My life in this past month has been a whirlwind
of change and transformation and I am both weary
I feel as if I could take on the world better than any
warrior ever could. And yet my pallet of multi-facetted emotions
are becoming swirled into one colour that is grim and unidentifiable.
I am finding absolute serenity in solitude and the idea and fantasy of stepping on a plane entirely alone.
And yet I am still yearning for men. And I am hungry for love. I am thirsty for lips on my neck and hands on my chest. And that thirst seems to be unquenchable. Unattainable.
Why do I find myself at the utmost peace when I am being coddled by the pheromones of a man?
It is not malicious and it is certainly not without contempt or care, it is my inner instinct that pours out of me and possesses my heart and mind as one.
I used to think life is too short to not tell the people you love that you love them.
But maybe that word is tossed around like hockey pucks. Always crashing into walls in the end.
So I decided not to tell you that I love you, but to tell you that you are bigger than the Great Lakes. You are the first drop of water in the morning. The first trip alone on a plane. You are the most persistent hangover, and the most satisfying nap. You are déjà vu. You are the surprise post card in the mail, and neatly wrapped presents. Both open and mysterious. You are chapped lips and clean hair.
I have had my heart broken approximately five times. And I’ve been in love about six. And throughout my travels of being beaten and bruised I have learned one thing:
Love is not a feeling. Love is not way of living and it is not a state of mind.
It is every body of water that soaks up the whole world. And I am just a tug boat on the Pacific.
You say that you still remember
every inch of our last moments.
But you don’t know, that every
fibre of you lives in the corners of my
In the back of my throat.
In the nerves at the ends of my
forever trembling fingers.
And I don’t know if you
are able to sense my anguish,
but every memory of you
lives like bile in my stomach.
Sharp, and acidic, and persistent.
You are like the Livestrong bracelet on your wrist.
Both pivotal and mysteriously untouched.
And although you may be a skeleton
of what I knew and what I loved,
miles and miles
and worlds away,
I know that I will always
be haunted by you.
You are a magnet.
Not the kind used in the scripts of rom coms.
But the kind that is both piercing and gravitational.
The kind of magnet that chokes the cords around my windpipe, stronger than any hands every could.
The kind that pulls you swiftly towards light, before you realize it is only a shadow.
Or a mirage.
I call myself a writer
but every time I try to plunge at the keyboard with my suffocating
agony, I drift off into a tornado of silence.
And my hands, full of colour, become soft and dispondant like a runny yolk.
I want you to know that I
can get through a day (or maybe two) without a whisper of your name crawling through me.
I am better at being a alone.
And now, the light of your name on my phone only sends three shocks to my heart.
I don’t like the weight that I’ve gained. But I can still feel your hands along the map of my hips, complaining that I’m too skinny.
Or that my hair is too red.
Or that I call too much.
And I wonder why the thought of you being here, an arms length from my sanity, is sending me into a coma of nausea.
Because after all, I will always be worlds away from you.
You and I are like Pluto and earth.
Orbiting around the sun, and never sharing the same warmth.
I forgot what your words tasted like.
So I picked all my memories,
chopped them up and ate them.
One by one.
And I let their calories sit heavy
On my heart
and on my hips.
Sometimes the potency of your love
comes flooding like a fire in a forest.
And I am set a blaze with the promise
in your dimples.
And sometimes I awake ridged
and worn, and I feel as if
the equator between us
is a figment of my
own desperate imagination.
And you are a sillouette that lives only
on my walls.
On my desk.
In my bones.
I remember the night we ate
handfulls of pyschedelia and watched
my bathroom wall tell us how our lives were going to be.
My tile fortune teller.
I remember the days when we laid under the covers
like pretzals. Thighs, coffee and cream swirled together by
sweat. I ate you up like I had been fasting for months-chewing on your words like taffy.
They stuck to my teeth and I swallowed only the sweet, sugary, goodness.
You were a well that had the crispest, cleanest water. And I drank and drank and drank, and never was quenched.
But now I have learned…..
You can’t curl up at night to a computer.
Or an equator.
Or an ocean.
And maybe, in order to seal
the gaps of countries, between me and my sanity, I still am feasting from
those days in bed.
Paralyzed by your magic.
I feel as if
that he has become,
the pungent smell of misty asphalt
and the glare of afternoon sun between oak trees.
He has become the first
sip of coffee, Saturday night off work, and a fresh bar of soap.
He is perfectly worn in shoes, and a full fridge,
crisp sheets and rainstorms.
He is the cat fish and I am the minnow.
I awoke with you
gnawing away at the
knots of my nerves.
Miles and miles and worlds away
and you still continue
to haunt me stronger
than you ever have.
The beauty of being
A single entity,
Binded by the transparency of
Geographic borders, is that
When I have no words,
He does have to not pick or pry.
I am I.
He is he.
And we are we.
I want to be
awoken in a sea
of sun streaming through
the linen that is not my own.
And paralyzed by the still
and startling perfection
that is your body cupping mine.
I touched your voice,
beneath the cage of a speaker.
And that became
all I knew.
my life is becoming
the chase for motivation.
i am running against
the hamster wheel.
with no steam
other than to
I published an ebook on Blurb.ca! It’s $2.99, and in the next few weeks it will be on the Apple store.
Retweet and reblog.
It’s funny how
A skeleton that was once so
could wither into
a rack of
And all I can