Charlie

I can't be there tomorrow. I can't do it. I've been avoiding the fact that he's dead for a week now. I can't do it. I just can't I can't I can't. Because so much is gone. And I can't and everything is all jumbled up and my words don't make sense and I keep smiling and laughing like everything's ok and I can't tell Jeff because if I start crying I swear it won't stop and I just can't and I'm breaking inside. Because I do miss him. And I'm so glad that the last time I saw him I told him I loved him and that he made me so happy. Because he made me so very happy. Always, even when everyone else was bothered. And he was my advocate and he told Roger that Jeff was lucky to have me and that I was more than his equal and for the first time that entire day I didn't feel inadequate, and he cried the day he found out I had sabotaged the pastor to save his family and he said "thank you, thank you, thank you"... over and over again and I cried then, for his loss and his sadness. He fed me endlessly. So many eggs and potatoes. He told me stories and stopped Timothy from harassing me as best he could, and drove for endless miles on mission trips and told me about his Jesus and this is one giant run on sentence and I just can't. I could tell a thousand stories but I can't. I can't. I am just so sad he's gone. Charlie, I miss you. But he's dead so it doesn't matter. It just seemed right to have something here, the day before we say goodbye. And even though this is terrible, I will improvise this later, fix it, make it clearer.
But right now, I just can't.

It's my secret. My little bit of happiness. My midnight giggle, my chocolate and coffee, my sleepy bed-in-breakfast morning. It's my prayer of thanks, my walk through Fall's crunching leaves, my music; alive and walking. It's the feeling you get when you hold the hand of your very favorite person and jump into a deep, cold pool of water. It's my quiet, my precious moment of silence. It's beautiful: honey sweet and tantalizing. I don't want this little island of happiness invaded by unnecessary words or thoughtless remarks. I don't want approval or disapproval. I want quiet. Silence. I want to continue to sweetly drown in this without anyone trying to save me.  I want to bask in the purity of this and romp in the goodness. I am not interested in what anyone has to say. I am only interested in my little piece of joy, my healing relief. If you knew my happiness you'd not speak another word.

Glass

This space is safe
My world is walled
The boundaries are black
I am in control

Then my soul rebels
My mind pulls right, my heart left
A torturous twist, a futile grasp for my glass walls
And suddenly...

I am slipping
Falling through the black
Contorting, reaching, grasping
Finding nothing

I land
Smashing
Breathless
And suddenly...

The splinter in my glass wall begins to make tracks
Up and down, sideways
The break spreads
I hear the cracking of the glass

I flip, and scrambling, whimpering
I try to piece it back together
But the tracks grow longer, the glass cracks
And the light streams in

I am
Blinded by the light
Shamed by the truth
Disgusted with myself
 
I feel the agony
Of a soul without help
I feel the fear
Of light, unseen for years

Hidden in my own darkness
Floating in my delusions
How far must I fall
Before the glass cracks...

Curious Love

I cling to him because I am alone. I cling to him because he's present. I cling to him because I'm finally healing and all I want to do is lavish the rest of my heart onto him and watch him bundle it up and tuck it in his pocket, there to stay forever. I smile at him, and he smiles back, and we daydream of each other. We share no future and no hope of one, but logic seems to do nothing to stem the growth of this misguided affection. I feed a hope that can never, ever be realized. It's a curious thing, my love. 

My God searched for me. He enraptured me, captured me. He promised me His heart would be mine. He molded one for me to be with, formed him and breathed into him. My name is written on his heart, even if he doesn't know yet who I am. He has told me to patiently wait on His love. He has asked to be enough. As time has passed, He has loved me. He has healed me, held me, filled me. His love feeds me. I run, He follows. I cry, He holds me.  I lavish my love on those who cannot return it, and ignore His love. He begs me for my heart, and I throw it to the one who cannot love me. Still, He follows... still, He cries out for me. It's a curious thing, His love...

