Linguistic mishaps

I have built, deep in my heart, a chapel filled with you.

have you ever stopped a guy in the middle of sex? I stopped my bf last night and I feel really bad about it. :(

YOU DIDN’T WRITE ME LOVE POEMS, SO NOW I’M WRITING THEM FOR MYSELF. CAPITAL LETTERS ON MY HEADER SO PEOPLE KNOW I’M MAKING CHANGES YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE APPROVED OF. NO MORE SMALL VOICES HERE, I’M LAUGHING LOUD NOW, I’M SINGING WHERE OTHERS CAN HEAR ME, I’M PRETENDING THAT I’M ON STAGE BECAUSE MAYBE SHAKESPEARE KNOWS A LITTLE SOMETHING.  YOU NEVER PUSHED MY HAIR BACK BEHIND MY EAR.  YOU NEVER HELD ME GENTLY TO WAKE ME. YOU ONLY KISSED ME IF IT MEANT GETTING ME NAKED. YOU DIDN’T BUY ME CHOCOLATE. YOU NEVER DREW ME FLOWERS. WE WATCHED YOUR SHOWS AND LISTENED TO YOUR MUSIC AND ATE THE FOODS THAT YOU LOVED AND I TOLERATED. YOU NEVER HELD MY HAND LIKE YOU MEANT IT. WELL NOW I’M PUTTING IN EXTRA CONDITIONER AND LATHERING UP. I’M NOT WEARING MY HAIR LIKE I USED TO. I’M SOMEBODY ELSE NOW, AND I LOOK IT. MORNINGS ARE BLISS BECAUSE I RISE AND I MEAN IT. I KISS THE MIRROR BECAUSE I’M PRETTY AND PERFECT AND I DON’T NEED TO WAIT AROUND FOR YOU TO REMEMBER TO TELL ME IT, I KNOW IT. I DRAW MY OWN FLOWERS ON EVERYTHING I OWN, I BATHE IN THEM. I MARATHON SEASONS OF TELEVISION WITHOUT WORRYING THAT YOU’LL MISS SOMETHING. I LISTEN TO MY MUSIC SO LOUD THAT THE SPEAKERS START JUMPING. I EAT FOOD THAT FEELS GOOD AND I FEEL GOOD TO BE EATING. AND MY HANDS? THESE HANDS THAT HAVE SCOURED FLOORS AND YOUR SKIN AND HAVE HELD YOU AND HELD US TOGETHER AND PUSHED MYSELF INTO THE IDEA OF WHAT YOU WANTED AND SCRATCHED AND CLAWED AND NEVER TOOK ENOUGH? THESE HANDS ARE ATHENA. THESE HANDS ARE TEMPLE DOOR. THEY ARE WOLF ON THE PROWL. THESE HANDS DON’T NEED TO APOLOGIZE FOR WHERE THEY’VE BEEN, THEY KNOW AND THEY ARE HAPPY ABOUT IT. THESE HANDS COULD BUILD CITIES AND BURN DOWN ROME. THESE HANDS GROW GARDENS AND SEW WITH STEEL. THESE HANDS KNOW FIRE. THESE HANDS WRITE ME DESTINY, PAINT ME SKY, SWADDLE ME SLEEP. THESE HANDS ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO PULL ME TO SHORE. I AM FREE. I AM FREE. NO. I DON’T NEED YOU ANYMORE.

No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.

I in my tiredness watch for softness. I lean against walls to hold them up, imagine them crumbling as I pull away. I in my aching look elsewhere for contact. For people holding hands or trying to. For people walking towards each other. I turn away before they reach each other and later wonder if they ever did.