drunk writing is ok sometimes
This is everything.
I should be doing my homework,
I should be changing over my laundry.
I should be doing my homework.
But it’s a Friday night, and I am not waiting tables,
instead I am sitting in a barely lit room, writing another trail of words about you.
And I can’t stop thinking about yesterday.
Sitting on my bed, the afternoon overcast lighting us up with a drowsy need for romance.
We kissed for as long as our lips would let us.
You were like the safest, warmest, hammock.
I should be doing my homework.
But I am stuck on last night. Crooked in a bath tub with you. I am vulnerable, you are happy.
The bathroom is laced with smoke, and you look impossibly and vivaciously content. The world becomes a kaleidoscope of everything you are. Everything I am. A mosaic of five months into a firework of the most simple kind of utopia.
And I can’t believe that you are mine.
We are naked in the bath on a Thursday night, we don’t talk much, and there is no where else we could dream of being. I don’t remember ever being this serene.
This is what love is like with you.
I should be doing my homework.
This time it’s different. I could write it in all my poems, I could tell all my girlfriends, speaking too fast so that I don’t miss the story about the time you brought me flowers when I was sick.
"But this time it’s different."
The way you look at me scares me. There is so much love in those caramel eyes they could gulp me up.
I am in awe that someone could love me enough to have it radiate from their eyeballs.
I wonder if you can tell that the way my stomach folds during sex gives me the worst kind of anxiety.
I am in awe that after more beers than I’d probably like to know, you sway towards me with such adoration that I feel like my heart might burst out of my throat for you.
This time it’s different.
I am in awe that we are drunk on a Monday. My back is in your chest. We are not at our type of place and your arms laced around my ribcage feel like the womb. Your beard tastes like whiskey. You tell me you want to be with me for as long as we are this happy. You tell me you want to see the world with me. I believe you.
This time it’s different.
My kitchen feels cold every morning that we are not deciding how to make our eggs.
Thank you for walking the dog last night.
This time it’s so different.
Is there a diagnoses for being completely disinterested in my last semester of school, obsessively stressed about money, hopelessly needing to travel, falling impossibly in love (again), horribly disconnected, hyper aware, and entirely unmotivated but also ridiculously ambitious?
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
When you’re feeling sick, and a boy comes right over, brings you flowers, puts on the perfect movie, and still looks at you like you’re a rare ruby even though you told him you barfed at work.
Keep him around.
I have been in a number of relationships. Most of them toxic, suffocating, and detrimental to my mental health, to my bank account, and to my overall well-being. Usually not all of those things at once, but at some point, whether they started off happy, or ended in plea, since the age of 16 I have engaged in these consistent webs of lovers that make me feel like shit.
I have a number of girlfriends and male friends that admire my strength to break free from these binding relationships and start fresh. Sometimes I do that in different continents, completely alone, and sometimes I do that while writing ridiculous amounts of poetry.
I also have a number of friends that scold me for inevitably engaging in another impossibly romantic endevour with another man who seems perfect but once again, leaves me gutted. This is my achiiles heal-love and my inability to run away from it. I am a romantic. I am a lover. I am a poet. And I feel the strongest when when I have broken free from love, or when I am coddling it endlessly. My adult life has been a vicious cycle of loving, and hurting and that spell has been on repeat for the better part of seven years. Seven very long and arduous years.
Finally, I feel that I have dipped my calloused feet into a healthy, loving, and beautiful relationship. I have thought this before mind you, but in the past, I was used, I was condescended, and I was suffocated. I was not Brittany Tiplady, writer, dancer, and dreamer. I was Brittany Tiplady who cares nauseatingly for her boyfriend, and all of his whims and fuck my own because being a girlfriend means being an obedient house pet. Right?
And so, after ending a long distance pseudo marriage with a man I truly believed would be my husband someday, I had a lot of reflecting to do. And by reflecting I mean I needed to re-learn what it means to be a woman, what it means to be me, and what it means to be a partner in a healthy relationship that suits both my lifestyle and that of my partner. It was a long road that beat the shit out of my self-esteem, and after talking emphatically to all the right women and all the right men, and being encouraged by all the right friends, I rebuilt myself into the woman I want to be. The Brittany Tiplady that is a strong and confident 23 year old human being finishing her degree, hustling three jobs, struggling with a shopping addiction, planning a year long trip to Europe, writing impossible amounts of poetry, and loving a new partner that has fuelled all of those things, and more. Instead of taking them away from me.
I did not know that being with a man, in a healthy way, was supposed to encourage all the things I dreamt of and then encouraged me to dream a little more. I did not know that my wants and dreams and wishes, were not supposed to be suppressed or entirely sacrificed. They were supposed to be encouraged. They were supposed to be the reason why someone loved me. I didn’t realize that I shouldn’t be loved because I gave up everything I wanted for that person. But that I should be loved, because having my own goals and ambitions, and keeping them, is all the more sexy, and all the more beneficial to my partner and to the beauty that is honing a personal life and personal goals and getting to stay up all night sharing them with your lover.
