This blog is essentially a love letter to myself.
Please note that none of the content featured on this blog belongs to me unless explicitly stated.
We haven’t connected in a while. The past year has left a laundry list of lovers in the wake of your carnage. The two of her took the cake. Late nights led to early mornings rolling in her blood red sheets. She always insisted on starting with a sullen whisper and ending with a bang. Those days were brutal. Hormones had us floating up, crashing down, landing heavy on our war-torn hearts. Won’t say that I loved him more, but I could. His touch was softer, his mood even, his sheets were hunter green. And he was just that to me, a hunter, a man, strong when I felt the most weak. Girl, I deified that dick. Praying with every cumshot that somehow the jaded drops would save me. He swore he loved me, I would argue that he cared. An old story. At least we rode the line and I, lacking direction and emotional stability, agreed to hold his soon-to-be manicured hand through the process. My affection was blind to gender and supposedly nothing would change.
She was different.
As she became increasingly volatile, I kept telling myself that it was fine. Just side effects. Quirks. Minimizing our challenges, making her transition a team effort. If I could handle the last four years, this would be a cakewalk…yeah, sure. In her thighs and lows I learned what it was to love you and, let me tell you, the other side of the coin was bleak. I saw in her all the things I’d ignored in you: the rage, the joy, the fucking capricious compassion. She was all of me. Male. Female. Unstable. A rock for those blessed by that fickle fancy. I swore I loved her, she would argue that I cared. In hindsight, I’m not sure that I did either way. Maybe it was you. No one loves harder than you.
Ultimately, I chose to walk away, leaving her to redefine her life as an individual unchained by your manic influence. Your beauty and your sorrow were all that I knew, Lucy. We got lost in eachother so young and as the years flew by you became all of me. Everything I touched was yours. My identity was a timeshare. Sharing every achievement, crediting you for any success. I regret protecting you as long as I did. When life gave us lemons, I held you tighter, not realizing that you had evolved into my shield. You have made me who I am, I do thank you for that. Half of my history resides in you and occasionally I sort through the treasures we’ve collected, but it’s time I left you behind for good. I’m learning that not every day has to be a struggle. I can love and truly forgive. I can care for myself, old friend, I can heal. You needed to fall so I could stand but we were so intertwined, to separate would’ve been the end of us both. To be fair, I guess it nearly was.
I won’t be writing you again, which is not to say that you won’t be in my thoughts. My devotion to you was authentic but invalid, and while my complexity, the hubris and the contrition, may be exciting, this bliss of knowing and loving myself as a singular entity is a clarity that I can’t sacrifice for you.
Know that you will always be with me, Lucy, you just can’t have me anymore. The risk is too great.
All best, always,
- kissing each other good morning even though your breath smells like a landfill
- accepting that (s)he dances a bit like a ‘mo
- the act of tweezing
- making plans for the distant future without fear or hesitation
- laughing at their lame indiscernible accents
- finding yourself making…
This still rings so true. Single or not, love is what it is.
In the whole entire world, you are the only person, the only person I love or have ever loved. And I love you terribly. Terribly. That’s what’s so awfully, irreducibly real. I can make up anything but I can’t dream that away.
It’s the so-called “normal” guys who always let you down. Sickos never scare me. Least they’re committed.
tim meeting the parents.
me: look at me and my mother and then check out how awkward you and yah are.
tim: well, i didn’t come outta his uterus.
I’m not desperate so if you really want this you best come correct ’cause I spell woman Z-I-Z-E-S. And I need to be wooed. You understand me? Wooed.
|Brittany, as your loving, caring, honest brother I feel the need to tell you... your boyfriend looks like a bum.|
|what're they putting in the water in dublin these days? sure as hell isn't decorum. looking like a bum is one thing, but being one is another. quit chugging all that haterade and focus on your homework, kiddo.|
|I love how we're such close friends that I can run around with boogers in my nose and you don't even notice.|
|Actually, I just haven't put my contacts in yet.|