to the first girl i loved;

it still pains me to refer to you as that - the girl i loved first. i feel like so much pain lies in a single phrase; it's such a thing of the past yet there's something so infinite about it

there are so many things i wish i knew from the start like how a simple string of words like the first ones of this letter could hollow me out even more,

like how the pain of you leaving me was so indescribable yet so vivid and striking,

like how love can be so fulfilling yet be so incredibly, indefinitely, and intensely emptying,

like how hard it is to relearn how to sleep, and that when i do learn it, relearn the art of not dreaming about you,

however, i felt like there was something so inevitable about us that it was too obvious to ignore

there is no denying that between two lovers, there will always be one who ends up giving too much, emptying themselves to fill the other, the one who ends up loving more

i knew from the start that i was going to be the one who ended up losing my heart to a girl who wouldn't let me into hers

i'm sorry i expected, i'm sorry i gave you something you never really wanted

__

to you;

i'm sorry that i can't bring myself to reply to your letters

it's not that i'm selfish or that i'm ignoring you; i just don't want to inflict you more pain when pain was all i ever gave to you

it is true, i guess, that you loved me more but i'm sorry you're left with that mindset. i wish i could tell you that one day, you'd find your equilibrium and that i'm sorry it wasn't me.

You walk into that new shop on the corner. You've never seen it before. It's inviting store windows and beautiful exterior pull you inside. What are they selling?

words.

"How much for this word?" you ask.
"well" says the cashier. "All the words are free, but the value comes in how you use them."
"I don't understand," you say. "How do I use this one?" You hold up the word 'love'.
"Be careful with that one. It's special." says the cashier.
"How many do you have in stock?" you ask.
"Infinite." says the cashier.
You look at him quite confused now, wondering why it's so special if they're all free and there are infinite amounts of them.
"The more you use the words the less valuable they become."
You give him a very puzzled look and begin backing away to the door.
"Where are you going?" he asks. "This is all yours. This whole store is full of your words."
"Just mine?" you ask.
He nods.
"What about your words?" you ask. "Where are they?"
"Oh," he says. "You don't want any of those."
He looks down as if he is studying the back of his hand, his eyes seem to glaze in thought.
"Maybe I do. May I see them?" you ask.
then he tells you,

    "My words are like an old worn out pair of shoes, my words have walked many miles but have been barely noticed, only to wash up onto a beach somewhere and be found a child and a mother telling them not to play with the garbage. I could be screaming the words and it would sound like a whisper, but even a whisper is noticed and told to hush by adults. Whispers float through hallways but are always paid attention to, regardless of their value, but my words are the cold, dead, silence of an empty house and the bottom of a swimming pool."

Unsure of what to say, you give him a sympathetic glance, "I'm sorry."
but right as you say it the words skid off the shelf and shatter onto the floor, and every lie you've ever told piles on top of it, and you realize you are no better than you neighbor, yet--

You try to help him pick up the pieces.
"Leave it," he says. "I thought you were different."
You wonder what it is you did wrong, so you decide to leave.  Just as you're about go, he turns ask you something this time.

"Can you hear me?
I'm talking.

Are you listening?"

A marinate was played
Full of granite and fine rings
A bathtub of nosebleeds Danny and a bathtub of kings
All the cards that were dealt all the hands that we played pulled the curtain bell
Of my sleeve up to delay what I'd say and
All the cards we swept under the rug Danny all the music we screamed
From my sore throat and broken hands came the sound of suffering on a silent note in an empty room a bell jar and a piano and a single key being pressed in time to the sound of my weeping Danny
My friends ignored my cries
But here we are now with a new drum set and two sets of sticks for hands and we break everything we try to touch Danny thinking it can be played like the single key in that lonely room
Listen there are vultures in my throat in all my baby teeth and landlocked blues
I know that's the name of the song but I wanted to play it for you
Just in case you forgot I could sing out my suffering
And it doesn't sound so horrible now does it Danny
Because you don't know the story it tells
The blood diamond behind the curtain
Well it glimmers just as well
And I'm sure we can find a way to forgive ourselves for everything that was done
But I'm in a two step programme
Where everything gets reversed
And no I haven't slept in weeks Danny you're right I know I look like ****
I just haven't had time to think about what I'm putting in me
When I try to scream and I come up on a single static piano key
Listen there are ways we broke each-other and I'm sorry I tried
But the sound of my suffering
Doesn't mean waving goodbye

It eats at me, this singular question. It repeats in my head, over and over—how can I desire what I already possess? I look at the books on my shelf and the coffee table, and I want to love them completely. I want to never buy another book. I look at the TV, a moderately sized HD set already obsolete, but what a fantastic machine it is, and though I've owned it for years, can I desire it? Or do I want something larger, something 4K? I'm trying to desire the objects I own, so when the day comes, when my singularity comes to an end, and I'm waiting for Her to come home, I will be lovesick, anxious, feverish, pure in my desire.

I've been in relationships and fantasized about one-off affairs. I've had one-off affairs and fantasized about something whole, something reliable.

This TV is watchable and this book is readable.

I think a woman is inherently better at desiring what's in her possession. She gives life, she creates, she's given to infrastructure, and future-building. A man destroys. A man conquers. A man stands in the corner of a room with a drink in his hand and recounts his destructions and conquests. You're a woman. Can you tell me how it's done?