Fluid

We are constantly changing beings. It's the simultaneous blessing and curse of humanity. Everything is situational, and everything moves and changes. This fluidity creates a layer of moral gray that is sometimes completely impenetrable. These last few days have been a smothering coat of moral gray, and I feel that I have failed and succeeded in equal parts. May God forgive me for my failures, for not fighting for those who had no voice... what stopped me? I would like to say it was shock, because what they did and said was so truly atrocious that I froze and did everything wrong, but the more likely answer is fear. The battle against it never seems to be won. As soon fear is pushed back another moral dilemma gets thrown into my face, another battle is fought, and fear strikes again. It sneaks up on me when I'm not looking, disguised as something harmless and it beats me down with an iron fist. I feel like bloodied moral pulp. I've been distracted and rambling philosophical nonsense to Jaime for a full 2 days now- on mile 5 of our trail run today I abruptly stopped to "stretch" and talk, all in a misguided effort to calm my mind. All I succeeded in doing was screwing up our run time and bringing out Jaime's psychology training.  It needs to end, but it never will, because life is fluid. Fear is a part of this fluidity, just as uncertainty and death and anger are. None of these things exist in the human spectrum of emotion without the changing of time. The issue is handing it off to the One who has conquered fear. I can choose to not be ruled by fear, but I cannot choose to banish it. I will pick myself up and try again tomorrow, knowing that there is grace for the foolish and healing for the broken, and remembering that His love is stronger than my fear. 

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear.  ~Ambrose Redmoon

The Giver

 I want this memory. Some things should fade. Some should not. I want this, and I don't care if it rips at me.

I snuggled into his chest. The change in voice inflection as the language switched thrilled me. I am damned to relationships with those whose culture barely creeps into mine because of this language, this beauty in difference I feel whenever the meaning of words changes just slightly due to culture. Words are a favorite thing of mine, and hearing how their meaning changes as the language changes is a particular obsession. Nothing stays the same across culture, no matter how hard we strive to find an equivalent. This is particularly pertinent in the spoken word, and it lights a spark in me. The deep rolling tones made me shiver- the language was throaty and beautiful. He was beautiful. 


It would be a mistake. I knew that from the second it began. It was a phenomenal, earth-shattering, beginning of the end, premeditated mistake, and  I was loving every single second of it. Have you ever acted on pure attraction? Knowing clearly that there is next to nothing there outside of the lust? I commit to those who will be good to me, and hold onto the reins of obligation and tradition for dear life. We must not punish the good men, even if we are dead inside. We have been charged to honor them. Perhaps I think I cause so much harm in a relationship that I don't deserve the choice to leave. Whatever the useless psychosocial reasoning may be behind my often twisted behaviors, I knew that just this once, I wanted to try it. I was tired of being in good, dead relationships. I wanted life.  It would not be good, it would lead only to bad, but the journey there would be fantastic. 


Until then, I didn't understand. To truly want another human, to ache for someone else- I had never experienced it before. To hope for nothing and be given something beautiful and lovely to hold onto so that when I couldn't keep going and I needed to smile, I could... but knowing that the smile would be robbed from me as soon as I remembered where I really was, and who he really was... it was twisted, a half gift. I took it. We robbed each other, really, in our fake pretense of love. But does it count if you don't acknowledge it's happening? 


There is so much beauty in an individual. My refusal to come to grips with reality has extended my ability to see this beauty, and I want to write down the gift before the giver comes back again, to steal it away. That way I never forget the intoxication of the delusion that brought me to life. Lust is a drug, and ours kept us alive until morning. Temporary contentment, temporary faith. 


Beauty, manifested in the physical form. Aching desire. Respect and love. Intoxicating touch. Fire. I cannot seem to have these things without losing myself. I know love is the giving of part of yourself to mesh with another, but I have no more of myself to give, nor do I have a wish to. I lost myself, and when I woke up I barely recognized the person I had become. Once the fight had been stripped away, I found pieces of my soul I didn't remember I had. Did I always wish to create? To move and travel and never be bound again? 


 I will hold on to my memories. I will taste them, feel them, fall into them, but I will never walk that road. I am never splitting my soul again. You will never ask me to choose again.  You stole me away, but you will never steal from me again. I am content now with just your memories.