I wonder if she ever knew how badly I wanted her.

I would see how nervously she would join in on the chatter of those who spoke of men, seeing how displeased she was in their attempts to win her over.

She glanced over at me to give me a little wink in between their words, her little gesture to let me know she was still present.

I was present too.

How could she go on remaining so dishonest to herself, did she not know how many open arms would welcome her in?

I was once that way.

Hiding my admiration for woman of her virtue and heart, still sometimes hesitating in my excitement in way I would never do with a man.

I should remember her fear.

Instead I move along, trusting one day she’ll find her courage, for she bares the strength more powerful than any captain she claimed to admire.

And while I could be there when that day comes, I now stand worlds away. I don’t know if it’s because it’s what she needed to grow or because I myself grew selfishly impatience and tired.

But I miss her none the less and her stories from around the sea.

#Love #bisexual #lgbt #shortstory

My emotions tend to run my days, my hours, sometimes just my minutes, making decisions for me before I can comprehend what is happening.

I’m trying to understand how it’s so possible to be filled up with so much emotion, to feel everything with so much intensity, yet I feel so empty.

Tonight I seek instant gratification, in any of its unhealthy irrational forms. Doing things, without thought, without reason, searching for something to make me feel alive. 

I search for a foolish and wreckless way I’ll ruin my life, and tonight I’ve found three.

A boy who worships my body with his words and with his touch. A ghost of man I use to know, who for years broke my heart, never choosing me. Now he’s turned me into an icon, his manic pixie dream girl, as he clings to me and our unspoken history to find the version of himself he has lost. I know I remind him of what we both could have had, and he holds me with expectations I will never reach. We are unhealthy. As he puts his body against mine, I feel a little less lonely, but a little more empty.

A boy who gives me his time and attention, never missing a single beat. We are souls of the same passion, singing along to There’s a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow, making me believe it could be true. While he’s there for me at the snap of my fingers, his temper and actions can snap just same. My time with him is a ticking time bomb, anxiously awaiting for his next explosion, praying he’ll wait long enough for the wounds from the last round of grenades.  His hand pushes my hair away from my face, kissing my lips as he says “my friend.” I’m okay with this, as long as he doesn’t treat me that way tonight. We are unstable. Wrapped in his arms I feel a little less lonely, but a little more empty.

A boy who knows me, understands my words before I say them, or so he says he does. He rides along with my moods and tells me I’m crazy, that no one will ever love me as much as he has. Believing him is easy when he’s telling me how I’m the only he has left. Usually he tries to hide the woman he left me for. Tonight, however, he is alone. He needs to be in love with someone and I need to feel loved by someone. Tonight I’m not his second choice. But even so, at least I’m on the list. We are messy. Listening to his lies I feel a little less lonely, but a little more empty.  

Choosing to keep them in my life is a battle my mind does not quite understand. If there is fine line between love and hate, then it feels like I’m never close to finding the middle ground, I’m either living on one side or the other. All it takes is one word, one laugh, one single touch, to go between the two. These three fall into the only pattern of relationships I’ve ever known: Unhealthy, Unstable, and Messy.

I am messy.

Though my brain can’t ever seem to make up its mind, I pray, and hope and beg they won’t leave me. My life feels as if it’s been nothing but frantic efforts to avoid being alone, fearing people could leave me in an instant. And tonight is no different. So God forbid they leave my life. Even when I say that I hate them, even when I should, I’ll take what I can get.

I’m terrified they will leave. Terrified everyone will.

That can’t happen, I won’t let it happen, doing whatever I can to make sure it doesn’t. Even if I have to leave myself. I’d rather leave than be left.

So tomorow will be another night, fighting to be a little less lonely, yet still a little more empty.

#FreeVerse #MentalIllness #Relationships

Overwhelming.

Isn’t it?

I was told that’s exactly how I would feel in this place with

so much stimulation

so many people

so many ways to go.

And I’m caught up in the middle of a Silly Little Street.

I’ve been told this place is a maze

how lost the ones before me have gotten

how quickly the people move from place to place

believing there’s very little time for them.

So I studied the maps, prepared for every turn, I believed my path was clear.

But nobody told me how serene this street can be and how the music is so

captivating.

Isn’t it?

Or am I the only one who’s stopped to notice

how in sync the sun sets over the buildings

before glimmering lights fill the trees

how many wishes are made with the splash of a coin

before people run along to what they think could be better.

