feeling good, living better

“I like people who are naturally different and unique. Not the people who try so hard to emulate those characteristics.”

“You deserve to be loved consistently, not conditionally; with someone’s whole heart, not just the remaining pieces of it.”

I cannot say you are beautiful. I cannot compare your eyes to stardust or nebulas or say your voice is as delicate and soft as lace. Although you are my whole universe, you are not my whole universe, because to say so would be an insult to space. People are not that beautiful. You are not a complex planet or a system of stars. You are only human. You are broken. You are messed up. I am messed up. We are messed up. We made mess just to tell people we are uncivilized. And no matter how enticing that sounds, they are brittle lies. And there is no great galaxy in your little eyes. I cannot say you are beautiful. I have no words to convince you of how real this is, how deep I feel, this is the most I can give you. I cannot say you are beautiful and I sure as fuck can’t forgive you. I am sorry. I am sorry I write poetry to make me feel like I deserve you. Like the longer you spend on the tip of my pen makes me more qualified to love you then any of them. I am sorry I write poetry and part to preserve you. I have observed you on so many accounts but it amounts to nothing if I can’t wait to see you in person and patience was never my virtue. I am sorry I write poetry sometimes just to hurt you. I wonder if you wonder who it’s about, I doubt it. But lately, the trees have been smelling like broken promises and the grass has been far too green. And sometimes I make metaphors to mimic your mannerisms and I don’t even know what they mean. When I was young, I used to eat all the food I hated first and save the best for last. It felt like an honor. I keep thinking that you’re just waiting to honor me, but you’re saving me for last and I’ve been fasting but today, I ate my dessert first. And it just gave me a stomachache. And standing in the rain gave me a cold. My mother told me not to do these things. And to stop talking on telephones. She warned me of the colds and the aches and the cold aches in your bones. And when the grass is too green, the trees smell like burnt toast. I imagine your mouth tastes like stale candy. And today I ate stale candy. And it settled my stomach but not my fears. And today the raindrops filled my bed with tears. And my mother said, “Honey, he’s not the type of boy to call anyone his.” So I will not call you beautiful because no one really is.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. “You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely ‘pretty’.

To be able to say: I loved this person, we had a hell of a nice time together, it’s over but in a way it will never be over and I do know that I for sure loved this person, to be able to say that and mean it, that’s rare, señor. That’s rare and valuable.

I had this once