As of late.
Find me on the ‘gram @tkowkat
As of late.
Find me on the ‘gram @tkowkat
I hold myself as accountable as him, all this time later. When I now realize I came in like a hurricane. No warning, with passion, and demands. Wreckage. He kept up quite well, tempered me down a bit. Then he just decided to let me go on the path of partnership alone.
I blame him. I blame him for giving me high hopes then never filling the potential.
I want to cross him off the list of people who occupied my heart. I want to wipe the slate clean. No one loved me.
No one loved me like the man from Georgia who was sweet as a sunshine and made me laugh and blush. Who threw axes, and howled at the moon. Who let me be as silly as I wanted. Who made me happy and proud, even though I was a very different girl.
No one loved me quite like that boy who penned love notes via the internet, in a language that was so foreign to him. Who was quiet and tall and completely broken in being a romantic. And I broke it off with him, and wept in the bedroom from my lonely teen years.
No one loved me quite like the boy who always followed me with his eyes, and his heart. Who never truly told me what he felt, but was soft and kind as I hustled from one place to the other.
No one loved me like the man who held my face each night, with his big scarred hands, looking at me with a bit of hurt telling me with a slight surprised tone that he thought I was pretty. And who with a slightly surprised tone told me he loved me for the next 9 months. Like each time he looked at me, he still loved me, maybe even a little more each time.
I’m sorry, to all the men I’ve known, because in knowing, I knew I’d never love half has much as they thought they loved me.
I learned that love isn’t just saying the words. He used the words like I used to use “Je ne se pas” in french lectures, a cure all. “I love you” wasn’t a balm over your neglect, or my desires.
I was and am bewitched with the idea that there is solely one person that my happiness depends on. Before it was another, but it is me.
Now, I know if someone can make me nearly as happy as I can make myself, and I can make that someone nearly as happy as they make their self then there in lies the beginning of something.
Now, until then, I’ll just work on all the things that make me happy over here.
I’d like a lover to lay my hands upon. Not in ownership, but in praise.
I’d like a lover that sees stars in my eyes and fire in my soul.
I’d like a lover who is strong within himself and his desires.
I’d like a lover who doesn’t mind my occasional curses and laughs at my bad jokes.
I’d like a lover with a good heart who can hold his own with my mother.
I’d like a lover who can laze for hours, or go toe to toe on a project with me.
I’d like a lover that I can daydream about his mouth and hands.
I’d like a lover to lay down next to in the evenings, and wake up intwined.
I’d like a lover to steal his shirts and find comfort in his scent with mine.
I’d like a lover who sees a woman, not a girl.
I’d like a lover who pushes and pulls. Who demands that I hold myself and him to a higher standard.
I’d like a lover who’s more than a lover.
Slower morning. Sorting through my clothing, drinking a big jar of water, better tasting coming from crisp glass. Eat a tomato like an apple. Surrounded by a mess. Take a shower, sigh and squeak when the hot water hits the sensitive lower part of your back, where it dips in.
Admire your feet and shoulders, the way your hands move, creating suds with the rolling of your fingers over the bar of soap. Peppermint. Steamy mirror. Lacy bra under a utilitarian sports version, cut offs, sleeveless tee.
Preparations for another day painting walls in a building that has housed families, doctors and servants, and then years and years later college students who don’t care about sealed up arched doorways, or original woodwork, hardwood floods hidden under bad carpet that acts as armor against cheap college furniture and couches that get abandoned.
Bones of a building. Bones of a body. Not so different in the morning, noon or night.
Last week, I went on an adventure to a cheesemaker’s milk house, and it was interesting and wonderful. Huge thanks to my friend and the owner Stefanie for letting me come and visit the Valley Milkhouse at the Covered Bridge Farm.
You don’t have to tell me you love me. You don’t have to write it down, or say it as we sigh into each other. You don’t have to scream it to the world, or spell it out in texts.
You don’t have to say I Love You.
I don’t really believe it from the mouths of men. You love me. You LOVE me. You love the way your hands fit between the curve of my waist and my ribs. You love the way my bottom lip is lush and damp. You love the way I can flip over an egg and make it perfectly sunny side over.
You love how confidently I raise a glass of whiskey to my lips, or press my mouth to yours. You love than I laugh loud, and dance with abandon. You love how I blush, or how my freckles align on my arms.
You love these lovely things that encapsulate who I am. But you don’t love me. I love me.
You don’t love the arch & ache in my back, or the veneers on my teeth. You don’t love the hate I feel when I am fearful. You don’t love my tears as they fall down my face. You don’t know how my thighs brush, or how my fingers bite into the flesh of my palm. You don’t love the prickly hair that grows on my legs. You don’t love the crookedness of my eyes, or my ears. You don’t love the hurt I feel, or the desire I have. The greed in me to be a lover and a fighter for someone who loves and fights for me. You don’t love that I have more to say, or that I tell you you’re wrong.
You don’t have to love that I’d rather you claim me, now with your hands and mouth than pretend to be civil. Be wild with me. Mate me. Dig deep for instinct.
reach deep into your gut to gain the slight, raw feeling. I’m not fragile in form, I am enviable, and respectable. I am strong, I know what I want, and especially what I don’t.
So, don’t tell me you love me, because I don’t believe false promises, or even your half truths.
In real life lately: Enabling friends to buy plants, afternoon light in the publishing house, haul from Eckerton Hill, coffee table goodies, and a head of romaine frizzed with homemade vinaigrette dressing.
Being a one woman construction crew, with the exception of occasional help from my mum & pops, and Mike for lending me the tools I needed.
I’ve ripped out a drop ceiling, a particle board ceiling, pulled hundreds of nails, de-mounted a 20 foot long piping system that weighs about 300lbs, scrubbed, scraped and brushed a brick wall over and over and over again, scrubbed & hosed down a cement floor, wrestled painted shut windows, chased wires, and cut my hands & arms up more than I’d like to admit. Always keeping in mind, under that rubbish rug is a hardwood floor waiting for a bit of TLC. Not just yet, though that’ll be the last thing. Pushing myself a little harder each time I go down there, because this is my future.
Here’s to being an extreme DIYer. Now, I just wish I had a beer.