If there’s one thing I need to learn, it’s when to let go. I have always clung to the idea – when it’s not making you happy, when it’s more of a struggle than a pleasure, when you’re being held back, you let go. And I firmly believe that. But I have always been the woman who will fight within inches of her last breath – and perhaps I have always fought longer than I should. I have always prided myself on my fight – I am fiercely loyal to the end, and beyond.  But it’s also one of my greatest downfalls. How can I move on when all I’ve ever known is to continue fighting, even when it’s killing you? How can I simply end the fight, without a knockout or a white flag? But this time, it’s the fear that the fight will never end – that I will always be fighting, without an end in sight. All the times it should have been different, all the times we thought it would get better – and it did, but the fight never ended. And I maybe I will forever be unsure if it was the right thing to do – but I needed to follow my common sense, for once. I needed to realize that I will never be the person I want to be if I’m constantly trying to be the person he loves. Perhaps they could be one in the same, perhaps we’ll see – but I’d never know me if I hadn’t stopped fighting.

And so I return to my question – when is it right to let go? What if you’re not unhappy, but you’re no longer happy? What if you’re not sure he’ll be willing to love you like you need? There’s a million what ifs, and all I know for sure – you let go when you hear yourself say it, and know it’s true.  

distance between us.

Distance is a funny thing.
It's more than just distance - it's being distant.
Two entirely separate concepts. I could be eons away, and not feel like someone is distant at all.
It's hard to explain when someone is being distant - it's a lack of interest, a lack of caring, a lack of trying.
But more than anything, it's that feeling in your gut that tells you - they're not thinking of you anymore.

and it's strange - the more distant someone becomes towards you, the more distance you put between you. Or maybe that's just my mind, preparing for what seems to be the inevitable.

I'm so finely attuned to the switch from being present and being distant. For some reason my heart and soul know when all of a sudden their hearts aren't in it. And who knows where it came from - but all I know is, I've never been wrong before.

I'd like the be proven wrong.

In his words....

Her summer was not earned.
The silence is winter-cold, and I can’t bear her heat.
Break the winter-cold, and I am standing in the desert.
“What did I do?” her voice is baby-soft, her bones as
fragile and hollow as a hummingbird’s.
Razor-sharp and surgically precise, my petrified wood-eyes burrow
Into the marrow of her bones, into her weakness.
“Do, dear? Why, you haven’t done a thing!”
Brow furrowing, child lost in the tidal waves.
I can’t stand her fucking innocence.
I once had that, but a bandit stole it in the dead of the night,
And replaced it with the pretty powder.
And now it’s her turn.
I hit her out of betrayal, out of the need for her to know:
Fate isn’t hers to take. I rage at her helplessness,
Shred the wings of her butterfly.
I hear the screams in her head, feel the pain of that hit.
And so I get mad – at both of us, at all of us.
I scream, and I have no point anymore – I’m just mad.
I’m mad at the spit flying from my mouth, I’m mad at
My half-smoked cigarette burning my white carpet,
I’m mad at her for not knowing the world.
She doesn’t respond, and so I call her baby –
It’s an accusation, because it is her fault she’s innocent.
I don’t remember that innocence.
I hold the cigarette to her lips, and if she gets cancer from it –
Thank God.
I tell her to be better, and she promises me with her touch.
She once told me stories of her mind, of dragons and knights,
And beasts being slayed by the knight in shining white.
But love isn’t enough, and control can’t be enough.
Her summer was not earned.

Monsters in the Dark

He’s across the room… a million miles away. The cold’s radiating off of him, but she can’t quite feel him. Can’t quite make out the wind behind the chill. Gray walls, burdened with the years of nicotine’s call, and stains of… God knows what. Nothing is warm in this room, except her breath and the heat of her sighs. White carpet, stained and mangled with years of coffee, cigarettes, and… again, she doesn’t want to know what caused that stain, and that stain, and that one right next to his boots. Smoking the world away, willing all the stress to disappear. Knees up to her chest, blankets cuddled around – her nest in the cobra’s lair. The silence is burdening her, begging to be broken. And break it she does.

