Sacred is a word I think society doesn’t understand.
They toy with it.
Attach it to religion.
Fondle it.
Try to make it come to fruition.
Sacred touch.
That’s fair.
My hands and your hands.
Are the only ones to spare.
I kiss your hands.
Walk with you and talk with you.
You make me want to be bland.
Adversity creeps upon me.
Too loud.
Too silly.
Too brown.
Too short.
But never profound.
Do you see my differences and what would you like to do with them?
Wonder and wait and question.
Wither and debate and cause tension.
We flip a coin.
You are one side and I am both.
We are destined to win and join.
Your past is loud, and you want it to be quiet.
My past isn’t on mute, but I wouldn’t dare cause a riot.
Do tell me more.
I see you here with me and I see you there.
Both versions of you ready for what’s in store.
————
Alright, Dr. Seuss.
I really like the thought of being able to write in many styles. But I also like the thought of the styles coming together. And when you least expect it, they both appear.
When writing a poem, I feel the cadence in the back of my throat. It’s kind of like I am playing a game, one where you have to come up with as many words as possible before the buzzer goes off. With this type of writing, my essay format if you will, I feel more patience. More time to explain.
I won’t be doing an image description at the bottom of this entry, because I will describe the image to you now. A cropped photo, people taller than me posing behind me. I’m of a young age, can’t be older than 5 can’t be younger than 3 I think. I have on a white dress, sandals, and my hair is pinned up. I am looking off to the side, clearly more fascinated with what’s out of the picture as opposed to looking at the camera. We are outside someone’s home, I’ll only name my two immediate family members in the photo. My mom and my older sister. Everyone else, sadly, is irrelevant.
I mean it when I say that I need my life partner to consider her as well as me now.
You might be thinking: bloody hell, if y’all are doing the nasty why would they ever think to view you in your child state? They’re not perverts.
I wish I could flick your forehead.
This little girl deserves to be loved. She obviously was taken care of. Well taken care of, actually. Who knew that shit came with an unexpected expiration date (my mom stopped being an active parent when I was 10, my dad was always a wallet).
I want to preserve who she was inside of me. I want to preserve who she went on to be. And who I am now. I deserve as such.
Real love is a thing. Something you work for. Compromise for. Don’t be resistant to change for. You can actively look upon their life and pick pieces and mold your person together, and throughout all the bad, you tuck that into your brain along the good and you couldn’t imagine anything else besides being their person.
I see love in death too. My mother is dead. The insecurity I see in photos of her is astounding to me, that insecurity she instilled in me and is very much still alive. But the grace that I have is definitely allotted to her. She was beautiful. In every sense of the word. I feel guttural shame to live in a society that ever made her feel like she wasn’t because of her weight. I’m going to be violent and also subtle; my revenge I play in my head invokes the feral instincts in me. It includes entrails and ripping and screaming and punching and kicking and throwing.
The rage is fuel. I just have to use my rage for calmer activities. Activities like working out, drawing, and writing. Reading too. I really want to delve into myself.
A relationship isn’t enough for me if you say one quiet kumbaya, sit down, and go do something else. I need indulging in me. Intensity. Expression.
I am just trying not to fall short.
I want to keep this entry as is, but I wanted to expand on it further, I just do not have the capability of writing something with any positive contribution. I will see myself out.
:)