"You're a Strong Racehorse"

Being that I am now a part time truck driver I have a lot of time to contemplate the state of my life whilst navigating the "open roads" of Stepford-esque housing tracts. Since my life is apparently in a chronic state of chaos that flows more than it ebbs this contemplation is not only a habit of mine, but necessary for survival, and the well being of others, because let's face it, I know it's not easy to be around me all of the time.

Without delving into the details I've talked to death already, my heart has been broken, or at least shaken violently. I'm currently penciling this in as the most painful occurrence, seeing as I can't bring myself to hate the person responsible, or even dislike them a little bit. There are so many excuses, and honest to God reasons, and fears, and insecurities, and patience being ignored running through our small community as of late...and though I have been trying to wade through the mess making sense of it all, because I feel it is my duty.
I can't.
And over the loud clunking of the engine this morning I've realized...I can't.
Stop Kailee. Just stop.

It isn't a secret to me, or you, or anyone maybe, that I try to hold too much in my little hands because I trust myself and no one else. When someone lets go of my hand, yanks it away, I will inevitably break down, fall to my knees in the dramatic fashion I hope captures every pained emotion on my face. I want those expressions etched into your brain. I want you to know all the things I feel, but here's where I'm wrong....
It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that I keep loving everyone to death. It doesn't matter that my ears, my heart have served as a confessional for more or less everyone I know. It doesn't matter that I could be the brightest light in everyone's life (maybe not brightest, like a consistently warm light, but not too bright, come on I'm still talking about me here...) because my solitude is so fucking dark. I don't know exactly where I lost my way. I know who, and who, and who, and who made me feel like I only mattered or didn't matter in reference to someone else, but I didn't realize how much I believed it.

So you were right. You- my friends, or family, or exboyfriend, or ex-people who weren't ever really my boyfriends. You're right. I need to fix things. I'm not perfect and trust me I'll never let myelf live it down. I will rebuild.

But... I will always be too much.

Too much love.
Too much understanding.
Too much willingness.
Too much strength.
Too much patience.
Too much to say.
Too much to feel.
Too much romance.
Too much imagination.
Always too much love, though, always.

And one day that will be enough.

Laundry

Every time I put a clean pillow case on my pillow I see the bloodstain from the time my ex-boyfriend's nose bled in the middle of the night. I think about how much he apologized for it in the morning. Then I think about all the things he didn't apologize for. The things he never will apologize for. That bloodstain makes me instantly nostalgic; not for him, but for that time when things felt like they were working out. "Working out" meaning the way I thought things were supposed to happen. 


I don't know what that way is anymore. 


Lately I've been down. I'd like to be up. The shower drain is clogged with more hair than I remember having and I have to struggle daily wondering where all my cigarettes went. I've been prescribed pills by friends who aren't pharmacists. They help. The friends and the pills, but only until morning. 


I need to write more stories. I need to climb out of this. I need to go to bed. I need a massage. 


Bottom line: It's late (or early depending on how you tell time), I'm drunk, the sleeping pill is kicking in, I needed to put some words down tonight, and if they're all spelled correctly I will sleep soundly. 

Menthol

     These days it seems like anything less than a full pack of cigarettes isn't enough. I liken myself to this feeling too often. For years. Even in the years I felt full, sustained.

     I sat alone, or in the best company, on the pavement at two in the morning staring at the stars, remembering when things felt worse. How they should feel now, but they can't. It was a night like that one I listened to a now distance voice tell me, "She's just not you."  But as the summer months came, planes were caught, plans were made and I still stared at the stars alone, at two in the morning, killing my lungs and I thought of you. All of you. And hoped that you were doing alright.

     I said the other day to a good friend "I am too much initially or eventually." it occurs to me now as I try to find a glimpse of myself in other people’s words that I am perhaps always too much but never enough.

     I am notorious for breaking myself for you. For answering every call for help. For holding fast to hope I lost almost as quickly as I etched it into my skin. I am your rock. Your safe place. Your shoulder. Your conscience. Your savior. Your dictionary. Your rage. Your logic. I am all these things as honest and severe as you need. I am all of these things but I am never enough of whatever else you want. I am too much and hard to break.I fall apart on my own time. In parked cars or speeding on freeways. Or in your bed. Or that bench in your front yard. On the other end of phone lines.