It's okay to say it.

Burdens are concealed wounds we cover to avoid questions. Although they mark our flesh and scar our hearts we put on ceramic skin that appears to be without blemish. We are quick to let someone else tell us what their struggles are- but reluctant to spill the strains of our beasts. It is easier to allow others to be broken and bloody while we pretend to have it all together. We appreciate the honesty like scavengers of remains but forget to admit our lacerations as they devour us from within. Soon we will be dust. Ashes that have slowly been forgotten. Memories that are distant and decaying. Nothing but a story told every once in a while. They will know the curse of our deceit and the fallibility of our souls. Don't leave them wishing they had known. Don't leave them wondering if it could have been different. Don't leave them under false pretenses of who you really were. They will know you were only human too.

we all have needs.

i need to tell you you're wonderful. even if you cannot see.
i need to tell you you're beautiful. even though you do not know.
i need to tell you that you are what i want. no more. no less.
i need to tell you when i look in your eyes- i see the future. i see hope.
i need to tell you that your faith mends my tarnished heart.
i need to tell you i am sorry. sorry for my selfish mouth.
i need to tell you that this love is real. it is never-ending.
i need to tell you that i am prepared to stand by you. through it all.
i need to tell you that i am aware of how messed up i am.
i need to tell you thank you for sticking by this disaster of a human.
i need to tell you nothing can stop me from loving you. it's unconditional.
i need to tell you that you can't get rid of me. even if i know you don't want too!
i need to tell you i love you. even though it never seems to fulfill exactly what i want to say.

because to me. you are perfect.

For The Girl Who Fools Herself.

What lies you feed yourself. Completely fabricating truths that you hope make you feel better. I know you want to leave the past behind you. But it follows you closely like a shadow in the dark. Like the footsteps you hear in a blackened alley. So you walk faster, taking strides that only giants take. You tell yourself what you want to hear. And you tell others what you think they need to hear. “I’m over it. I don’t even think about it.” You are just a broken record now. But I wonder who you are really trying to convince. It couldn’t be me. I believed you at first, but now I see the story you have written for what it truly is. A fiction that is drenched in deceit. Only it isn’t deceit to me, to me it is sadness. To you it is fraud. Justifying every movement, every word. Defensive is an understatement. I see now where this is going and I don’t really want to see the outcome. It scares me. Everything that has layered over time and all has been placed in a box in your heart. It is bound to escape. It is insecure and explosive. You cannot outrun this. She is right on your heels. And as you attempt to stay in your stride, you fall flat on your face. Cutting your hands, bruising your knees, scratching your face. And as you turn around, helpless on the alley pavement. There she is. Truth, hurt, pain, jealousy, hate, hovering overtop of you. You never escaped her. You fooled yourself and because of that, reality grew very large and leaned in for the kiss of death. It’s over now. All you told yourself. The game you played, you know- the one where you were a convincing act. True to the eyes, but unbelievable in reality. It is sad to see and my heart knows how you feel. Funny thing is, we can’t run fast enough to get far enough away from what is and will always be there. So maybe there is some trick. Tell me if you ever find it. But maybe there is a way that we can walk with it without the wrenching pain it seems to bestow upon us.

From Lessons Learned.

I am a human. Just a creature with a heart as a compass and two feet as my transport. It is inevitable that I will make mistakes while being led by a young and naive heart. But it is guaranteed that I’ll receive forgiveness. The hardest part though, is learning to forgive myself. Because it is kind of like that itch that never goes away. Irritating your skin till its dry and sore. I question constantly where this forgiveness comes from. The answer is still uncertain. I regret little in my life, but the few things that linger in my soul I hold close to my heart. I let them control my compass. They are a reminder of who I once was and the choices I once made. They are lessons learned.
Guilt is a poison. It knows this way of slowly seeping into your breath. It enters your brain. Your heart. Unveiling itself in an art that only guilt knows. It wraps around your feet and travels upward leaving your body in a cast. Stiff and awkward. And sometimes when you try to break the cast, it feels as if it just added 10 more layers all while mocking your brave attempts.
The compass I carry is sometimes incredibly heavy, and sometimes it feels as if it has feet. Sometimes it feels like my greatest accomplishment and other times it feels like my darkest secret. It’s a combination of success and failure. It has knee deep scratches and smudges that rub off easy. There are times when I know I am not the one bearing it. It is sustained by something much larger than itself. Much larger than myself. But as I ramble on with my feet and compass, one thing is certain, that forgiveness eliminates guilt and forgiveness offers freedom. There will always be what once was, there will always be what is to come, and there will always be choice. I can only pray that I choose what is just.

Just A Mess.

