Canon

things are blinding and beautiful
i am ready to grab hold
steady waiting slating fists uncurled
into night's brisk warmth
seize me gently in your wind
wrapped safely
wrapped safely
i am safe
i am home

slow motion time warp

"Will you love me for me?
Not for what I have done,
or what I will become..."

Everything is gelled still,
like those weird squishy toys
that you could turn inside out
and hit people with
without hurting them.

I miss the way my heart felt
when it danced among waters
too bright, bright blue
to ever be still.
It's all just atmosphere.
It's always atmosphere.

Like, my mouth spins shut terribly
like my gears are broken and my
thoughts keep leaking, exploding
and they run, run, run
my thoughts are ugly and raw
and they do not taste good on my tongue.

I said I had no reason to write,
when what I meant was,
"I have every reason to write,
I just cannot bear to see myself
scribbled in a language I call my first."

I can't cry in public here,
I do not miss home,
I miss where my heart is.
Where did you go?

I am squeezing my eyelids shut now,
clenching knuckles-white and swollen,
bended knees on foreign ground,
whispering, pleading,
I was never enough I am still not enough
but I know that You are More Than Enough,

so take these tired limbs
and all the monsters they cling to,
and light them on fire,
so I can feel again,
so I can burst from the ashes and soar.

Jesus, I haven't talked to you in awhile,
and I'm sorry. I miss you more than I can say,
I haven't forgotten,
the way You stood next to me that night
when the world had reared its ugly head
beckoning for me to stay,
when You broke all the chains I had placed round my wrists
when You danced with me,
when no one else would,
and I'm sorry.

I am sorry I am trying too hard
to see me the way You see me,
and even at that, I am failing,
and I can't call myself beautiful just yet
I am sorry, just sorry.

I have not forgotten You, I have not forgotten your Love,
but I am afraid I have forgotten the me that is Loved by You.
Where did I go? Where did I go?

Creepy crawly

Sometimes, insecurity is a fun and curious thing that one can't help but lapse into when faced with unfamiliar situations...or boredom.

Today I noticed a girl in my class who was left-handed. Not a big deal, right? But all of a sudden I found myself far too aware of my own, common right-handedness and its frightening unoriginality. I kept thinking, how much more interesting would I be, if only I wrote with my left hand! Imagine the sort of subconscious arousal that would stir among the common observer! If I were as extraordinary as this left-handed girl, I could charm anyone I met! Imagine: without a thought, I would tuck a stray hair behind my ear (with my left hand, of course), playfully gesturing to all spectators (on my left side, of course), look, look at my left ear! I would radiate among a crowd of un-noteworthy right-handed folk, all too generous with their rash displays of right-ears! I would conquer the world!

I also noticed that she had a large mole on her left shoulder, which to the common eye may seem boring, revolting, even, but I found myself envious of this seemingly trivial characteristic that seemed to have voluntarily sprouted, just for the sake of pairing with her distinctive left-handedness. Now, I have plenty of unsymmetrical details and flaws, but none of which had I found as charming as the mole on that girl's left shoulder! Why can't I have a mole, positioned right above my shoulder blade, so as to say, "Hello, aren't you intrigued?"

I found myself rotating through a cycle of jealousy/anger/insecurity/boredom for an hour and a half, enraged about all things wrong with my body, furious that they would never be adorable/mysterious "quirks"!

Then, just when I felt I couldn't resist the urge to grab the pencil out of the left-handed girl's fist and throw it at the wall, I realized the stark contrast between my café-con-leche skin tone and the strikingly pale areas near my knuckles where my rings used to be.

leitmotivs

Some things only come to rest on the sides of my skull at midnight.

I have strange dual tendencies to assert self-sufficiency while also making obvious invitations to tend to everything within me that is too ugly or weak for my own introspection to acknowledge — all a rash attempt at self-preservation, at building defenses with transparent bricks to cover all bases — both protecting my heart and letting love be seen if it can't help itself.

I find myself making absurd comments, ridiculous pleas for attention that I immediately regret, instantly wishing to withdraw for fear of being "that girl", wishing I were Landon's Jaimie, wishing I were quieter, wishing I were shyer than I am, wishing I were less "loud" and "out there" and instead more "adorable," "steadier" — but I can see that my strained desires to be what I am not do not come from any real "quality standard" out there, but from a history of distorted truths about romance, about what is truly captivating about being a woman. Maybe I was born loud, born to flit from heart to heart, hair flowing freely in the winds of adventure — and maybe someday, to someone, that will be more than enough.

It's hard to remember how Loved we are, sometimes.

One of infinite flaws... why, when man's natural inclination is to be unique, to feel original, do I cling so desperately to boxes of my former selves? To familiar imaginary "self-characters" that deliver charm and wit through careless blunders? I am more careful than I think, anyway — or maybe less, I don't know. Introspection can be dangerous.

A new word I encountered in "Essays on Love" -

leitmotif (leit-mo-tif, also leit-mo-tiv)
noun. a recurrent theme throughout a musical or literary composition, associated with a particular person, idea, or situation.


The idea of a worldly romance is interesting in the way we cling onto these "leitmotivs" — these characters of relationships (e.g. the way both of us didn't know how to ask for the check in Spanish, that one time when we couldn't get the ice cubes out of the pitcher) - and the more leitmotivs two people acquire, the more their relationship is substantialized, is confirmed.

I think that's why I talk so much (too much) about things sometimes. One of infinite flaws. Maybe all of us do this — to remember, to realize, to make real a few of life's most extraordinary moments to ensure that at least some part of the "love" will exist outside of ourselves, just in case it ceases to exist between us. It's similar to the experience of seeing a movie alone, and refraining from discussing it with anyone afterward. The experience slips through your fingers, no matter how memorable the film; you forget funny lines, well-filmed scenes, moving scores — your experience lasts only for the brief moment in which it took place, and in the grand scheme of time, without reinforcement, without relaying your experience to others, without wishfully placing bits of your reality in others, the moment vanishes. All we are is dust, anyway.