I love you and I wish sometimes you could feel your effect.
It’s like nothing else.
I have grown and learnt so much from you, and more still everyday. No one has ever done what you have for me and although I have never been in a relationship like this, I know a good thing when I see one. And this isn’t just seen, this is felt, heard, and lived in.
Not always easy, but that is a good thing, that is a real thing. I don’t think it will ever be just easy.
And I am okay with that.
Everything loved should never be easy. Happiness is not an end, but in things we find along the way.
I find it everyday.
I do not need to be here, and neither do you. I know we constantly say that it isn’t a choice, but it is, and it’s such a beautiful thing.
Thank you for choosing me everyday.
i go and make a big deal out of nothing.
then i pick your clothes off the floor, with mine as well, and put them in the laundry.
we keep trying to leap before we reach the edge, we are practicing.
we are missing the trees, the design in the mountains, and the neon sign off to the left.
The first steps into water are always the hardest.
The initial shock, the chill that runs upwards and through. Your throat tightens at the thought of going further, the hairs on your arm stand on end, the pain over-amplified by what memory recalls. Standing at the edge of everything you’ve ever known. You are here with the only person who has ever mattered. It would be so easy to turn around and go back to the car. You look at her, eyes questioning whether or not she can handle it again, whether or not you can handle it again, whether or not she-and-you can handle it again. But she doesn’t hold the answer, neither do you, neither does the water. It looks brackish and agitated.
This will not be easy, but if we get tired of swimming, we can always float on our backs.
you have proved nothing. i can’t say i am surprised.
A sofa turned upside down. A room full of balloons.
A combination of high pressure and low temperature in a metaphoric environment.
I was shown colours, I was shown faith; everything I thought nothing of. You gave me hope, and a reason to trust in something, beyond that, someone .
And then you took it.
I threw away everything with you.
I unhooked the trailer that carried all of my armour and mostly jade. I had so much jade. With that trailer went all of it I had ever possessed. With it went my mother’s jade, all that she had passed onto me, and all of that my father never meant to give me. That was my collection, a plethora of varying greens. All of my mothers’, the colour of olives, all of my fathers’, the blackest green imaginable, all of mine, a mix of white and celadon. I watched the trailer roll away into nothingness, and then I wiped my hands clean on the grass, and turned away. The change was slow and unassuming, but it was there. You could see the result of that in the way that I walked, the way that I spoke, and in the air around me. My steps lighter and my words, much less like those of a skeptic.
You did that.
You took that.
And now, eight years later,
I find myself back where I dropped it all. Waist-deep in algae-ridden still water, the same pond.
I look for what’s left of my jade in the pond, what’s left of my armour. As it goes, I only find bits and pieces. Lovers of past and strangers a-like have already been here, already collected the bits I’ve discarded. They are wearing my jade. All of my mother and fathers’, they are missing. That’s only fair I suppose, when you let something go, you can’t expect for it to wait for you to come back.
Who even waits anymore.
I collect what I can find.
A pendant, a breast plate, and a shield, all that is left.
The thing is about jade, the longer it is worn, the darker it becomes.
a combination of high pressure and low temperature in a metamorphic environment.
i tried to make myself believe that i had imagined it all
the faint memory of a dream
i ordered for smoke machines and extra mirrors
i called for props and actors
i looked for lights and green screens
make-up and wardrobe.
during the piano recital i looked down at my arm, and there i saw it all, futile.
even with everything, there are still the bruises you left
the bruises i told you to leave.
you still exist.
try harder .
hands and knees. spend some time there
it’s like someone took their hand
and shoved it down my throat
past my esophagus , through my lungs,
jerked right, and out with my heart
devoid of body
attached to hand.
this story is true
except it wasn’t someones’ hand
it was her hand.
i have never given myself to someone so fully
and i struggle everyday,
but i am trying
and i cannot be your second option ever
that hurts too much
and my sensitivity is dictated by everything before
and i’m sorry that i am a product of that
but meeting you has been a new page
in a new book
it’s the first chapter
and i am thankful and reluctant
i have to keep you, the book, from being tarnished
and so i carefully crease the pages as i turn
and i make sure to write legibly
and to number them off with love
i number them off everyday, with love
how do books have so much power to hurt?
how does your book have so much power to hurt.
i picked it up the other morning and dropped it on the initial
i looked at my hands
raw and shiny
how did you burn me?
stupid as I am, i tried again.
in love with you as i am, i tried again.
i turned to the chapter where we,
where i left off.
the light reflected from the page and hurt my eyes.
i squinted and read anyway
i’m sorry if i looked angry.
i was enthralled by you,
i think i turned the pages too quickly.
i cut myself on one,
i’m sorry i bled on you.
i read you for hours,
and then hours more
and my back strained from the weight of you
i’m sorry if i paid you too much attention.
there i was standing,
with my raw and shiny hands, my eyes that hurt, the cut that bled, my back that strained
i am the author of this book.
to be fair, i never wanted anything to come of this
that’s not true
that is a very blatant lie
sometimes i think i feel too much
and then i think that couldn’t possibly be the worst ailment in the world
grow up a bit,
maybe open up the blinds let the light in,
look at the subtle filth that has started to accumulate on your things
what a shabby collection
but beyond these things, what else do you have to show?
under this layer of grime, isn’t this all you have to show .
my decision is as stable as you are