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. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman.com)

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. 

April 25th, 2014

I’m rather indifferent right now.
Not about life, of course, in that regard I am very excited and fulfilled.
I am indifferent that there will be a partner, a man, a cohort in crime.

I have dated, near, far, far, near. I have concluded that perhaps love, or the equivalent needs to conk me on the head. No warning. 

It’s been so close. As if each relationship I have, in succession, brought me closer to the match I not only crave, but need.

I cancelled a date the other night, partially due to a family obligation and partially because I hate trying so hard at things. Why am I the one working spells and magic over problems? Why am I the one making up for what lacks?

I hate the way we date in my generation. Why must the internet tease me with such prospects? Why must the internet reveal shadows upon those who may have stood a chance?

Good lord, is it so much to ask for someone to fulfill the expressed desires that you, well, express? 

I want someone to light a fire in my blood, and to have fire in his. I want to have a partner in life, not just a companion. 

I am rolling out of a break up, unwilling to give love a chance. I am neither broken nor battered. I am… guarding my heart. 

I am loving myself. I am committed to myself. I am tall and delightfully full of curves, I am a handful, I am trouble, I am a challenge. I am fire, and ice, earth and wind. I am a fucking force. 

I laugh. I cry. I fight, I win. I lose. 

I get up, and live.

I just desire a force to be by my side. 

April 16th, 2014

Sometimes, you just want to hand a bottle back and forth with someone, with the lights low, feet brushing against each other, as you sit on the floor. You want to read paragraphs aloud from philosophy books, and smile. You want to kiss their neck, just behind their ear. Their cheek just southwest of their eye. You want to whisper french terms of endearment. You want to tell them about the last time you cut yourself, or accidentally looked down to find blood from a scratch on your knuckle. 

You want to play the music a little too loud. You want to whisper the lyrics. You want to lose sleep. You want to cry a bit, from laughing so hard. You want to not touch at all except for fingertips. You want to dance, throwing your arms around, your hair a mess. Collapse with joy etched on your face. 

You want to lift the bottle up to your mouth and notice them watching your lips. You want them to want. You want to want. You want to mourn the 30 degree drop in temperature, and the week ahead. You want to tell them what you fear the most.

But most of all, you want to get drunk off the taste of them. Lips on lips. Drunk off the night, and the whiskey. The secrets, the laughter. Drunk off the idea that you didn’t have to be anything other than yourself. 

April 14th, 2014

Sometimes, I forget that I am young. 
I forget that I have only been blessed with a quarter of a century. 
I forget that mistakes are part of trying.
I forget that fear is motivation, not food for anxiety.
I forget that friendship takes kindness, and openness. 
I need to forget those who have made me less kind and less open.
I forget the way a first kiss feels. 
I forget to smile sometimes. 
I forget what it’s like to be wooed, except by myself.
I forget that it’s better to woo yourself than to expect others to do it for you.
I forget how to give a genuine hug to someone other than my mother and my father. Because I’m fearful others won’t return it. 
I forget the sound of my first boyfriend’s voice. 
I forget to eat well.
I forget to make eye contact, retail has killed a friendlier version of myself.
I forget not to stand tall and act like I don’t care, because of how I was approached when I cared. 
I forget that kindness and courage can go hand in hand.
I forget who I was when I was 19. 
I forget what it looks like when someone wants to be your friend.
I forget because I remember that no one can change my life, only I can. 
I remember these wonderful women who have looked me in the eye, and told me good, and kind words. Strong words.
I forget that each day is a blessing. That each day is what I make it. That each day belongs to me and me alone. 

I forget. 
I’m going to forget forgetting and start remembering. 

April 3rd, 2014

You can’t save ‘em all, Katharine. 

March 29th, 2014

I am prickly and mean when I have to stand up to your love. I feel like you are demanding that I cut off my hand so you always have someone holding yours. I think that you keep telling me I’m wrong because you are, and you never like admitting when you’re wrong.

I know you like to have me there, until I’m not, and the reasons I leave you punish me for. I’ve poured my love and my time into you, and I’m emptying out quickly because you haven’t poured anything of sustenance back into me. I went out on a ledge and told you that I wanted to cultivate and nurture myself so that I am the person I was when we first met, instead of this hesitant version of myself, this fearful version of myself.

I feel like a cactus that you get frustrated with because you assume I am too hearty to die, you justify that you’ve put me in a room that gets sun. You put up curtains to block out the direct light, and you water me too much some times, and very very little others,  both times with murky water. You keep the windows closed. I ache for full sun, not drowning in your attention or starving for your support. There is a difference, you know.

If I stay I know I’ll continue wilting. My base will become weak and wobbly. I’ve been asking for more, and you refuse to acknowledge that my needs are based in my experiences, and not experience. The difference in the lives we have led, and want to lead are becoming more apparent. Companionship is a word you seem to think I don’t understand.

It’s breaking a beautiful rare part of me that you uncovered to know that if things don’t change, this will be all over before we even really had a chance. But, I suppose we’d both have to admit we need change, and you aren’t really doing that, are you?

