Trapped in White Suburbia

I kept asking him if he was okay after the first time we made love. My hand rested on his face as his body faced mine, I could feel him smile beneath my palm. "I'm always okay," he replied. I later came to know that his state of being wasn't contingent on my presence, it never was. I brought others into my bed, my sanctuary, hoping that each one would mask the smell of you. As their hands traced my body, I hoped that they'd wipe away every trace of you.

I loved myself. Or at least I thought I did. I loved myself as much as one who had never known love, could. Like hands fumbling in the dark grasping the first thing they touch without knowing what it is. I've felt more than I could carry and tasted more than I could stomach. Regret was something I had grown accustomed to, greeting it every morning as if it were my lover. I began to think that destruction was my destiny. Self-love begins with acceptance and forgiveness. Everything is new from days to chances to breaths. I exchanged burdens for blessings and my confusion for clarity. I have come to find that "nothings" are always something and everything has value. I am not pure nor perfect, sometimes I am not even sure if I am beautiful; but I am mine.

I could love you. With you, I could watch the days turn into nights and then back again. Together we could count the stars and the time it takes for us to grow weary.   Double knot your soul to mine and we could Double Dutch across the galaxy. I could grow gardens with you. Cater to dry soil and scorched Earth for you. Whisk water into nectar for you, ensuring our well would never run dry. Come, roll around with me in endless fields of cane sugar and honeydew.                                         I could dry your tears. Kiss fear from your lips and make you forget what regret feels like. Darling, I could grow old with you. Stand firm beside you even when it gets hard to stand. Let me be your backbone. Let me carry and caress you like waves returning to the only home they've ever know. I could deep sea dive into your abyss. Let me journey to the center of your universe. Go around the World in eighty days and back, with you. I could love you here, I could love you there, I could love you anywhere. I could love you, in another lifetime, perhaps.                                 Just.                                                 Not.                                                               Now.

I thought I became a woman that night. I was wrong. I became a woman when I kissed you goodbye, unknowingly, for the last time on the coldest day in June.                     It was at the corner of Broad and the end of us. I can still see your car pulling off heading East towards the highway. As you drove away, I swore you'd come back for me. Well, that was a year ago, and you were and still are the one that changed everything. I find myself leaving flowers in the parking lot of the last place you loved me. And no, it won't bring you back. But, I will still light a candle in your absence and say a prayer that you find your way back to me.

I want someone that would follow me down the rabbit hole, unprepared, yet unafraid.

It's three in the morning and you're halfway across town resting in another's arms. They don't know how to hold you. They don't know that the room can't be too hot or too cold; or that the window has to be cracked just right. They don't know how many times to kiss your forehead before you close your eyes. They don't know how many conversations it takes until you grow tired. They don't know that it was my voice that soothed you. But I do.

You told me that I reminded you of magic; the kind you'd find in fairy tales. The kind of magic that was hidden underneath dragons, and white horses, and people that by chance or mysticism happened to look a lot like you and me. The kind of magic that broke spells and built fortresses out of stardust; but above all, never died.  I am magic, but not because you said so. I am magic, but just because I am magic, doesn't mean that I am not mortal.

I hope you wake up one day and realize that you broke the only person who had the courage to love you out loud.

I could write the most beautiful things about you, if only you'd let me.

I saw her in November, but she looked like Spring; as if the flowers around her bloomed with every breath she took. Her walk was thunderous, like she had never felt fear or tasted sorrow in the form of rolling teardrops. Her eyes held the story of the universe in ways I could never fathom. Her body swayed in rhythm with the ocean, but not as though they were one. It was as if she was orchestrating the very movement of the waters; it was as if she were the moon herself. I didn't catch her name, but by the way she threw her head back and laughed with every ounce of her being, I knew it had to be something beautiful.

I guess by now you've heard that I've been doing alright. I'm assuming you've heard that I've restarted. Rebuilt. Redirected. Replaced. I reckon that's why you're suddenly at my doorstep at three in the morning. It's been eight months and twelve days, but who's even keeping track anymore. And even after all this time, the mere sight of you caused me distress, unrest, nostalgia. By the time the clock strikes four, I will have to reteach and restore all that I had come to know by letting you go. I am afraid that at a quarter to five, you would have smooth talked your way back into my arms. At six in the morning, when the sun kisses your face through the window, it will be as if nothing ever happened. As if time never began. As if you had never been the one to walk away. As if I was never the one to let you back in.

I just write the first thing that enters my heart, and the last thing that leaves my mind and everyone calls it “poetry.”

To the One that Loves Them Next, Don't. I wish I could tell you that they are mature enough to handle all the love that you are prepared to give them, but they are not. I wish I could tell you that their intentions are pure and that their heart is good, but I cannot do that either. They are an opportunist . They want what they want until they want something that they think is better. And I am afraid to say admit that they always want something "better." Loving them is like building your castle on a frozen lake. You think everything is fine, until it isn't; but in all honesty, it never was. The temporarily frozen ground gives a sense of comfort and security. Take refuge somewhere else. For when the weather warms and the ice thins, safety is something you will no longer feel.