November Love

All this talk about summer love and strawberry lips and golden skin, but no one ever talks about loving when the sky is dark grey, when the trees won’t stop shaking, and the wind moans your name.

So let me tell you about loving when the streets are cold, when you wake to crisp morning air and tangled bodies. Let me tell you about the fog that escapes your mouth before you kiss; how it moves like ghosts dancing to ballads between open lips.
Let me tell you about rose-red cheeks and rose-red noses and how good his chest feels when you’re trying to keep warm.  About rain pelting hard against your windshield and your heart pelting harder against your chest when his hands touch you.
About how warm bodies feel when everything around you is cold. About how your bones shake like the trees and the powerlines and sweaters have never felt as good as they do when they smell just like him.
All this talk about summer love and no one ever talks about loving when you’re the only lit matches in a city made of ice.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write
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a series of drafts – part ii

it’s so wrong to think of her body on yours and i don’t want to write a poem about it. i don’t want to make this suffering pretty. i don’t want to make it worth anything. i just want it to fucking fade, because if it doesn’t, i will.

is she anything like I was?
what’s her favorite part of it? is it the same or different? because now you can commit enough to commit to something-
her on your couch or in your car.

either one. either car.

it’s not cruel of me to wish i had never talked to you that night, any night.
once i shut that door it should’ve been locked. i should’ve burned down the house, i should’ve made sure you never got the chance to apologize, because i should’ve been gone.

but i’m gone now.
so it counts, i guess, even though you’re gone too.

loving differently

sometimes I repress my feelings, a lot.
obviously not on this blog, but in person.
As G and I were lying in bed one day, I had been upset with him and didn’t bother telling him why.  Finally, he asked if I wanted to talk about it.
of course I didn’t, so I said no.
To which he replied, “oh yeah, just hold it in until later and you get mad and be mean to me.”  and I was like, “yup.”
but then, something magical happened.
we talked about it.  And I realise that a plethora of my former relationships had been abusive.  No, I didn’t wear the scars or bruises, because it was emotionally abusive.
It’s hard to realise that you’re in an abusive relationship when it’s small things and snide comments that don’t really mean anything, but they do.

I cannot express how much I love G, and how much I truly appreciate him for never gaslighting me or telling me I’m overreacting; not once has he ever told me I’m fat/ugly/annoying/obnoxious, whatever it may be.

I’ve also realized that those with emotional abuse, well, we love a little differently:

We hold our distance a little longer than most people do.
We don’t want to mess anything up, so we’ll keep you at arms length so that we don’t get too close.

We play it close to the chest.
after being hurt so many times, opening up freely is a little, well, difficult. We don’t like making ourselves an open target, exposing ourselves or being completely vulnerable.  sometimes it’s best if we keep things to ourselves.

We take it slow.
not just physically, but emotionally and mentally.  it’s hard not to proceed with caution.

We’re overly suspicious.
when you’re with someone that constantly puts you down over and over again, it’s hard not to believe that you’re worthless, or question why anyone would want to be with you. It’s not that we don’t believe you like us, we’re just unsure of what’s appealing or lovable about us.

We’re hesitant about getting to know people in your life.
When you meet family and friends, it means things are getting a little more serious.  Your lives are becoming intertwined and that’s just scary.

We show affection, on our own terms.
When you cuddle up to us and we freeze, it’s because affection had been so minimal, we have to get use to it again.

We assume the worst, but hope for the best.
When scorned by the one you love, it’s hard not to build a wall around your heart, protecting it with all you have.  It’s easy to be guarded, protective, and hesitant.  We know that we’ve been hurt, and expect that things won’t last and we’ll be hurt again if we’re not careful.
Of course we hope things won’t be like the past, but we do assume the worst.  It’s a coping mechanism, and it sometimes hurts us more than helps us.

So thank you, past relationships for always being shitty and fucking me over with my future.

disordered eating

i’ve always been insecure.  i’ve never felt confident in my own skin.
finally i learned to abuse my body to make sure i was always in control.
i wasn’t going to hurt again, not without deciding who, when, and why.
it was my own defense mechanism that made me feel like i was finally in control.
except i wasn’t.
technically, i’m still not. i still cry for hours after i try on pants. i still have my days where i won’t eat because i’ve made myself nauseous thinking about every bad little thing.
i’m still terrified that i’ll wake up one day being told i’m not enough.
i can’t remember who i was before i was afraid of everything.
what i can remember is that eating was always weird for me.
i knew i had to be a “good girl” about it.
i knew i shouldn’t obsess, but obsession was expected from me by society.
i would buy the food i wasn’t obsessed with only to check out in an aisle where magazines boasted women folded over themselves, thin and glossy, even beautiful in a pout, bold letters underneath promising new ways to obsess about food.
i didn’t really care about being thin, but i knew i should care.
i didn’t care if other people were big, but i felt out of control when i felt big.
i felt swollen or greasy or gross; sometimes all of the above.
i loved when i could forget about it, but i often couldn’t. feeling like those other people that ate less judged me for eating more – even though i never judged anyone for what they ate or how often.
it was a fine line.
we could joke about diets and calories and complain about how wide we were – but if you talked about it too much, threw away too many lunches, didn’t smile fast enough, you were crazy. it became this odd hole, where i’d eat to fix things, but eating made me feel guilty. i couldn’t do it normally. three meals was too many, then not enough. one meal would have thousands of calories one day, the next i would spread out celery sticks, never eating them, just to look. i just wanted to be normal.
and something about eating took that from me.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

“think of his career.”

oh, my mistake.
i was thinking of her life, of the smile that’s left her eyes, of how ashes taste, of how
i had to burn the outfit he touched me in when it used to be my favorite.
i was thinking of her, as a person instead of the money he’s capable of making.

i know, astronomically, in the bank account, his future means more than my body because come on, didn’t he already own me?
can’t i just get over it for him, for the sake of propriety?

oh, my mistake.
there’s no fire here, just ghosts, just memory.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

Mental Health.

so I’ve realised something that is really not talked about that much with mental health stuff is just.. how easily it can come back.

One day I’m really doing well and not even thinking bad stuff, and then one terrible thing can happen the next day and I absolutely.. just spiral.

And then it’s really hard to reach out for help because people are like well you seemed fine this whole week/month/these past few months so what can really be wrong?

And I’m like you know what? You’re right! I can’t be feeling this right now! I didn’t do anything to earn these terrible feelings so I must feel great!

Which really just feeds into the whole thing.