even though you're not mine

I still love you, with my entire heart and soul.

I still wish you'd be the one to ask what's wrong, to call me at night. To kiss my cheek.

I still hope that one day you'll sit there looking at her, and realize she's not me.

I still pray that you'll fight for me. 

That you'll drop what you're doing, that'll you'll be fearless at my expense.

I still wish I could have loved you when you did all those things for me.

I still wish I could have embraced what we had.

I still wish I could have given you the attention you deserved.

and

 I still wish we could try again.

human.

Sometimes I wonder why he told me he loved me. I wonder if he understood what that meant. As I sit here in this strange home, I imagine what kinds of memories are woven into the vintage green carpet. I wonder how many tears and heart breaks the walls have watched. The photos are framed by wrinkled fingers. The familiar buildings are still there. The tired bed frame stands, even after the children are gone. 

I wonder what there is to learn from the pain that we feel. I wonder what life lesson we're meant to teach our children. I look at his picture, hanging on the wall.

 In it he's smiling:

 He's happy.

But he's gone. 

I try to imagine what his pain felt like. I try to picture him crying, hopeless, in a ball on the floor.

And I see him;

his brow covered in sweat,

his cheeks glistening with salt from tears.

his body, cold, deep within the earth. 

Perhaps had he still been here, he'd be sitting across from me. Holding my hand. Telling me it'll soon all be over. For some reason when they tell me those words, it means nothing. For some reason, I feel as though they say it like they're watching a movie, a movie that eventually has to end. Their words bring no encouragement. Their aid brings no comfort. No real relief. I can feel their intentions. Their desires behind their actions. I can sense when their efforts are genuine, and when they're not. I will never understand why people say things they don't mean. I will never be able to comprehend how someone can truly give selfless service to another. And perhaps, in this life I'm not supposed to. But for the time being, it seems to me that  it's no longer enough to keep repeating,

 "this too shall pass." 

Because now, for the time being, I'm almost convinced it's not supposed to. 

him

 lovers.

so similar, so perfect.

 distance.

cold. foreign. ugly.

confusion. anger, betrayal.

separation.

relief, revival, renewal.

longing. nostalgia. forgiveness, 

but..

not.
love.

 

i saw a movie once where a boy asked a man why we stay with shitty people. 

  "we accept the love we think we deserve" 

was his answer.

sitting here along side the woman who gave me life i wonder, 

why does she accept him? 

don't you see what he's doing?

it's interesting how a relationship can take over your entire life

your entire identity

your entire personality

your entire spirit

and yet, we think we deserve this. 

we think we did something wrong.

how could we be so oblivious to the most important thing in the world?

what is the most important thing in the world? 

ourselves. 

we can't stop

i've always felt oppressed by people. 

i didn't know how to deal with it, until i learned that there's a thing called

 not-giving-a-damn

once i figured out how to do this, i couldn't stop. 

Blonde Brownie

Today I wore long blonde extensions to school. Tons of people looked at me strange and people who I thought weren't my friends suddenly came up to me asking me what had happened. As if I had walked away from a car crash in bloody clothes.

But it gave me perspective. As I was driving away in a tiny red car I wondered if I would someday use fake hair when all of mine was gone. I wondered what it would be like to have cancer, and see yourself literally falling apart. I wondered if I would attempt to "fix" myself with synthetic hair, and make up, or if I'd let myself go; let life take it's course. 

I read a poem today in class about death. Everyone seemed to think that it was shocking, traumatizing thing, but for what ever reason, it seemed inviting to me. 

"For death in war is done by hands;

Suicide has cause and stillbirth, logic;

And cancer, simple as a flower, blooms."

How beautiful and attractive it would be do die as a flower. Blooming through your entire body until you can no longer function. I don't know why death seems so wonderful to me. I mean, it's not like I'm going to hunt down the nearest radiation field, but what a gentle way it seems to go. Not ignoring the fact that I know it would be painful, and sad, but I feel as though it would also come with knowledge and a new understanding of what's going on, or what's going to happen. 

I don't know enough to say this, but I'll say it anyways. I think I'd like to die of cancer. I think I'd like it very much. 

It's so strange what a familiar smell can do to a person. Or an old song, or clothes, or movie.

 His shirt can infuriate me and make me want to throw it into a fire. 

His sweater can soothe, and calm me to sleep. 

But that song always makes me uncomfortable. That movie always makes me sad. 

But it's a good shirt, it's an old sweater. 

Sure it's a gross song but, no, actually there's nothing good about that song. 

But the movie was well done.