaneously.
This time, I intend to keep this core piece of me. I’ll write of beauty and rest.
Of road trips and ***** hiking boots.
I’ll spell out all the good things I’ve taken for granted.
But I’ll honor the selfish younger me who survived. And I’ll honor the older me who will now thrive.