“What did I do?” Baby-voice harsh and dangerously teetering on breaking the shatter glass of the moment.

His head snaps up, eyes burning. Cheekbones higher than heaven’s reach, willow gentle blue-black hair cascading to frame his eyes. Razor-sharp and surgically precise: he’s burrowing into her soul to find the source of… something. “Do, dear?” his voice, gravelly and beautiful. Broken velvet stretched over bones of sin, his voice haunts her soul and petrifies all that once was. “Why, you haven’t done a thing!” Sarcasm. Edge. The knife slices as it was meant to.

Her mind scrambles, going over every last moment in her mind, every detail of the day. When did she break this?
“Then why are you mad at me?” Lamb, begging the wolf not to break her heart. To not go for the throat.

His lips curl, a garish snarl on his angel-face. He jumps on the bed, and she jumps back. His cigarette to his lips, the ember a beacon in the dim-dark room. The smoke exhales and stings her eyes, her lips, her very existence.
“Why does he call you, sweetheart?”

Ah. There it is. That anger of his, that chillingly distant anger that drove straight into her guts and froze her. That left her fighting for breath, fighting for still living. “What? No, no – only once. I didn’t answer!” She’s begging forgiveness for no sin of her own.

“You’ve flirted with him, haven’t you?” She’s fluttering, fighting against this accusation. Fighting to get away from the hand crushing her; she’s trying to fly free. First true betrayal – disbelief in the eyes of the lover.

And always, she assumes outrage against accusations will convince. “You know I haven’t! I love you!” And as always, she believes her feelings are justified. She believes that the fact that she’s completely enraptured by his every move, his every breath; the black on his fingers and the twitch of his jaw; the touch of his hand and the taste of his kiss. She’ll always believe love is enough to make it all work out in the end.

His face is stone, twitching jaw. Eyes narrow into snake-slits, looking down his nose at her breaking fears. The cigarette is thrown and a resounding smack fills the room in one fell swoop. Her world, her existence, her jaw are rearranged. Her eyesight goes blank, swimming with red and black as the pain explodes. Burning, echoing in her skull, rattling around and coming back to do it once more. He’s still screaming, telling her exactly what she needs to do to make it all better. Telling her how fucking worthless she is. But it doesn’t matter, because she can’t hear his fighting words until later, after the pain subsides. Another hit, another, another, but… she doesn’t even register until later. Her stomach heaves, her kidneys revolting against him.

She is pure outrage, angry at the fact that this man, this love of her life, would dare hit her.

“What the fuck?!” She’s yelling back now, angry beyond all comparison. A girl-child of the middle class suburbs, violence was never a part of her life. “Who the hell do you think you are?!”

His voice erupts from his throat in a bloodthirsty, inhuman snarl, and he tackles her, pinning her to the bed. His body is heavy and unwelcome for the first time, one forearm covering her throat. “You will never – fucking – speak to him again.” Graveling rasp, sandpaper voice rubbing her heart raw. Spit is flying from between gritted teeth, baptizing her face. She can’t answer, doesn’t know what to say against this monster that has replaced the love of her world. He tightens his hold. “You hear me, baby?” This baby is no longer a term of endearment – accusations replace affection. I nod frantically, begging him to just let me breathe. “Good,” he coos. He shoves me back into the mattress as he gets up, his face still the broken vestiges of the one I love. I lay there, gasping and willing the burning behind my eyes to let up, to not escape. He doesn’t want my tears, but I can’t help it when my soul has been torn from my body. I don’t understand.

He takes two steps to his pack, stepping on the dying ember burning a hole into the carpet, and for the first time I smell the burning carpet, the acrid smell of it. He lights up again, the lighter casting horrible shadows on his chiseled face. And there I see the monster of a man I’ve grown to love. I can’t leave him, he needs me too much. I’m the only thing in his life he can count on besides his nicotine. My mind sees worlds ending, stars turning to black holes, but I realize – this cobra’s nest I’m in is not one I can ever leave. Moments live forever, and so does love.