I hear a Glenn Miller jazz melody begin and it’s pulls me closer to the center,

I stand on the sides and watch the trumpet player begin to swing

the drummer joins with a beat that’s so perfectly syncopated.

He tips his hat to welcome me to his street and invites me to dance

and I dance

joining in on the beat of their smiles.

They just want to create happiness.

And the whole street stares, but never stopping.

They have other places to be, and their time is running out.

My time is unlimited.

I hear whispers surrounding me

of how I’ll grow tired, I’ll move on.

Yet, I’m still here dancing in the middle of the street surrounded by people

just wanting to go to the next destination

without help

without taking a moment to even breathe.

How they can look around and not see

this is the place where dreams begin

I’ll never understand how they can’t see magic.

All they’ve got to do is dance under the glimmering lights.

Maybe then they’ll see their time is unlimited here on this Silly Little Street.

#FreeVerse #HappyPlace #Poem #Poetry

Alone on a barstool

A wallet full of air

She tells the bartender a story

“I once knew a man” she slurs through each word,

“He loved no one. He only loved what his senses understood”

The feel of money in his pocket

earned after a drawn out day

there never seems to be enough

for the young girl alone back at home

The sight of an open bar

lighting dark alley ways

filled with tortured souls

unable to find another light to guide them

The smell of alcohol

Enticing him to come on in

to take a seat and stay

forget the world that lives outside

The sound of husky men

away from their families

clanking their beers together

in drunken words only they understand

The taste of a freshly poured drink

a temptation he can never

stay too long away from

fulfilling his desires and everything

he thinks he needs

I will never be like him

I will never be like him

I will never be like him”

She continues to say, unaware she is alone.

“And to that, I’ll raise a glass”

#Poetry #FreeVerse #drinking #alcohol #alone #bars

12:04am

I had yet to open my car door as I held my keys in one hand, and the vibrating phone in the other. I quickly get in and turn on my heater to get away from the California cold, allowing myself to lean back into my seat and breathe for the first time that day. I’m just trying to stay awake. My phone keeps vibrating so I finally glanced down at it, then instantly lost the strength to drive away.

“Are you awake? I need some to tell you something!”

My body was worn out from the long day, but my heart is exhausted from his pursuits.

The texts keep coming, filled with apologies for reaching out to me so late. Claiming he had lost track of time. He’s running out of excuses to tell me; we both know he’s braver in the moonlight.

I scroll through the messages he’s sent me in just the last couple weeks, trying to figure out how I’ve allowed myself back in this position.

“I’m so happy you’re in my life again!”

“Our relationship is one of the most important stages of my life!”

“You still know and understand me so well!”

Each time I had responded as nonchalantly as I possibly could, not giving him a reason to pursue. My messages were fill with attempts of avoiding emotion, though that was impossible. Our relationship has always been filled with such high-strung and messy emotions.

“She’s picked out a ring, and I’m proposing to her in July!”

I thought about him standing at an altar, finally ready to start his forever, confident in the decision he’s made. I imagined the look in his eyes, wondering if would be the same one he first gave me three years ago.

Mitchell had made me believe that love at first sight was real. Not because of the laughter we shared when I saw his Doctor Who T-shirt or the instant attraction I felt to his chivalrous charm. I knew Mitchell loved me by the way he couldn’t keep his toxic blue eyes off me the entire night. He had tried to hide his helpless look behind every single one of those freckles I would softly tease him over. That night I finally understood what it meant to look at someone and feel at home, Mitchell had found that within me.

He had fallen in love with me and I adored having someone be in love with me.

And for a moment I believed he finally fallen in love with someone else.

The buzzing from my phone has finally stopped just in time for me to get the latest moonlight conversation we had.

“My girlfriend doesn’t know I’m talking to you, but I will keep talking to you, because I want too. I just don’t want her to find out”

How foolishly optimistic must I be to believe he has grown or this time he would be different? When time and time again he has found his way begging to be back in my life through deceitfulness and manipulation.

I imagined her lying next to him asleep, dreaming about how he’s going to propose with the ring she’s picked out, completely unware of what’s happening right next to her.

I feel overwhelmed with guilt.

