September 7th, 2014

I ran through the cemetery at 2am the other night, with a misfit group of gents. One gloriously reliving his adolescents, telling me we should act like kids and marvel at the quiet dark, at sneaking into the place where our dead rest. We held hands and walked in step with each other. 

One had kept sneaking glances to my lips throughout the night, I had painted them a deep red, and let them stain glasses that were sweating in the crowded bar. He revealed later that those kisses we shared 3 years ago probably weren’t enough. 

One other neither friend nor foe, but a rag tag-a-long with a bad history and a questionable accent. He kept trying to rest his hand on my leg while talking, until my direct refusal and later beratement did the trick. More like an icy glare, and a calling out. I will hold you accountable and refuse openly the liberties you believe you can take with me. No. 

I looked up at the moon, big and lush against the dark dark sky. I talked in rhymes and rhythms. Then I declared I wanted to go to the train station, and then walk the abandoned tracks down towards the park. 

The night ended falling asleep after laughter, and a wild jaunt around town. With the one I know the best crashing at my place, laughing at my cat, and sharing photos, new memories, old lovers and crushes. An understanding that comes from camaraderie, shedding our sexes to be companionably. 

 It feels nice to have friends who are a truly that, friends. 

From my journal, July 2014

August 31st, 2014

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. 

August 27th, 2014

I don’t kiss and tell, but maybe just maybe my lips are still elated that they had the attention of yours.

That they bubble over with the feelings of ecstasy that came from the kiss that may or may not have been betwixt our lips.

Oh, yes.
In the moment in the moonlight, and in the sun.
Hidden, then overt.
The kiss that stings, and soothes, that marks and is fleeting.
All at once. 

In this kiss I stop and live in that divine moment of meeting.
Being present with this present. 
Mine and yours,
ours suddenly. 

I don’t want to tell,
but the kiss travels from my lips
down down down to my fingertips, toes.
To the backs of my calves, and a spot between my eyes. 
To write, or tell. To touch. 
To confess with delight.

To remember the way my hips tilted towards yours in this kiss.
The way I was pulled pulled pulled to you in this kiss. 

Teaching and learning the ways of each other. 
Holding, and kissing, and squeezing well and tight.
Urgent in its deliberateness. 

The need to be kissed, badly, in Rhett’s words, kissed well, and by someone who knows how. And perhaps someone who needs to be kissed as badly as me. 

August 24th, 2014

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. 

August 18th, 2014

The college students are moving back into town, a mark that summer’s over. And… most of my friends have noticed I haven’t had any sort of fling or open attraction. A small mistaken attraction to a man with a soft looking mouth and a deep heart, severed quickly when I realized perhaps I was letting attraction rule over common sense. 

I suppose meeting the quarter century mark has come with some maturity. Or, I’ve already exhausted any thought of meeting a relatively hygienic, atheistically, intellectually and emotionally stimulating male. 

Six years in this town, many dates, many late night smooch sessions, many awkward first dates, and great other dates. Accidental arm touching, and purposeful butt squeezing. A couple boyfriends, a ton of friends.

Two summers in New York City, with lovely kind men, who are sweet on the eyes, and sweet on your lips. Many kind and beautiful friends to adventure with, to mistake and make memories with. A fall and winter in Philadelphia, mooning after raw denim clade men with long legs and hips that make me thing of tangled sheets. With bespectacled men who passed me on my lunch break in old city neighborhoods. A winter romance with a man who had scarred hands but an even more scarred heart, who held onto anger from 15 years prior. A light flirtation with a troubled soul who has found a direction but no sense of decision. 

I, I suppose, have given up storing my love and affection in men who aren’t substantial. I’m done attempting to build something with someone who doesn’t have the tools, nor the time. I won’t settle. 

I’m self sustaining. I flirt, and play witty talking games. I admire physique, and style. I admire mouths that tilt, and eyes that convey humor. I dodge sketchy situations, and tell off men who become too forward. I return to my bed alone. I have stopped hanging hopes on the moon. Handsome, charming, divinely attentive men. Oh, you champions of tricks. Speaking of my lush bottom lip, or how lovely the curve of my hips in the navy or black I wear. I tell my lust, settle, lay my hand over my heart. It’s not worth it, not worth letting someone really close to me, body and soul. A pledge that courage and strength in love is rewarding. 

I’m more interested in writing, or reading.  Spending time with friends who laugh and cheer, who dance and jest. Dating is asinine. It is obscene, and a fraud. Be friends with your lover, and if you can’t then why the hell are you with them?