The lump in my throat continues to grow. It becomes almost suffocating as I tell myself to remember to breathe. Each breath aches like that pounding organ in my chest. Swallowing takes a special technique. You have to maneuver the air to move past that lump in your throat. Just practice. In time you will master it. My palms sweat like I've been holding on to some rope for dear life. Time moves fast but everything feels slow. The butterflies that dance in my stomach are really just the acids that exist. Butterfly sounds prettier, but acid is the way that I feel now. Nostalgic and restless, like the most important part of me is about to be ripped away. Once again time found its way to close in. There is a slow decay. Patience wears thin and cynicism creeps. I’ve been here before. A silence burns in the air. Inhale the fumes and exhale sadness. It’s heavy and it leaves my lungs raw. A missing is about to occur. The way your neck misses a scarf in the fall or the way your hands miss mittens in the winter. Technology suppresses a small amount of the pain and love conquers it. But the hearts of two so intertwined still miss. They feel the separation, the bleeding of a severed part. They feel uncertain of how to live apart when they are meant to be as one. I feel now as though I’m in a strange land, with unfamiliar streets and unwelcoming sidewalks. I have been lingering for a moment too long. Act fast. Time will always tick. Only action will be the bearer of success. No more strings hold me. No more burdens ride me. It’s just me left and you waiting. Your hand stretches far and your voice is calling me home. So as I feel this missing, I sense the end is near. This lump will retire and we can breathe together.

Low And Behold. Real Men Do Exist.

He rides in on his white mustang. He is the one you can hear yards away. You can hear the clanging of the steeds shoes as they trot proudly on the sidewalk. You can hear the females swoon. Which is followed shortly by the thump that echoes as they faint when he smiles upon them. He finds his satisfaction in the eyes of daughters. Their approval and lustful gazes are his motivation. Being faced with a challenge is merely a game, and openly accepted. It is an act that he has rehearsed and knows inside and out, backwards and forwards. He knows just how to win them over. How to stroke their arm during a friendly conversation, make just the right amount of eye contact and how to keep their stare upon him as he exits a room and glances over his shoulder only to match their pupils to his. Executed to perfection. Another success, another victim to his charm.
He walks the streets in his statement shoes. Quiet and artsy. Humble and searching. He brushes shoulders with the charmer and apologizes, hardly looking up from his shoes. Not because he is intimidated, rude, or complacent. He is just focused, kind, meek. His eyes are the ones she desires. While many are chasing this so called man on his horse, she can see that he is only a reproduction, a carbon copy of the stereotype that exists in this world. Nothing that would interest her. But this other, he is a man. The real kind. Built with humility, selflessness, rooted in love. His heart is locked into the all the things that have been forgotten. So many attributes have fallen by the waste side in this world, they have been trampled on, ignored, scrutinized, but he has uncovered them. The true man has discovered what exists amongst the forgotten, that which has been thrown to the dogs. With carefulness he has cleaned them, with diligence he has studied them and with perseverance he has practiced them. It runs within his veins and she is drawn into his uniqueness, his mystery. His shoes are worn and tired. It isn’t easy to be what so many are not. And as charmer falls off his high horse, the other one picks him up and shows him how to walk. So he leads by example. Placing one foot before the other. Determined, yet conscious. Never claiming to be perfect or pretending he has is all together. For he is as real as they come. For he is a man.

A Lover's Embrace.

The deepest pain cannot be described with words. The saddest of all tears cannot be explained in 100 letters. The strongest love cannot be expressed by a minimal conversation or a translucent cliche. For emotion is far too complex. And all of these are much bigger than that instinctive state of mind that we all arrive at due to circumstance, mood, or relationship. It would only seem foolish and destructive to sit here and attempt to do the impractical. But here I sit, and I’m not the first.
Their hearts lie beneath the roof of an empty cottage. In a world where she and him know only each other. Windows yawning, bird songs echo, and a door painted red. This is reality. Eyes speak words and hands grasp love. The boy and girl have it all. But the lover knows what lies ahead of them, he is cautious. And the beloved has taught herself how to dissemble the idea that there is anything bigger than the moment.
Their enemies shadow lurks around every corner of the cottage, planning its newest attack. It must be more effective than the last, for he seeks disaster and heart ache. Last time only failure, so he prays for success. Most call him time, but the two call him good-bye. He lingers among them, making sure his presence is not only known, but felt. Inside that red painted door two hearts are becoming one, knowing its only moments before time forces its good-bye. They hold each other closer, harder, hoping for a chance that time may freeze. Trying to ignore the exhaust that is straining their souls. Dreaming that tears won’t have to fall this time. Their hold is pure and raw, the way it was designed. A lover’s embrace is too intimate and perfect in its most vulnerable form. She and him have no words left to speak, they let their hearts communicate as they loose themselves in seas of green and brown.
The attack has begun and it seems to be successful. Windows seal, birds fall silent and that very red door flies open. Could it be the last time? Tears fall from both sets of eyes and breathing complicates itself. Heart break sets in. He is pulled from the cottage as his fingers bruise the floor. She’s trapped inside, to fragile to be breathed upon. But as their hearts are raged against and there bodies are left defeated, love strikes back. For nothing is as strong as this. They are yet to beat this fateful curse, but victory is not far from where they are.