Aching for you

For a headache, aspirin

For a muscle ache, ibuprofen 

For an ear ache, antibiotic

For a stomach ache, Tums

For a heartache…what?

I know one thing for sure:

I feel the pain like a cut.

And I can’t get the cure:

It’s miles away. 

When push comes to shove,

The ache’s here to stay.

Oh, my dear love,

The cure’s simple to find,

Just not to do. 

It’s clear in my mind:

I just need you. 

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Soulmate

Jan 28, 2014

I want something real.

I want something lasting.

I want someone to have and to hold till death do us part.

The commitment part, the responsibility, the adult bits? Those can wait. I’m in no rush.

But I want to find that person, that man I can see beside me for the rest of my life. I don’t want to get married anytime soon. But I do want to see that door open and know it is a possibility.

A year ago I wanted a relationship. Any relationship, really. Sure, I had a couple crushes, but if pretty much anyone approached me I would have been willing, because I craved the recognition. I worried about shared values, interests, etc., but put those worries on hold. Why not just give it a shot and see how it goes? Continue reading

On dancing partners, or the lack thereof

All these years, I thought I wanted my special someone to be a fantastic dancer who could sweep me off my feet. He’d have to, to make up for my two left ones. I always thought it would be the most romantic thing in the world to glide across the ballroom dance floor with my prince charming.

I’ve changed my mind.

I want my special someone to be a horrendous dancer. Just abysmal. An absurd jingle-jangle of limbs that you can’t make sense of, because you’re too busy laughing your guts out watching.

And I want to dance with this someone — in the privacy of our own apartment — stomping around and waving our arms with wild abandon to the sound of our Disney Favorites playlist on shuffle, not caring how ridiculous we look, because goshdarnit, we’re having the time of our lives.

True Colors

True Colors
an angry poem from May 2013

Slow down, I thought.
Step back.
Take a look before it all goes black.
Heavy heart, troubled mind.
Nothing worse than running blind. 

What am I feeling?
It’s too soon to know.

— scribbled in a notebook while I was dating the subject of the angry poem that follows


Too soon?
Yeah, too soon.
I barely knew who you were, all right,
and now that I’ve seen your true colors I’m repulsed.
Beneath the flaky gold varnish I cringe at what’s beneath:
a fleshy mass of yellow, diseased tissue,
tinged green
and laced with veins of red
–scars that still bleed–
trembling like jello
and barely holding itself together.
I pity it.
I pity you.

Good luck with your future endeavors.
No sarcasm. I mean it.
I hope that by the time you find your soulmate,
you’ve had time to heal,
so she doesn’t see the ugly mess I’ve seen.
I hope you can hold it together with her
better than you did with me,
better than you did with the others,
because no girl deserves to be the victim of your insecurity,
least of all her.

I have no regrets, but I hope you do:
The first step to healing is admitting you’re sick.
You’re sick, boy, more sick than you know,
That ragged tear through your heart never closed.
Every breath you take rips apart the slowly repairing flesh yet again,
Till the newly opened wound
Aches.
Throbs.
Festers.
You tell yourself it’s over,
You tell yourself she’s gone.
I barely know you, and
Even I know better–
You’re not over it.
Her shadow still hovers over you,
And you’ve absorbed that darkness into your soul.
It’s twisted you, boy–just look, you’ll see.
And you have no right to take that out on me.

Good luck to you, boy.
I wish you the best.
Get well soon, heal,
Move on, live your life,
And learn to care without hurting those around you.
You’ll be better off for it,
The girls you pursue in the future will thank you for it,
And your true colors will shine through:
A deep clover green and a rich, warm gold,
Waving proudly in the wind.