March 15th, 2014

people change over time, no one can help it. 
we all try to hold tight to how we make each other feel, 
but we forget names, and feelings.
We forget shared moments.
Struggling to reconnect we realize that one party feels one way,
and the other never will again. 

Shouts, hollers, prodding.
It’s all different now.
It almost is like it never happened. 

They weren’t them,
you weren’t you.

now. you just sigh.
deep aching, sighs.
and remember,
tomorrow will bring bright and shiny newness. 

package still intact, hard to pry open,
we have a new chance. 
just remember to be forgiving, 
to yourself and others. 

February 28th, 2014

I am round where others are flat, flat where others are round. 
I have rough skin on the bottoms of my feet, soft skin on the backs of my knees.
I have freckles, marks, scars and bruises. I breath deep gulps of air. 
I am not like anyone before or anyone who is to come, other than our ends.
I have no reason to compare myself to others.
Not the rounding of my thighs, or the set of my eyes. 
Not my train of thought, nor the way my hands flutter through the air when I talk. 
These are possessions that are unconditionally mine.
I didn’t have to pay for them, I didn’t have to bargain, haggle and scrimp for them.
I didn’t have to pine after them on the pages of magazines. 
Nor desire them from the pages of books. 
My eyes do not see them elsewhere.
I do somethings better than others, I do many things worse than others.
I need not compare my talents to others. 
I need not compare accomplishments or failures of  others to my accomplishments and failures.
So, my curves, my imperfections, are not imperfect. 
I am perfect. I am a perfect me. 
Me. 
Selfish, perhaps. 
However, I have to repeat these words each time I feel the doubt and fear creeping in. 
I am a perfect me.  

You
Reading this right now, you are the perfect you.
The set of your eyes, the hitch of your stride.
The scars you have or don’t have.
You are the perfect you. 
Relish in your perfection, often. 
Praise your perfection. 
Worship your soft, your rough.
The curve, the hollow, the point, the flat.  
Let’s agree you are perfect, I am perfect.
Live in your perfection. 
Stop comparisons. 
Start self praise. 

I am a perfect me. 

-Kat Keegan March 12th, 2012

From the past, re-reading my writing, which is making my heart a little lighter.

Reblogged from That Kind Of Woman
February 26th, 2014

It’s been a little over 10 weeks since I decided to meet my best girl Sarah for a drink at one of the private bars in our town, and when I was permitted to enter I was maneuvered to sit next to a giant smiling man with large rough hands. A man I had actively avoided and disliked for 2 months previous. Forced to allow him to pay for my drink, as non member I was not permitted to pay, I gave him a chance. My posture was relaxed but not welcomingly pointed in his direction. I ordered a double Jameson on the rocks, which his good friends have since told me is the moment he further fell for me. We talked, he made me laugh then we parted ways, but not before I had taken his phone and programed my number in it, telling him he wouldn’t spell my name right.

I yelled at Sarah profusely in her apartment why she had tricked me into sitting with him. She’d been smiling the whole time, because this handsome knucklehead of a man was loud, and ineloquent, but he was charming and warm. Needless to say I ignored him the rest of the night until he asked me where I was, I told him to meet me at my favorite haunt in town, the pub.

The pub, funnily enough was the place I had originally seen him and given him a cold shoulder after kicking his ass off the pool table. We ended up spending the entire night together, laughing and talking. He telling me that for the past two months he’d noticed me and tried without success to strike up a conversation with me. I covered my face and laughed at this tale. I’d always been drawn to him, a tall broad shouldered man with a brooding and unconventionally handsome face. 

Mike. Good lord in heaven above knew that I was as far away from meeting someone as I’d been in years. As you may have read in my past posts, I am in a transitional period where my selfishness is warranted. Or at least excusable… barely.

So, it’s been a topsy turvy ride. I have, admittedly been “play acting” at relationships my entire life. Okay, maybe not play acting, but comparatively to the past 10 weeks every other interaction I have ever had with a man has been with training wheels. 

I’ve loved before, but never have I ever felt the way I do about this big scarred man that has found his way to me. And never has another human being been more of a stranger to me than him. He’s a big goofball, he makes crude jokes that I reprimand him for, and he’s distracted constantly. Eight years my senior, I find myself more mature in some ways and extremely naive in others. 

I’m discovering what it means to partner in things, intimate and otherwise. I am learning to accept the things I originally scoffed at him for, like his compliments when I wake bleary eyed with bad breath in the morning. Or to snort at his attempts at romance, he usually just exhales his sentimental statements like a sprinter after a dash. As if I’m supposed to know what he feels and thinks. 

His voice is deep, and his laugh booming. He carries many scars inside and out, I am continually finding scraps and raised tissue on his face and hands. His hair always sticks up, and he smells like comfort and summer.

I think he’s the first guy who knocks me down on my ass only to encourage me tenfold to get up and fight harder. He’s not at all menswear savvy, or “hip”, but he can build a bar & restaurant up from destruction, make me a quiche from scratch and he puts up with my horrible jokes. He’s nearly my exact opposite, but all together familiar. 

He talks years down the line, and I can barely see into next week. So, here’s to 10ish weeks already having past, and everyday when he accepts my mistakes, and I support him through his. Because god knows, I’d always rather be laughing about something than crying. 

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