Take a deep breath inventory
Of yourself
Do not count your hands or feet
Not your wandering legs or
Wavering arms
Do not take inventory of your clothes
Not of your favorite shoes or
Your special hat—not even your
Coat that you save for those cold,
Cold nights
Ignore your car—payments or paid off
Your home—apartment, trailer, mansion
Your work uniform—whatever that may be

Make emergency stops only
You are still several miles from
The intersection of contentment and identity
And you have not been there
In far too long
Do not take inventory of how you look
In a summer dress or a tuxedo and bowtie
Don’t count your history with
Drugs and alcohol
Don’t count your computer, your television
Or that collection of movies
Or albums
Or books that you’ve been working on
Don’t take account of your ability to curl
Dead weight
It’s just curling dead weight
Don’t count the number of visible abs
You have
Or your BMI

You are so much more than a body
You are so much more than possessions
Your body and belongings have not
Done you well to feel like you belong

Instead take inventory of your joy
You have some joy don’t you?

Count your friends
Count your love letters
Count the moments when it rains
And you have an umbrella
Count the last time you had strawberries
Count the start of every kiss
Count the paid off credit cards
Actually, count those twice
Because freedom counts for twice as much
Account for all of your freedoms
Take inventory of playing catch with your dad
Your last home-cooked meal
Account for the last time you rode a bike
When you didn’t think about exercise, you just felt the wind
Count the times you wrapped birthday presents
Count the smell of the last bouquet of flowers you were given
Count the last time you went to the zoo
And you swore, nobody ever fell in love with the
Animals quite like you did
Cause you have an eye for beauty
And you’re seeing it everywhere
Take a deep breath inventory of the beauty you have seen

And when you can’t seem to find anything that matters
To take inventory of
Count those dark moments where you still
Have the hope to rack your brain
To try to find a memory where you had joy
If you still have hope to try to find it
That is joyful
All on its own
Because I know they can be hard to find sometimes
Those things worth taking inventory of
But I have found the greatest of these things is love
Not the way I love Pulp Fiction and Casablanca
But the way I love my wife
And my father and my mother
And a good rescue
Cause that is what I’ve had—a good rescue
And life is sweet like honey
Not because it’s easy
And certainly not because I feel good all the time
But because I have found joy in a rescued life that I can hope in
When I take a deep breath inventory
I have to realize all I have is love
The rest will go away someday
But not my hope and joy and love

They ask me what I see,
What I see when I'm dreaming,
What I see when I'm listening,
What I see when I'm writing,
But I don't see; I understand,

I understand how minds work,
I understand how hearts work,
I understand how my world works,
But I don't understand them.

Why can't people accept it?
Why do they need to know why?
Why do they want to know?
But they don't want to know why; they want to know what.

If I see their futures,
If I see the dead,
If I see words before me,
But I don't see; I understand.

So when they ask, what do I see in you?
I don't reply. I smile,
Because when I dream,
And I listen,
And I write,
You know what I see?
What I've always seen:
You.

My lover asks me:
"What is the difference between me and the sky?"
The difference, my love,
Is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.

It must be hard to have me as your older sister.
It must be.
I call your cute little jokes "lame",
and ignore you when you tell me about your fantastic school day.
I refuse to hug you to sleep at night
even if you're afraid of the darkness that could swallow you up anytime.
I order you to do things around and you do them but
when you ask me to do things, I don't.
You try to get me to stop paying attention to my phone and
start paying attention to your piano pieces.
You try to get me to stop lying around all day and
start going to swim with you.
You ask me all the time:
"Can you go swimming with me?"
I always reply:
"No, I've got work/I'm lazy/. Go swim yourself."
And I don't understand that when you keep calling your friend over
it's because you feel lonely
She's the one who listens to you
play with you
talk to you
when I don't.
Well maybe I didn't understand that when I said:
"Why is she coming over again? You guys play like every single day. Do your work."
You try to make me happy by telling me interesting things.
I silence you out when you do that,
popping in my earphones
and you just sit there quietly.
It must be hard to have me as your older sister.

It must be hard to have me as your daughter.
I talk back 99% of the time just to prove I'm right,
because I am so thick-skinned I wouldn't actually admit even if I'm down right
wrong.
I always change my mind the last minute,
leaving you panicking and worrying about what to do.
I treat my younger sister badly, being really mean to her,
I don't understand how we are both precious to you
You don't want to see any of us getting
hurt.
You work so hard for me
I don't come out of my room to say hi to you when you come home
You bought a new wifi network set for me
when I kept complaining that the current set wasn't working
when it was just my fault for using it
too much.
You meticulously worked to come up with a nice study table design for us
I complained that your laptops were taking up too much space
and you moved it away to the living room
where you could only use it while standing.
You didn't say anything about it.
It must be hard to have me as your daughter.

It must be hard to have me as your friend.
I blast at you
and treat you like a punching bag
not being sensitive to your feelings.
I make you worry about me even when I have hurt you.
I tell you what I feel so frankly and
you get hurt.
You tell me you're always there to listen
yet I never listened to you.
You always notice when I'm about to fall down into that deep abyss of the unknown,
yet when you're falling I still can't find a rope to help you up.
You try to watch videos with me and
I move my attention to my phone.
It must be hard to have me as your friend.

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.