The usual

Don’t look at his ex’s Facebook, don’t look at his ex’s Facebook, don’t—

*click*
*pause*
*huge sigh*

Wow… they looked so cute together.

*scrolls down*
*click*
*pause*
*huge sigh*

Damn, she’s got her shit together.

*scrolls down*
*click*
. . .

———  15 minutes later ———

. . .
*pause*
*huge sigh*

I’m a loser and I don’t know why he’s with me.

*scrolls down*
*click*
*pause*
*huge sigh*

I don’t deserve him and they should just get back together.

*scrolls down*
*click*
. . .


Daily Post prompt: Thorny

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Tower of Babel

babel-06
‘The Fall of the Tower of Babel’ by Cornelis Anthonisz (1547)

* * *

How do you show your love for me?
What languages do you speak, my love?
Dare I ask, do we share at least one common dialect?
Can we, please?

How do I show my love for you?

I prefer to wrap you in words:
In bandages, for your pain (or mine?)
In wrapping paper, for the gift that you are
To wrap you is to suffocate you, my darling;
the better to contain my pleasure & pain

I prefer to assign songs to you:
Wind Of Change, to signify hope in troubled times
So Far Away, to show longing through the distance
To speak to you through songs you love;
for better writers to better express what we both feel

I prefer to add disaster to our story:
You washing away in a flood of indifference
Me trapped in an earthquake, trying to reach you
For our love torn apart is a world torn apart;
it is nothing less than catastrophe

Here I am, raw and yearning and bare
Communing with you in the only languages I know
Of metaphors, music, and natural disasters
Is it enough for you?

We are building the Tower of Babel
Destined to reach the heavens and defy deities
Alas, they chose to bestow upon you one tongue
And I another; are we destined to now fall down?

And so I ask you again:

How do you show your love for me?
What languages do you speak, my love?
Dare I ask, do we share at least one common dialect?
Can we, please?

Embracing loneliness (a.k.a. ‘self-love’)

I have not been single since I was 17. I am now 25. I acquired my first love—or at least at the time, what I horribly thought was “love”—eight years ago. Since then, I have not stopped. I have not stopped loving or being loved.

The longest I have ever been single is one month. Sadly enough, it may not even count, because in that one month, girl. did. not. get. any. rest. I was blowing off a cloud in one breath and fanning a flame in another.

Oh, but it’s the best preoccupation, isn’t it? This fall into the pit of love, then the inevitable conflict that occurs when two human beings try mushing their lives together. And finally, if it all works out, that satisfying-fall-into-bed-together-at-the-end-of-a-long-day-and-just-talk kind of love. It’s all engrossing stuff.

* * *

I’ve grown up. And I’m still growing up.

Sometimes, I choose not to humor the Blaming Beast, what I call the hateful, martyred creature living in my gut that tells me my feelings of inadequacy are my partner’s fault. Sometimes, I choose not to humor it.

But in other moments I’m not so proud of, it just feels so good to fall into another pit — Insecurity. I fall into it, make myself comfortable, throw pillows and whatnot, and tell myself insipid, self-hating little nothings — that I’m not sexy enough, thrilling enough, ambitious enough. That I’m just some silly little girl who’s not ready to play the Game of Adulthood.

* * *

I have not been single in almost a decade because I am afraid of loneliness. Wow — what an unoriginal predicament. And yet, here I am, my lot thrown in with other loneliness-phobic people who have become almost serial in their romantic activities.

I have not stopped loving or being loved because I cannot love myself.

It’s a weird, cold realization. I have never been enamored with myself. Dear reader, do you know what the definition of “enamor” is?

Enamor (v.):

be filled with a feeling of love for; have a liking or admiration for.

Have I ever been filled with a feeling of love for myself? No, not really. I mean, some good days, I’ll look at my ass and think, daaaaaamn. But obviously, that’s not the same. That’s just vanity.

When I am alone, I feel this itch to rotate around someone else — I am the moon, enamored with the sun; the only revolution I start is around another person, forever reflecting the brighter light of others.

When does love for myself start? What process do I have to sign up for, what paperwork do I have to fill out, to be able to see myself and think, you are truly enough? Because I don’t feel that, and I yearn for it. For once in my life, when I am alone, I want to love it. For once, I want to be the sun.


Daily Post prompt: Enamored

Infinite you

This morning, I woke up, and the first thing I saw through my thicket of eyelashes was the skin on your cheeks — tan, slightly porous, little pricks of hair sticking out. You shaved the day before, but adamantly, they push through your skin and out into the air again. Your skin looked different up front; more real, more flawed, more intimate. It wasn’t at all like the skin I see on your face when I peek at you while you’re driving — there’s no dappled sunlight to wash over everything, adding a natural filter.

I love these quiet moments in the morning, when it’s just me and you in our biome of tousled sheets, the promise of life inhabiting every corner of the bed, as our toes stretch and contract, our lower backs rubbing against each other, trying to recover some semblance of the pliability they had the day before. You and I, a slow-moving forest, a couple fossils waking up from our slumber.

I look at the skin on your shoulders, smooth and brown and darkly freckled against the white sheets, like goose eggs found in the wild. The contrast is almost a shock to my eyes. I look at you, and see the miracle that occurred within your mother’s body for the nine months that she carried you; she made your long limbs and your puckered lips and your earth-colored eyes. In the soft, soundless chamber within your mother, a cell would attach to another, infinitely, to make the promise of you, the you that I saw in my bed today. I think of you, and feel the universe that aligned to bring you into my life — what a world to be alive in, the world that introduced me to you.