Nov 2015
I wrote this five times over because it wouldn't come out quite right. Because I’m tired, and there’s nothing I can hear but the silent chatter of my mind on repeat, screaming at me to be better than I am (better than I can be).
In January, we slept in the same bed and I dreamed of kissing you, of taking your hand in mine and pulling you close and never letting go. I followed you around like a lost puppy as you talked about nothing but home.
In February, I was told to wait and left to wonder and doubt and dream. My thoughts swirled until I convinced myself that there was nothing between us but my arms reaching out for you as you turned away (not out of spite, but because you didn’t know).
Felicity, you call me Serenity but I am by far the best at convincing myself that I am unloved, and by far the worst at thinking that I’m worth loving. Felicity, you have been extraordinary from the day I met you, a cacophony of color and beauty that shocked me and entranced me. You are all that I want curled around me at night; you are beautiful and wonderful and mine.
Felicity, most times I am not quite there. I am in the past or the future or the could-have-beens. I am not always whole. I am not whole. It’s hard, for me, to give the entirety of myself when I have trouble finding it, when it’s rotten and breaking and lonely and hiding.
I’m afraid of the dark and blue cheese. I don’t like hypocrites or the way I act when I feel like I can’t breathe. My mouth is bitter from too much coffee, my mind is buzzing from too much worry, my hands are empty because I can hold nothing without it slipping away from me in the end (it was never there in the first place). But you- you are a certainty, and I don’t know if I want to cry but I do know that I want to hold you forever and kiss you a hundred times until you know that you’re worth more than should be possible.
In January, the ball dropped over Erie Bay and I looked past the stumbling drunkards to see you, cheeks pink with cold, and wondered what it would be like to be brave. Now it’s November, and I backspace the ending words to each goodnight text and think about the very same thing. There's sugar in the edges of your fabric, darling, chalk dust kicked up along the road, and I am better when you smile; I am home.
In January, we slept in the same bed and I dreamed of kissing you, of taking your hand in mine and pulling you close and never letting go. I followed you around like a lost puppy as you talked about nothing but home.
In February, I was told to wait and left to wonder and doubt and dream. My thoughts swirled until I convinced myself that there was nothing between us but my arms reaching out for you as you turned away (not out of spite, but because you didn’t know).
Felicity, you call me Serenity but I am by far the best at convincing myself that I am unloved, and by far the worst at thinking that I’m worth loving. Felicity, you have been extraordinary from the day I met you, a cacophony of color and beauty that shocked me and entranced me. You are all that I want curled around me at night; you are beautiful and wonderful and mine.
Felicity, most times I am not quite there. I am in the past or the future or the could-have-beens. I am not always whole. I am not whole. It’s hard, for me, to give the entirety of myself when I have trouble finding it, when it’s rotten and breaking and lonely and hiding.
I’m afraid of the dark and blue cheese. I don’t like hypocrites or the way I act when I feel like I can’t breathe. My mouth is bitter from too much coffee, my mind is buzzing from too much worry, my hands are empty because I can hold nothing without it slipping away from me in the end (it was never there in the first place). But you- you are a certainty, and I don’t know if I want to cry but I do know that I want to hold you forever and kiss you a hundred times until you know that you’re worth more than should be possible.
In January, the ball dropped over Erie Bay and I looked past the stumbling drunkards to see you, cheeks pink with cold, and wondered what it would be like to be brave. Now it’s November, and I backspace the ending words to each goodnight text and think about the very same thing. There's sugar in the edges of your fabric, darling, chalk dust kicked up along the road, and I am better when you smile; I am home.
<3 this is dumb i am dumb and i want to delete this but i've been conditioned out of it save me
