He would never know
that when he crosses his arms
and arches his back,
his shirt rides up
and those two inches of skin
between the bottom of his shirt
and the top of his jeans
is the place where my heart races
and my voices leaves me
and I become breathless.
He called me his little stained glass window.
Said you needed light to truly see my beauty.
Said I was created from broken pieces of glass.
Said I was crafted, carefully placed to create a miraculous image.
He didn't tell me someday someone would come along with a light.
They would shine so brightly for the whole world to see my beauty.
But they would shine too brightly,
their light a flame.
It would burn my frame and melt my edges.
My body, the church, would be a pile of ash and melted glass.
He should have called me his little phoenix.
He should have told me of my magnificent feathers of gold and scarlet.
He should have warned the flame that burning me would do no good,
that from the ashes I would rise up again.
“I would compare falling out of love more to coming home from war. It is a slow process, but then suddenly it is gone. You prepare for months and weeks to return from war. The days seem to drag. And then you’re home and you have no idea what to do with yourself. You can spend forever fighting with the one you love, trying to make them stay, trying to remind them who they were, but then suddenly it’s over and they’re gone. And akin to loud noises seeming like gunshots, people’s voices sound too much like theirs and certain songs sound like them coming home. It is hell. And I’m not sure it ever goes away. Maybe you drown out the similar voices and you learn new songs, but one day you hear a gunshot ring out, and you’re back where you started.”
Excerpt from a book I hope I finish #1
1. My mother’s mirror makes me look way better than any other mirror. I’m half convinced she put a spell on it or had it blessed to make me feel more beautiful. The way it reflects the light puts green specks in my eyes and a rosy sheen on my cheeks. It makes my hair look softer, my edges smoother. It takes away those fifteen stubborn pounds. I think, maybe, it just reflects my mother’s love.
2. Red headed boys have it out for me. I have had my heart broken five times and four of those were by red headed boys. **** you, Ronald Weasley for igniting such an infatuation-no, obsession-at such a young age. It seems that no matter how badly the fire burns, I always seek out another flame.
3. The people who pass on before us are allowed to paint the sky when they feel like it is needed. Part of your welcome to heaven package is a paint brush. My papaw frequently sends me glorious sunsets and starry nights when he knows I’m feeling sad.
4. The first time a rough boy put his hands on me, he didn’t do so in a mean way. We were young and he pretended to know what he was doing/pretended that it wasn’t wrong. The second time, he realized he now had control over me. Though I was never forced, I was manipulated. I do not cry ****, but I still cry.
5. Growing up Catholic taught me that *** before marriage is wrong. What if part of me thinks *** in general is wrong? What if I can’t take the *** without imaging the unwanted hands all over me? What if my mistakes have made me into an unlovable monster? What if I am too weak to say no to *** and too weak to say yes to love? What if I can fall in love or fall in ***, but never both?
6. My mother’s mirror makes me look way better than any other mirror. I know it is because I see my reflection the way my mother sees me: beautiful, strong, unbroken.
Daily ritual of waking up to check
Just to see if you're awake...
To see if you have been on your phone and still chosen not to contact me
Or even as much as read my messages..
Your read reciepts are still on ya know.
Just to see what pictures you thought were worthy to post
Or what song lyric you felt possessed to type..
All while remaining unable to even send me a simple "hello"
I drive myself mad with this throughout the day
That I will cross your mind
That you will have a change of heart & decide to give me a piece of your time
But until then.. I will continue my daily ritual
Slowly but surely destroying myself with each & every click...
and pressing your lips to someone does not state your claim on them.
it just makes you another sea sick, journey torn pilgrim
happy to have something steady to hold on to for the first time
I used to feel so sad when you kissed me...
that's not right, is it?