August 10th, 2014

It’s hands on hands. It’s nails on flesh.
It’s hip bumping hip. 
It’s saying yes to your soul’s reflection.
I’ve never felt so raw with someone. 

She stood there and listened to her very best friend of nearly a decade talk of her love. the best friend’s lover and soul’s mate.

It’s… It’s…

Mating, my dear. She said her voice slightly hoarse. She had no mate, only those who stepped forward and were turned away.

"It’s finding your mate. We’re all just wild, in our hunger and need. Living does that to a person, turns you into a beast."

Loving does. Not just living, K, loving. And your beast find’s it mate. And it’s allowed to run free with another’s. 

August 5th, 2014

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. 

July 10th, 2014

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. 

July 4th, 2014

You can tell me over and over that you love me. 
"I love you."
You can tell me in smiles, in the way your arm wraps around my waist.
"You look so beautiful."
How it fits me perfectly to your side.
You can tell me each time we’d wake up in the morning
"You know, I love you today."
You can tell me you love me when you look at me from behind the bar.
"Can I get you another drink" and I would shake my head no. 
You can slide your hand from my knee up and grin at me. 
"You are pretty." Your tone surprised.
I know your heart and your eyes are telling me how much you love me.

I know you still love me, but you never wanted to grow.
"You’re young, you’ll figure it out."
I know you still love me, but you didn’t remember my goals.
"She.. well, she.. Sweetheart, what do you do?"
I know you still love me, because at 3:30am you texted me.
"You are so lucky to be as beautiful as you are.
I know you still love me, because your father looks at me and nods.
"Whatever happens, know you’re a good one."
I know you still you love the way I was there, to hug and hold, to fall asleep on.
"You’re my human pillow." with a bark of a laugh

I know you loved my lips, and my hips. 
But there’s more to it than that.
I wanted it all.
I wanted the ugly, the rough, I wanted it all.
I didn’t give my all, the ugly and rough, because I knew the love you had for me was in smiles, and kisses.
In how soft and loving my touch was.
How my laugh echoed around your apartment.
How I worked hard to make sure you knew I could provide if you provided back.
You didn’t provide any nurture to my soul, my bear, my beast of a man.

It broke, and wore away, but only for me.
Because, I know you still love me. 
Whatever that means for you. 

June 17th, 2014

After spending the winter in a relationship, this summer came quick and it came with a lot of eye openers.

I’ve been single the majority of my life. I’ve actually spent more time with tumblr than I have dating or being in a relationship. 

I broke up with my ex because I felt extremely detached from myself, among other things. So, I’ve become my own partner. It’s only me. I’m the one who I wake up to, who I go to sleep with.

I’m the one who motivates myself to do an extra power set when working out, or push myself a little harder to deeming a posture in my yoga practice. 

I’ve spent a lot of time alone since moving out of my parent’s house. And, well, that’s great and fine. It’s loving and fulfilling, it’s giving me the time to make my body, mind, and thoughts fully mine. It means I don’t have to worry about what someone else needs or wants from me as a partner. 

But there is something about hot summer nights, about wanting to read aloud to someone. About heading onto my roof, being able to reach out and rest my hand upon someone i trust. It’s about waking up at 4am and having someone who matters next to you. 

There’s something about the way the sun sets, and the laziness of this town. It makes my skin prickle. It makes my shoulders ache down to my fingertips to hold someone. Day trips with a lover. With a best friend. With a confidante. With someone who doesn’t mind that I’ve let paint flake off my skin after I spend hours painting my kitchen cabinets. Someone who doesn’t mind my wild hair. Someone who’ll play with me, the little games. Someone to dance with. 

Someone to kiss, lazy. Someone to kiss fast. Nibbles and tastes. 

I was driving today, passing a converted barn, I spotted a couple. A tan man without a shirt on grabbing the hips of a woman who was standing next to a sedan. He pulled her closer, away from the car with it’s driver door open. He kissed her goodbye, with abandon. His summer skin glowing and her mouth spread in a smile. It was a split second in time. A moment.

It was summer love. It was need and want, and to have and to grab. 

It’s about sweat, and rolling around in messy bedsheets. It’s about wading into pools, and creeks. Rolling up your sleeves to work on a project. About car rides with messy hair. It’s about hands on your waist and thighs. It’s about sneaking a butt squeeze.

It’s about spilling all the love you have for yourself into someone else, and taking the love they spill back. Smiling, testing with greedy hands, with some playful glances.

God damn. It’s summertime. 

May 29th, 2014

It’s time.

