A Vague Idea

there it was. Friday evening, the minute I felt the safety of my bedroom floor. A deep breath leaked out of my lungs and brought out every acidic thought I’ve had for weeks, months, years, and some I suspect will follow me for the entirity of my life. Overall, it was an angry cry. The kind that prevents you from breathing, pushing harder for one more tearing sob, pulling at your soul. I cried for hours, on and off, for a spectrum of reasons. A spectrum of reasons with one revelation: I am angry. That is not a pleasant place to be, especially not when I thought things were looking up. It wasnt’ the kind of cry that happens, and then it’s over and you feel better. Rather, the kind that makes your body ache, and leaves a nasty taste in your mouth, a bitter reminder in the back of your brain. The very worst part is: I haven’t a clue what to do about this. 

…is changing. In a big way. I’m beginning to question every opinion I’ve ever had. Wondering how much this all means to me; how much of it is worth being upset about. How much longer can this continue before the resentment sets in? 

I can’t stop thinking.

I had my headphones in. But I watched him for a little while. His countenance sang a song of contentment, perhaps to the melody of the notes that floated out of his guitar. I recognized the expression as the same one that resided on my face when I was writing. A look of heavy concentration. Concentration on whatever thoughts occupied his mind, whether they were happy or saturated with confusion and resentment.

sixbillionsecrets:

Want to know a secret?

You are beautiful.

Black, white, gay, straight, bisexual. Whether you are smart or quiet or impossibly in love with your best friend, someone out there cherishes your smile and gets butterflies when you walk into a room.

Someone out there can’t stop thinking about you. You Are Beautiful. Don’t ever believe differently.

 I like….

that on occasion, you correct my grammar

that we both have grey eyes

that I’m comfortable enough to say really outrageous things to you

that you don’t dress like a slob

that you totally ganked my driving position

that you steal my phrases

that you know I’m a worrier

the way you smell warm and sweet, just like summer, all the time

that for a good, solid month, you cared more about me than I did about you

that we take turns paying for things, without keeping track

that you let me fix your eyebrows when they’re askew

the look on your face when you’re explaining something to me

the tone of your voice when you know you’ve out-witted me

that I said sometimes all I need is someone to hold hands with, and you said you’d hold my hand

I need to have a big, heavy conversation with someone. The kind that really makes me think about who I want to be and what I want to do. I need it to make me break down and cry until my face is swollen and blotchy and the sobs hurt when they tear out of my chest. Then I need that someone to hold me, and not tell me that everything is going to be okay, because they just can’t promise.

I wanted to sit down and talk to her for hours; tell her everything about me and my life. Even the things I’m ashamed of. Because I like to believe she was the kind of person who would have loved me even though I did things she would have hated. I wanted to tell her all of these things, but I couldn’t because he was in the car 100 yards away. And I had the sickest feeling that he was watching me. Bastard. That’s just not the kind of thing you intrude on. So instead, I had to lay the pink calla lilies by her head, shed a tear, and return to the car without a word.

‘till we’re a little more grown up, and a little older. ‘Till we have have our own houses and lives. ‘Till you can come over after a particularly tiring day at work and we can drink wine until the sky turns pink, wondering where the time has gone. ‘Till dizzy-headed and bleary-eyed, we can climb into bed and hold each other until the new day demands our presence.

together in the tree house. Together in the loneliness of our sorrows. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but they were a long, heavy ten. You felt like the ally of my youth again. We skipped the phony, consoling sighs; if we’ve been nothing else, we’ve always been real, and sometimes everything will not be okay. We’ll both go on, doing what we must, but deep down, somewhere, I know I get you better than all the rest of them, despite what they like to believe. I suspect you know it too.

to sit around with friends today and be extremely perverted. To completely strip away the filter, forget the fact that I’m a “lady” and just be really, really, nasty.