My guilt is not from knowing I am a secret, for I am not responsible for the lies that Mitchell tells. I have been a sister to her, honest in telling her his schemes. She is not naïve; she knows the truth about him, the women he keeps in the dark, but she has chosen to stay. My heart cries for her, and has offered her a place in my home, a place for her to heal Each time I’ve extended my hand, she has slapped it away. I believe she doesn’t want to hear it. I want to tell her there is strength in surviving in a toxic relationship, but how there is more strength moving on.

I understand that no matter how he crawls and lies his way back to my doorstep, even if I don’t let him in, the blame will always be upon me for even coming to the door. I cannot hate her for how she feels, it isn’t her fault. Yet, she knows of the women he has brought into his bed. She forgives him every time he tells her where he’s been, believing every promise he’s made to never to do so again. As she lays there sleeping, she remains unaware that through all the woman Mitchell has in his life, I am still the one he needs to hide. Perhaps that’s why she can forgive him for the other woman. He tosses them aside, but I’m the constant in his life.

So, my guilt comes from not knowing about a lie, but about a truth. One that nobody but herself can make her see: He is in love with her because he needs to be in love with someone.

She is not a settlement, but instead she is trapped in Mitchell’s never-ending search for self. Because even though Mitchell needs to be in love with someone, more than that, he needs to stay in a place of comfort. I wonder, if I never pushed Mitchell out of his comfort zone, asked him to strive for more out of his life, to go after everything he was scared to believe in, if she would be the one wearing the wedding ring.

Not that it matters, not that it should matter.

I used to believe that each time he would leave my life it’s because I wasn’t enough for him. He would come and takes what he could from me, then realizes I’m too much of a challenge, that I’m too difficult for him to be with. Now there is nothing left of the girl he once knew to take.

He continues to come back anyways.

Because it was never about me being good enough, it’s about him, wondering if this time I’ll finally settle for the mediocrity of his life, to simply accept his toxic flaws and remain loyal. I am a challenge: one that he will never be worthy enough to conquer.

He fails to realize as time passes the distance to get to me is further away. I see him chasing after me and then turn around to stroll on back to her. She awaits him in his place of comfort, where I’m worried she will never leave. I want to take her with me. To let her know if she’s ever ready to join me, I’ll carry her along the way.

Because if he’s made my heart feel exhausted, her heart might feel like it’s not there at all.

12:08am

I’ve caught up to all his messages as my phone rings once more.

“If you’re not awake, it’s okay, we’ll talk another night”

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say, if I should say anything at all.

My world is more peaceful without him, my future has become unlimited without him holding me back.

Yet, I still search the for someone who will look as lost as his toxic blue eyes did when they see me, as if they have found home. As if I am the sun of their world. I’m terrified no one else ever will.

“I’m awake, what do you need?” I respond, still exhausted, still guilty.

On the first night we met my heart felt flustered, my mind was racing, my body shaking over his touch. Tonight, everything in me was still, finally understanding why I’m back here.

He needs to be in love with someone, I need to feel loved by someone.

I don’t love him back, I’m not quite sure if I ever did.

Maybe one day I’ll tell him that.

Maybe one day I’ll mean it.

#ShortStory #Relationships #Love #Heartbreak #Exhuastion #Ex #BlueEyes

In a typical movie scene, a girl would be sitting alone on a park bench, reading, texting on her phone, finishing her bagel. Suddenly her silence is interrupted, a man approaches her, telling her that he just couldn’t walk by without calling her beautiful. The story would continue to play out: the two would fall in love, they would fight, make up, or move a thousand miles away from each other, yet they overcome every single obstacle, ending with them both confessing how they never want to be without each other again. It’s raved by the hopeless romantics as they long for the day they have a love worth fighting for, a story worth telling to young and new lovers.

The cookie cutter boy meets girl story trope was one that I use to dream about. I would watch the romance movies, crying over the two lovers who fight against all odds to be together, craving and wanting that for myself. So, I gave my heart out to anyone who gave me any sort of attention, open to any possibility, any chance to begin my story.

It almost seems so long ago, because now I no longer even let the story begin. I’ll sit by myself, eating that same bagel, perhaps reading a different book. Then mid- sentence, my attention is attempted to be shifted towards the man trying to speak to me.

