sinner {poetry}

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJ08zCFp2WQ]

Was listening to this…got thinking. Something quick to get it out of my head

Hanging on the edge
I got up and said “I have to go”
Too late to undo last night
Too soon to try and fix it all
In the silence of the morning
piling on sins to wash away it all
tearing everything I know apart

Come over
the words escaped my fingers
and then it was too late
just to get a hand on mine
an arm around my waist
piling on sins
to rush the forget
the more the more the more and it’ll all be OK.

I don’t like who I became with you
and I am only so sure of who I am
piling on the sins
looking for the needles
just to feel the pain
and find myself in their arms

Maybe just once
I’ll get it right
and I’ll forget
who I was with you.

Piling on the sins
piling on the sins
and in the ashes
I’ll be there.

XIII: fairy tales {unedited chapters}

This is not a story to make anyone feel better and maybe there are no fairy tale endings here, but there is something. The wash wash wash of the words and the spilling of letters onto white can ease. There is no moral, there is no overt struggle.

It is not easy, it is not hard. This is a story. Just a story about a girl, a boy, another boy, a journal and a life. Maybe there will be more people, maybe less.

Stop reading now if you want to leave with a better view of the world.

Mail {free writing}

I sent it back
I sent it back to you

I sent it back because the other day I found it in my bag and it hit me like a train. The anger and sorrow associated with it was too much. So, I sent it back.

I didn’t sign it. I could have, but I couldn’t sign the note.

Why? Because of the flowers at my door, because of the self-centered need you had to keep part of me, even when you wouldn’t have all of me. The words came out of your mouth slowly, like a dying man’s spittle. They still fucked me up beyond recognition.

I am only as beautiful as I imagine and my self portrait will never be the same. The older you get, the more you give, hoping, just hoping, that this time, this time it will stick. The more jaded we get with age, battlescars from trying to love the unlovable, the ones who deemed themselves unworthy to love others, but could not keep themselves away from someone warm next to them at night. I cannot change what has been undone, but I can build another sandcastle, one where it’s OK to take a day off and lay at the beach and OK to work until midnight because it makes me happy. A castle I can live in by myself. Or with someone who sees everything I am, yet wants me to be my version of better.

I sent it back because it hurt to look at it and realize this is what I’ve done to myself. Knowing it would work out like this, but willing to risk it anyway. For what? Exactly for what do we take the risks for? You asked me to bear my soul and took it for granted. So strange, the things we do to ourselves, pushing ourselves over the same cliff over and over again. Is this heartbroken? Or is this the worst sense of regret I’ve let myself feel in ages?

I am not in love with you. You shouldn’t feel smug in knowing that you have ruined me for others, that you were the only one who could break me like this. Life breaks me like this. I break my like this. I am not ruined. I am beautiful, intelligent and everything you never saw, nor took care to keep safe. You were reckless with the gifts I gave you, yet I am gentle with what I am sending back. This is not forever, and I know by sending it back that this is it. I am happy. I am happy in a storm.

It will be in the mail tomorrow. Sent to somewhere you might be. It might get to you, it might not. But it doesn’t matter.

I sent it back.