Lighting My Dark

Listening to Of Monster and Men contemplating my life and all that it is  made up of in this moment—  which is mostly just the thoughts of you and how I would do anything  to bridge this distance

but afraid—  always afraid of coming on too strong. 

So I tone down my love, my love  my needs,  my hunger,  the things I am ready to do  if you only ask. 

Lightness-- the weight of wanting suddenly lift from my shoulders-- a year-and-a-half too late slipping out of me like water from a cracked bucket leaving me empty

I just wanted to write tonight- in this cold but calm night my eyes tired from watching things that are not real while all the reality around me too busy to care about me.

I read what a friend wrote today and I felt envious of all the words that never came out of me.

It is nice to be sitting alone though- so undisturbed for the first time in my life- like dust settled on everything untouched.

How wonderful to not be cleaned or called just sitting in this peace that I hoped for but cannot bear now.

How funny.

How funny to want things until you get them.

And how funny to love and not being loved back. How impersonal. How cruel

I have a yellow notebook that I got for free for being a member of a book club when I was in school. A yellow notebook with off-white pages- so blank and untouched for years And I have this yellow pencil that I stole from my brother because it is perfect with a tiny eraser at the back that I do not seem to be using at all And I am sitting in this room with the walls painted yellow- not my favourite shade of it- a shade darker but it still feels warm And I am waiting for all this yellow to make me feel yellow too but it hasn't yet. It is still just blue

I think about tomatoes- round and ripe and rolling away from me

And I think about the knife- sharp and sturdy and shaking in my hands

And the stove is lit and the oil is hot and the garlic is burnt but the onions are still okay

And the room is silent and everything in the whole world is waiting for the tomatoes- finely chopped and flavourful- in the dish I would serve no one

I tone my hurt down, sugarcoat it and wrap it neatly between words that mean nothing to me anymore, the fact that I can write them anymore; a miracle in itself

saving you from the enormity of my grief, my disappointment, presenting it to you in bite-size; easy on the stomach

nothing that would betray me to you ever again. Never again.

The Sound of the rain is loud enough to distract me from the sounds in my head. The thunder wakes me up from my slumber and drags me outside.

I see the rain. I see it fall and fall and fall— it is the first day of fall.

A promise of winter. Cold cold cruel winter crawling up my spine. It gives me an excuse for all my excesses— sleeping longer, staying in bed always, not dressing up, going out, or even pretending to want to.

The flowers in my mother’s garden is scarce— falling and fading away each passing day.

Give it a few months and it would all be overbearing green. No colour but green. So much green.

There would be fire every night, that my brother would light, and I so wish to be away before that time comes— before everybody is happy and drunk around the bonfire as if there are no worries in their lives, no dreams that aren’t crushed everyday a little.

I have a nice little life with less to complain about. Only the worries I make up for myself gnaw at me— Dreams of a better life— somewhere away, somewhere better, far from all these comforts I have and find them all, all over again all by myself.  A nice bed to sleep in, a weighted blanket, fairy lights, a shelf full of books, some tea, sunflowers, and music, and beer, and friends, and a better mental health, that is for sure. Better relationships with people I don’t have good relationship with as soon as I have them around in person. A better life that will only be more lonesome and troublesome than I can bear. I can give up and find whatever it is I want to find without giving up all of it— all these little things that I love so.

Every year I wonder what my life would be like the next year— Will I finally have somebody to kiss on the lips? Will I walk on this earth as if I know my place? Will I look any different? I always wonder if my life would change in the direction I want it to change. It rarely does. . Days turn to weeks turn to months turn to another year— and all you have to kiss is your pillow; tired of you and you walk on this earth still like a ghost; wondering if you are at the right place at all. and you look just the same, or worse. your life does not change much at all. . But you are a little a different each year— you read more poetry you are gentler you stand up for yourself. You survive every year. You survive. Sometimes you almost thrive. You keep going. That’s enough for now.

there are days I feel paper thin— like even a drop of water can devour me like the fact that I am still not bent out of shape is at the mercy of hands that have not yet had the chance to touch me and I cannot wait to be touched.

When I think about love I think about anchor I think about it being something that can ground me, bring me back. Something that is sure and there. I think of it as something I can come back to after a long tiring day. As something that will hold me and lull me to sleep. I think of it as something I can touch something that can touch me— a simple touch, devoid of any calculations or cunning or cruelty or lust. Just a simple human touch that can bring me back to my body. That can remind me I am real. Often, though, when I think about love I am just thinking about you, simply sitting there with me, holding my hand which is enough to keep me from floating away.

Lack and Loss and loss and lack—  they sound similar but they are not. I’d rather have lost than lacked because loss means to have before you lose. I never had you. Lack is unbearable. Longing longing never ending. 

Lack is also my favourite word. 

Once google told me my name means lack. It means to love, of course, and I think to myself —  isn’t love a lack too? I have always loved what I’ve lacked. 

I am having a hard time adjusting to this.. loss of feelings; feelings I had for so long I never thought they would leave. I felt real for so long and now I don’t know how to feel anything anymore. I am not sad. I just feel.. nothing too much. And days go on and on and on. 

I want to have. I want to touch. I want to never lose what I lack. I suppose what I am trying to say is I don’t want to lose you.