“My I just have to say, you’re so beautiful, would you love like to go out sometime,” or other variations of the phrase is what they'll say to me. I remove the headphone from one of my ears and I thank them for their compliment and decline as politely as can. At times they are understanding, embarrassed, but kindly smile as they thank me for my time. But more times than I can count, they persist, and I realize my politeness has come back to bite me, I should really know better by now. Aggressively, I repeat my answer, sending them off on their way. And under their breath before they turn around completely, I hear them say ever softly, “What a bitch.”

I pat myself on the back, telling myself that I’ve done well. I’ve collected all the different names I’ve been called by men: crazy, whore, etc. But “bitch” is by far my favorite to be called. Men use “bitch” as a name to call women who have decided to take charge of their own story, to not have it dictated by the opportunity to find love through a male.

Right now, I wonder if I perhaps sound pretentious, or insulting. As if I’m trying to say I’m “not like other girls,” the most internalized misogynistic statement I could make. But my words are not meant to hurt my fellow sisters, if anything, I envy the hopeless romantics, and their ability to search for love, eagerly awaiting a new chapter in their lives. They aren’t naïve for their hope, and neither was I.

Three years ago, my heart was open to every single possibility, smiling with every encounter, completely helpless the moment a pair of charming eyes laid their eyes on me, constantly wondering if this would be the one. I was helpless.

And I was in love.

My first love was a tall scruffy boy with slightly curly ginger hair, my best friend, my rock and my reason that I had to smile. And on the night he told me he loved me too, I gave my whole self to him, a night that I wanted to last forever. But it didn’t, and neither could we. In the morning he was gone, and he had taken a part of my soul with him. I began to dissolve into an empty void, hoping the men could fill it.

Every kiss that touched my lips left me with a fixation, trusting men to fulfil the craving. Every word lured me in, as I fell in love with their promises to love me forever, to treat me better than the one before, to please me the way I should be. What I didn’t know at the time was men would continue to use me, sliding their hand up my skirt before they even really knew my name. They would take what the want from me, my body, my kindness, my love, take it all for themselves, and leave once they’ve acquired what they need, just in time so they don’t have to give anything back.

Years go by and my body is filled with bruised marks from those I’ve trusted, scars from the amount of times I’ve cut open my heart to give it away. I think and tell myself, maybe I should have stop them, maybe I should have told them they need to do more before I would allow them inside.  But I know my voice is worthless in their eyes, why else would they kiss me more than they allowed me to talk other than to show me what they believe the main purpose of my mouth is is.

Perhaps I have no one else to blame but myself, for my expectations, for wanting to be treated as a human being, and for expecting men to treat me as such, for expecting to care more about my soul and the person I am than the kisses I give them

Instead, men have exhausted my soul, they have exhausted my will to open up. They have done nothing but hurt me.

So as the word bitch crosses their lips, I want to tell them how their brothers have hurt me, how they have drained the life out of so many others like me. I want to tell them how I can’t even risk the possibility of getting my heart broke again, and how I’ve been left with nothing but empty promise.

However nothing comes from my lips expect a smile, as I see that their ego has been bruised, for they have been lump into a generalization of men. They are offended by my rejection, and I want to explain that my “no” is not because of them. Then a realization comes to my mind,  because despite how the years have worn me out, nothing has exhausted me more than my constant feeling that I need to explain myself, when the word “no” is in fact a complete sentence. Because even though they have yet to brace my body and they’ve done nothing to me yet,  I’m exhausted of men believing that I owe any part of myself.

Somedays I’ll stare at a girl, maybe younger, maybe older, and wonder if her soul has been exhausted yet. I hope she isn’t, I hope she holds onto the possibility of a story that plays out exactly how it’s meant to be.

As for me,

I’m exhausted, let me be.

#Heartbreak #Personal #Love # Men #Story #Exhuasted #LetMeBe #Alone #Lonely #Done

I can’t seem to figure out how to

be an adult

I just never feel good enough

I’m nobody’s favorite

Nobody’s love

Nobody

Spare me your pity and let me live my life, untouched.

Unavailable

How is it possible

to crave

so much of the world

to want

so much out of life

and still not want to exist

and wonder how much more of life you can take

How is it possible to be grateful for life

and want to give it back

How is it possible

to smile so genuinely

but feel like screaming instead

“You’re so young

you have the time to figure it out”

Give it time, give it time, give it time

but what if I don’t have the time

or worse

what if I don’t want the time

–dealing with anxiety and depression

#Mentalillness #Anxiety #Depression #Youth #Poetry

In a crowd of thousands, I sit in the middle of the audience. My dress is fitted, and my makeup is divine, there is not a hair out of place.

