I always have this plan that I’ll write it down. When things get tough I’ll let it out, that’s what I say. That’s what this is for. So I can write the good, the bad, the ugly. It never actually works out that way. I shut down. Attempt to block it all out until the tough is too much for my heart and something comes pouring out in immature spouts. I’m holding it together, just barely. How do you separate when you have to live together? Is there some book on lesbians who are breaking up and trying to stay friends while living in a one-bedroom apartment with the new dog you both love? It’s worth a shot. Someone should write that book. At least we didn’t get a cat. That would just be too stereotypical don’t you think? I can’t sleep anymore, apparently insomnia is back and this is what spews out at 4am.
I’ve writing things down on my new iTouch (new being a loose term for used a couple times by my father who couldn’t figure it out, let it sit there for years and then gave it to me a week ago). It helps me process, being able to write it down as I’m thinking it. Therapeutic almost.
Here’s what I’ve been working on lately:
I never ever think that we will ever break up.
Says my naive heartstrings to my yearning for redemption brain.
The problem is, I think we will someday break up.
Stop moving in tune with each other to start moving to the tune of our own crazy lives.
And the thing is: I thought I would never have to write another breakup poem. I thought this is it.
So I tattooed my love upon my own hand, instead of showing you my love with birthday cards and latenight conversations.
I made big gestures that never replaced the in-between moments, the ones I was to wrapped up in myself to show you.
I thought you were my song, or maybe I didn’t.
Maybe we both had doubts from the very beginning, hiding each one in paper hearts of I love you, and never really sharing our truth.
What is your truth?
I know it is probably too late now, but some days I want to know how you feel, how snow feels on your face this time of year.
Yes, I know we’re in July and it’s our least favorite time of year so I’m trying to remind you of months where we snuggled in front of a movie and ate popcorn.
The nights we made each other laugh building a gingerbread house, instead of sitting silently on opposite couches too wrapped up in our own screens to notice if the other person is laughing or crying.
Maybe I should be angry, screaming insecurities like they were magic cures. Or begging for more time, when we have none left.
Some days I knew it was over and I dug myself further in, hoping for someday when it would be new again.
Maybe this is angst again but I hope the next time I fall I’ll remember it might not last,
and fall head first anyways because that is just the way I operate.
Next time maybe I’ll remember that 1 + 1 does not always equal 2.
Sometimes we get so damn wrapped up in each other we end up with some mixed up version of 1.3
I never was very good at math but I still want to be a teacher, and I’m hoping that when we struggle through it together we’ll all learn something new.
or maybe not.
But I always thought teachers were the very best kinds of people, so maybe I’m just trying to be like my elementary school teacher.
She knew how to teach you the times tables while reciting nursery rhymes or bouncing on a pogo stick.
She was 70 years young, or at least I thought she was. but she’d still play flag football or take us out on the grass to measure Noah’s Arc, and what else were we learning that day?
We learned about love from the greek goddesses and grade three crushes turned into sixth grade sweethearts, or we memorized the lines to Shakespeare that somehow didn’t add up to what we were feeling, so we made it up.
And isn’t that what we’re doing now? We’re just, making it up.
Making up the way we think it should go, playing music only our hearts can hear or falling in love the way Shakespeare did.
We’re always falling out of love the way Shakespeare did.
Some days, when my heart is full or you’re singing your songs I think we’ll end up like my great grandparents. Together for 60 years or more. But today is not one of those days.
My elementary school teacher could tell stories about the lives she had lived and the places she had been, making you dream about futures unknown but not scary.
Today is scary,
Today all the unknowns got thrown together and hurled at my gaping chest wound and I wish she were hear to tell me it’ll all be okay.
It’s just another, bad day.