#the coves

My hands are love letters that I have written and rewritten. They are love letters that no one will read. Too many times I have chopped these words away Only to have them returned to sender.

I am tired of bleeding ink into the paper. The only message I ever got back was “Unlovable”, In my own handwriting, But I don’t remember carving the words on my skin.

I try and trace the story to this point And find a trail of postcards reading “Unlovable”. It was the only gift my father ever left me Before heading out to sea. It was the same one clutched in my mother’s hands As she welcomed me back into a haunted house Pretending the poltergeist wasn’t the one holding her baby. I smelt it on the breath of every slur hurled at me like a perfectly polished stone, Not quite blunt enough to be called the truth, but sharp enough to cover me in cuts. I name them battle scars, as they heal leaving letters written on my skin. I address them to people who named me unlovable with their words and actions, People who don't realize they are always speaking, That body language and silence are just as deafening as a preacher on Sunday spitting biblical fire, But I was forged in fire. I burned long enough to become my own sun. I shined in the darkness, In a place devoid of love. I got tired of naming myself unlovable, Which is to say I got tired of praying to not wake up every night, And decided to love myself. And yet, What do you do when you love yourself, But the world still calls you unlovable? When you fall in love with yourself, But no one falls for you, and the only love you feel comes from within? Soon every, “I love you” in the mirror starts to feel like a lie, So you lie in bed, And think about every failed relationship you’ve ever had, Like that playlist you listen to when you’re sad, A metaphor for the episodic depression, You’re just living out the lyrics in tandem with trying to breathe. Sadness becomes a blackhole and we all know that no matter how bright, Light cannot escape the pull. I’m dragged back, Kicking and screaming To the same conclusion that has chained me to this mountain; I am unlovable. These love letters were never meant to be held. They are not meant to be put in shoe boxes To unfold on sad days. Did I not write them well enough? Is the ink pulled from my veins not pure enough? Are the pretty words written on ugly parchment? I'm searching for the meaning in unlovable, But I come us as empty as this feeling in my chest When another boy says it's just bad timing. It’s so lonely in this shoe box. I’ve read and reread these letters so many times, I forgot who they were meant for. I’m only reminded by the realization I forgot on purpose. That love notes aren’t that much different than chain letters. It’s like reading a suicide note over and over again, Trying to figure out what could’ve been done differently. It’s like seeing a train wreck coming from a mile away, Eyes glued on the impending tragedy. It’s like following a treasure map only to find the place plundered. They say, I am not the people that love or don't love me, But that means nothing to a boy stranded in the Dead Sea. No one tells the boy why he's in the Dead Sea. No one believes the boy is in the Dead Sea, But all I see is a distorted reflection looking at me. I reach for answers only to come up with added years The ones I lost trying to figure out why no one cares. Why am I the only one trying to put the pieces together Teaching myself self-love at 17 Only to still feel broken at 23. I'm searching for the meaning in loving myself but still feeling unlovable.

to the pond with Pika #Chihuahuapuppy #winterwalks

sun glistens casting mid-afternoon shadow her little puppy feet prancing thru the snow and down we go to the East Pond listening to bird song Cardinals and Warblers and chicka-dee-dee off in the shrubbery new smells and things to see

Lord Sycamore of The Coves