I’m washing the paint off my hands, and thinking about how it feels like a lot of my memories are slowly, warmly, slipping out of my grasp. A small hiccup as it reaches the drain, then swirls as it descends. 

I can’t remember certain things. I can’t remember the phone number of the first house that I was raised in. I can’t remember my second kiss. I can’t remember the first boy who told me he loved me.

I can’t remember names. I can’t remember the name of the boy I adored in the 1st grade, back when I was built and looked like a boy myself. I can’t remember the name of the guy who beat me in pool three weeks ago then asked if he could kiss me on the cheek. I remember I told him no. 

I can’t remember the last time I let rain fall freely onto my face. I can’t remember the last time I stubbed my toe. I can’t remember the last time I let my soul sweep along with the plot of a movie. Mostly, because a lot of my life feels like a movie.

I can remember my first concert. I can remember the name of the boy who was my first kiss, where it was, and who all else was in the apartment. I can remember my ex boyfriend telling me that he loved me over the phone in jumbled exclamations of confusion. 

I can remember hugging my sister goodbye before she went to go board her plane to Alaska at 4am in Philadelphia. I can remember my mother making me a Robin Hood costume when I was 6 years old. I remember painting my bedroom the same style as a torn out page from a Martha Stewart magazine, the year I was going to be a teenager. I remember I hated it by my sophomore year.

I remember a friend telling me that a former friend had passionately declared that she “hated me”. I remember a boy with rough hands, sharp eyes and a soft mouth who spent a summer telling me how pretty I was to him. I remember when I threw my first party and someone threw up on a rug I had bought especially for the party. I remember I was outside when it happened telling my brother that I knew best, and inwardly berating him for his smoking habit. 

I remember an Alabama boy with a wide grin and kind eyes telling me secrets over the phone when I was 20. I remember greeting the sunrise with teary eyes, bad breath and a will to do something good with my day.

I remember last week. I remember what music was playing from the jukebox, and my friend Nate was whistling along to the tune. I remember the light coming into the room, and the score on the pool table. I remember he was my partner that day. Trusting me. Laughing and smiling with us all. I remember seeing him a couple days later, and he hugged me and called me sweetheart. I remember laughing and telling him he had to be my pool partner again. 

Nate was in a car accident last night, and now he’s gone. I remember this morning getting a call at 7:30am letting me know, seeing all the dedications to this man, today. I remember spending today drinking a lot of water. I remember sanding and painting my kitchen cabinets. I remember I nearly lost the entire gallon of paint when I knocked it over. 

I can’t remember if I said goodbye to Nate last week or if I just waved and smiled. 

I can remember, and I can’t. I’m just selfish and I don’t want to lose anything, or let anything slip away. 


May 27th, 2014

I have been wondering what your voice sounds like, what your mouth looks like when you talk.

Do your hands move when you tell a story. Will you reach out and touch me lightly upon my hands.

I have been wondering what it may be like to look at you through lowered lashes. Or perhaps to peak at you over the rim of a glass. To laugh and shake my head at you. To share a mischievous smile.

I’ve been wondering if you’ll lean in to kiss me first. Or maybe tempt me to take what I want.

I’ve been wondering if my cheek will fit upon your shoulder when we hug, if my hips and yours align.

I’ve been wondering about you. I wonder if you knew.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

May 12th, 2014

The lack of humanity in people has begun to exhaust me less and cause me to pity others more. Why pick and drag and rake others over coals, over your expectations when your knowledge is limited, and you yourself have such lengths to go. I must not let myself slip and be negative, I must first myself become a gatekeeper to wayward phrases and judgements. I must guard myself by guarding others by the sting of my judgement. And as this happens, and I appreciate my own guard keeping I will understand how difficult it is for others. 

Instead of relishing in the negativity in people, the flaws, or who may have done better. Why can’t we just promote the good and take critics as they are, as a small knick of what to improve upon, but not a resounding hit and bruise, that in some cases could cripple. 

May 7th, 2014

I want to mark you. 
Gently at first, with small touches.
To your wrist or our cheeks touching with hugs.

Then more, with kisses, and squeezing you tight.
With your handsome face between my hands.
With playful smacks, and pats, rubs and scratches.

I want to mark you. 

I want our days to be filled with laughter and challenges.
Our nights to be filled with self healing that leads to sharing, and healing each other.

I want. To mark. With scent and scene. With my words and eyes, 
I want to belong to someone as wholly as I belong to myself.
I don’t want to disappear in you, or hide in you.
I wouldn’t want you if you wanted me to. 

I just know thoughts of you haunt this room, and  you’ve never even been here.

Honestly, I’ve never even met you. 

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