I still struggle everyday with keeping my identity and staying strong in myself, and most importantly with my self image, but I feel exceptionally lucky to have someone sleeping next to me, that helps me do that. Early in the year, I had beers with a very important male friend in my life who lives in New York and was visiting for the holidays. It was his first time seeing me post-pseudo marriage break-up and I was feeling mightier than ever. He told me, that without realizing it, I had really lost myself in that relationship. And I finally had my traveling, loving, writing, self back. I think it was that conversation that kept me on the hike back to my self discovery, self empowerment, and self worth.
And I feel really good to finally be getting there.
My bills are out of control,
and I am barely pulling in enough money to break even.
But I have intense plans to travel,
handfuls of creativity,
a lovely roof over my head,
and an amazing man that makes me feel 8 feet tall and overwhelmingly, exceedingly, and powerfully loved and admired.
So, I can not help but wake up feeling exceptionally grateful all the damn time.
I’ve tried to count the reasons that I love you.
Arranging the red, blue, and yellow M&M’s so that I could
colour code the way you make my spine shake all its leaves.
So that I could make sense of why my heart, even after it rots, and breaks, and bleeds, always find it’s way back again.
I have loved many times before,
but this time I am not gutted.
I am not barren.
I am not penniless.
I am not stale.
And I know that I have said this so many times, I could go blind: but this time it’s different.
I think I love you because you do not put hot sauce on your food before you offer me a bite.
Because you know my favourite kind of chocolate, even when I didn’t.
Because you ears are endless tunnels of listening. Of nodding. Of relentless understanding.
Because your voice, late at night against the pillow soothes me like chamomile tea.
Because you know just how to fuck me.
Gentle and strong.
Because you always like my hair, and you tell me that I look great, and late at night, when I am completely vulnerable before you, and every bruise of every man who once broke my heart, is lit up only by the street lamps peaking through my windows, you trace my body with your perfect hands and you tell me that I am the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I think I love you because you taste like poetry.
Because you are poetry.
Because you write me little speckles of poetry that are more like little speckles of your heartstrings woven into words.
And I don’t know how I ended up here yet again.
But every time you roll over in the middle of the night and grab me tighter-I think to myself that I’ve never felt more ignited. That I have never felt more wanted.
And maybe it was the way you looked at me at dinner-like I was the only woman in the city that could ramble aimlessly about child acting and family quarrels.
Or maybe it was when you grabbed my hand and stroked the branches of my fingers when we both knew that that talk was about exactly about us.
Perhaps it was the time we were drunk and in bed on a Tuesday, and everything about the week, and the world, and my accumulating bills, and whether or not I was going to make rent, went entirely still, and I just wanted to taste the wine on your tongue for the 10th time that hour.
Maybe I love you because I linger every time I have the slightest chance to hear the pebbles in your voice. Or at the slightest chance that you will catch my eye, and the world will shrink into the scope of your gaze, and my knees will tingle, and my pelvis becomes fluid, and my heart does somersaults, and jumping jacks and back flips.
I don’t know how I ended up here again.
But I do know, that if lovers were bodies of water, we would be the greatest of lakes.
girls are trained to say, ‘i wrote this, but it’s probably really stupid.’ well, no, you wouldn’t write a novel if you thought it was really stupid. men are much more comfortable going, ‘i wrote this book because i have a unique perspective that the world needs to hear.’ girls are taught from the age of seven that if you get a compliment, you don’t go, ‘thank you’, you go, ‘no, you’re insane.’
— Sylvia Plath
Here’s what I’ve got, the reasons why I’m pretty sure
we could live together. Because you are always smiling
but write poems about drowning. Because we rewrite
the lyrics of pop songs to be about Pugs and sing them loudly
even though you can’t sing. Because you once texted me
a haiku about the moon when you were drunk. Because
you once cried at the end of Die Hard on Christmas eve
when you were drunk. Because every time another man
smells like American Spirits it reminds me of you
and for a split second I fall in love with him.
Because when I’m sick you hold my hair back, bring me
fruit, kiss me on the mouth and hold me even though
I’m gross. Because you bring me flowers for no reason
but on Valentine’s Day you gave me a bouquet
of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Because you let me
give you a tattoo and you were only a little bit terrified.
Because every time I show you a poem I love you’ve read it
already. Because this morning when we woke up in my bed,
in my apartment, it felt way too small. Because we got dressed
in silence and you brought me coffee without asking.
Because as I walked you to the bus stop I said I think it’s love,
the real kind this time. I have said that to so many others
before but this time feels different. Because we both knew
I was saying it more to myself than to you. Because
you kissed me goodbye anyway and smiled and said
I love you too.