He breathes deeply one, two, three. I, love, you. He combs his hair back with his non-smoking hand, taking a deeper hit each time. One, two, three. I, love, you.

He comes to me, his body all apologies. He strokes my face, and kisses my tears. Offers me the cigarette, and I know he’ll be hurt if I don’t take a hit. So I do. I cough it all out as the smoke burns and tears my lungs, but… I’m already hurting myself with the cancer of him, what’s the harm in killing my lungs as well?

I glance up at him, searching his honey-wood eyes for answers. He kisses my forehead, and I melt like always. “Baby, I love you. I shouldn’t have lost control. I just can’t stand the thought of you being with him.” I can still hear the edge in his voice, but I forgive him – he’s worried about leaving me. “You still love me, right?” He smirks. He knows the answer.

I’m tasting the tears as I answer – “Yes, baby. Of course.”
And as a last though, I add: “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He cradles me, his body warm again against my own. “It’s okay. Just be better.”

“I’ll try.”
And between the glow of the cherry and the gray of the smoke, and the heat of his hand, and the weight of his love, I search the dark for meaning. I promise myself tomorrow will be better as every memory of my parents yelling, things being thrown, and my mother leaving crying, I remember: Love hurts. Love is pain. It is worth it.

I used to see monsters in the dark.

in my head.

It has been my experience in life that when I show my emotions, I am told I am overreacting or being dramatic, or worst of all “being bipolar.” It’s kind of hard to want to be open with my feelings and not hide myself, when all I can worry about is if they’ll think I’m crazy for what I’m feeling. No wonder why I never actually want to talk about what I’m really thinking. Whenever I do, I get that look that says, “I’m not sure I want to deal with you anymore..” It’s even worse when I know I’m not overreacting, when it’s actually justified. And so I keep my mouth shut, and it all builds up until I can’t straighten anything out in my mind, and that’s the point when everything falls apart. But apparently keeping my mouth shut is the best option most of the time. I’m sick of all this baggage but I don’t know how to unload any of it; it probably doesn’t help that I feel like I can’t talk my feelings. I’m so tired of carrying all this weight. I’m tired of worrying about things because they’ve happened before - but I have to learn from my experiences, don’t I? it’s hard for me to think the same thing won’t happen again, when I made the same mistake over and over and got the same result – over and over. Insanity is repeating the same action over and over, expecting a different result. Maybe I am insane. But it’s just hard now – when he says they are just friends – to expect a different result, even though I do trust him more than any man I’ve ever been with. My mind keeps treacherously saying, “Why wouldn’t he want to leave me for someone closer, with more of his interests?” even when I trust him. But if he leaves, he leaves, and I know that. But that doesn’t mean I want him to. I know I love him because he makes me feel alive, safe, wanted – and because I know I’d hate to lose him. But maybe that’s just me.

All I want, in the end, is to feel like I can be myself and be entirely, utterly accepted for it. I’ve never known that. Either they love me in spite of my craziness or they leave. I’d love to be loved for my craziness as well as the rest of me. I’m really tired of hiding.

not even Lennon.

http://www.hulu.com/watch/202400/waiting-to-inhale

incredible movie. really interesting.
made me think of what I may want to do with my life...
major in sociology and minor in like... something with drugs?
wa-whaaattt.(!)
nothing. I'm just (hello!!) happy and am thinking of the paths my life could take.

today broke my heart. won't be okay for awhile.
I'll be fine -- eventually.

(but I might need therapy.)

-- The boys are all over my room.
but somehow, even my John doesn't help this.

I always write about winter.

When it's here, it ravages,
and the winds howl with dawn of white.
Christmas lights with frozen shells,
hot coffee steam and lights remember.
I'm tired of the cold, she whispers.
it's always so empty.
the wrong arms, the wrong taste -
perhaps this past year has moulded us
into creatures we wouldn't recognize.
I don't want to see you, she says,
not like this - not reeking like this.
the cold bounds, and covers the world.
green was once dominant, right?
it's as if she forgets what's real.
(Run,) she hears, in the corners
of her conciousness.
(run.)

---- only one?!