I could say that I dressed for the occasion, but who would believe me?

It’s sure to be a marvelous night, filled with music, and filled with love.

There are so many musicians onstage tonight, but I’m only here for you Maestro.

The curtain rises, and the audience cheers as you walk out to center stage, a baton in your hand. The musicians have waited for you, they all lift their instruments and begin to play.

Following your tempo, obeying every beat.

And I have been captivated from the first note played.

You are the conductor, and this is your symphony, your masterpiece.

Every note perfection, every sound your own.

You are in control.

In a crowd of thousands, I admire you from afar. I patiently wait for your song to end, for you to turn around and our eyes to meet,

wondering if they even will meet.

I’m pathetic.

I know that I am, for thinking that you might feel the same, to even think, in a crowd of thousands, you would possibly be looking for my eyes. When I already know there is another girl,one who you love, one who is sweet enough to inspire your melody.

She is more than your muse, she is your reason, and I see your passion for her with every stroke of your hands.

It’s what has made your music different from all the rest.

There’s a pause in your composition, your hands hold the orchestra still. They await your approval to play on.

Oh God, Why am I here?

I don’t even know anymore. To win your heart? To take you away to a place where I can call you mine? In a perfect world, you would change the melody unexpectedly, not caring for the audience’s approval. When it was all over you’d drop your baton, and you’d run out into the crowd of thousands, searching for me.

“It was all for you my love,” you would say, and then we’d run out of the theatre, never looking back.

Suddenly the music begins again, and reality has set back in.

You take the next stroke of your baton, directing the orchestra to continue with your song. They follow your intense movements, performing your melody exactly how you intended it be.

Is it a crime, to feel how I do?

It can’t be. We don’t do anything wrong. You don’t try to impress me, never flirting with those eyes I love so much. You don’t do anything except be yourself: A soul filled with ambition to succeed, a smile that warms even the coldest of rooms and eyes that showcase the truth of your genuine heart.

And who am I?

Just a simple nobody who has fallen for your kindness in a world that has shown me little to none.

A nobody who has fought endlessly to stop my heart from skipping a beat and my soul from flying over the moon at just the mere site of you.

A nobody who wants this feeling to end

But even when the desire is unrequited, the heart still wants things the mind does not understand.

So I fail, and I am helpless knowing there is no controlling my foolish heart.

You already have your muse, your orchestra, your melody, and if I ever tried to take that away then I wouldn’t just be a nobody, I would have become the person I hate the most: A woman who hurts another sister out of jealously, out of spite. I’d be a criminal, a thief of love, a murderess of hearts, creating loss and grief.

I cannot intervene your song just so mine can begin.

She doesn’t deserve that, and my love, neither do you.

Though I crave your beautiful symphony, it is not for me. So, I tell myself, if she’s the reason behind your melody that you’ve created, the song I want to sing along to, then I need to let you go

My heartbreak will be worth it,

To see that smile I adore, to still hear the song I sing along to.

The music stops,

You turn around to find the audience is already on their feet.

They are bursting with praise as you lift both arms into the air and take a bow. The crowd roars, begging you for more while you rise. This is the moment you’ve waited and worked for.

Yet, you seem unsettled, like something is missing.

I watch as your eyes frantically search for hers.

Or are you?

Because somehow in the crowd of thousands, you find mine first.

The audience is cheering, but your eyes are locked on mine, and your smile grows.

Your genuine eyes tell the truth: It’s me, I’m the reason for your happiness. The crowd wants more, but you won’t stop looking at me.

Are you afraid of your own destiny? Are you wondering if it’s with me?

I won’t let you do this. At least not right now.

“Play on Maestro,” I tell you with a wasted heart.

There’s a thunderous applause surrounding the two of us, despite it all, I know you can understand my words.

Your smile breaks, as does mine, I watch as you slowly turn around to begin your encore.

I know what I’ve done, I’ve made my choice, but you have a symphony to conduct, and a muse to keep your song going.

The music is filled with passion, you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And who am I to intervene?

I am the girl in the crowd of thousands, a girl who loves music.

Even if the song isn’t for me.

#FreeVerse #Poetry #Romance #Unrequited