Puberty (abandoning all the rules of writing and making sense)

These feel less like growing pains the older we get and more just like pain. 
Why haven't these things been dealt with?  
Why do I still feel these debilitating pangs I felt so frequently when we were younger?
Screaming at the top of my breath because I can't let anyone hear the sound I'd make if I could articulate whatever this is going on inside me. 
The, ridiculous, self loathing; so intricately built and sturdy, indestructible, I fear. 
The worst case scenario scenes playing on a loop while I try to keep whatever life I stitched together with my shaky hands from tearing apart. I don't even know for sure if anyone is threatening it with scissors. 
I let myself feel too safe. 
Too comfortable.
It's terrifying. 
So, we prepare. 
We used to call each other for help with these things. Don't you feel like it's gotten old? Like we're just talking to ourselves, and we've already tried to hard to pull each other out of the mess, the quicksand that's never as bad as we think? Our lives keep happening in different time zones. And maybe this is just life. Maybe this is it. Maybe we'll always need the pep talks. And maybe everything will always be generally more down than up. Is this what it's like to be an adult? To feel like we did in high school, but with bills to pay, and live in boyfriends, and jobs, and no Christmas break, no breaks ever from anything?
I know, just stop. We're better than this.  
We'll get our shit together. 
Let's just blame it on the moon, my sunshine...

For Katie, but not about her.

It's funny because it's not really a scar. The only way myself or anyone else could tell that anything happened is because it dug deep enough to tear through the layer of ink on my skin. It's smooth to the touch like the rest, but when someone asks to see it I get nervous. I assume they'll see it and I'll want to explain what happened, but I don't get a chance. 


It's the same with all the rest of the scars I guess. Most of mine don't show. Most of mine are only known if you've stayed quiet long enough to let me tell you how they got there. And while they still hurt so much, every day, every minute of waking and sleeping I wouldn't give them up. 


I've grown to appreciate them, mostly because I've accumulated so many of my own. I think that's the only way to really understand what I'm trying to say. Because if you can't comprehend what I'm saying it's not any fault of my own. It's because you haven't been cut deep enough yet. You're time will come, and the thing that wounds you might not seem that sharp to me, but you'll bleed, you'll fall to the ground, your knees weak, that place between your heart and your stomach so hollow you forget you should breathe.


And maybe you'll talk to me about it because I promise I will listen like I always do, but I might not be able to give you all of me. Because I'm still looking for sutures to tie together the broken bits I carry around through all of these cities. And I will tell you that it's going to be ok because you're not really living if you're not hurting, I think. And if you haven't been suffocated with hopelessness, been afraid to tell your best friend your dad is in jail, had a parent abandon you, had a lover lie to your face, watched your family members fall apart when they think no one is watching, driven for hours without a destination, been afraid to wake up in the morning, then you might not believe the words I speak.


But I promise life will break you. And you'll start to notice those invisible scars in people, without the words to prove them. And you'll finally understand. 

Update. I guess.

So, I have internet...
A guy about my age angrily came to my door to perform what would become a 2 and half hour service that would eventually consist of killing various bugs outside of my house, a sing along, story time, 3 cigarette breaks, and finally plugging in the right cable so that I can blog like a normal person. 


This is Nashville. 


I have seen fireflies and lightning bolts. Real ones. 
Real nature. 
Real beauty.
I've felt real fear. 
I've lost and then found myself at least 5 times daily. 
I've done more loads of laundry than I can count. 
I've painted my nails 7 different colors. 
I've wash the same glass every day for 2 weeks. 
I have had some of the best conversations on a porch with people close to me,
and on the phone with those that are far away. 


I want to be in two places at once all of the time. 
But only so I can let the people I miss know that I miss them. 
There are nights that should have lasted longer. 
Beds I wish I'd never left. 
Eyes whose gaze I wish I could hold. Because I would. I fucking would.


But this is distance. 


And it's real. 

February in Advance

     I've had these diamonds in my back pocket for what feels like a decade. I've moved them from my jeans, to my breast pocket, and now I clutch them in my left hand. They are tarnished and worn. I can't remember them ever looking as dazzling as everyone tells me they were, they are, or they should. My knuckles are white from the force I use to hold them steady in my palm. If you know me at all, you know I've been dying to give them away, but am dying too frequently to give them up. 

     I know of more diamonds in southern states. One in particular, that with any luck (you know I don't believe in luck) will soon be my home. I plan to wash these diamonds in a pond, near a new tree, with leaves that change color because it's their nature not their burden. I will lay them with the other diamonds that have been dragged across the country to regain their shine, their luster.

     I am happier than I have ever been in this last decade knowing that my gems are welcome in a new state. I am sure that within new borders and new company I can show the world their worth that has been overlooked in my hiding places. If you know me at all you may have seen a few of my diamonds, or at least a glimmer when I wasn't holding on so tightly, but the timing wasn't right, the words were always on the tip of my tongue, and you never asked to see.

     I have to get them far away from here. Closer to a home. Closer to the things that make them sparkle. I promise to send pictures, write letters, and stories. I promise I'll show you, if the timing is right.

The Reason I'm Sometimes Bad At Making Conversation

     I've been having a staring contest with this tree for the past 15 minutes. It always wins. My eyes usually start to water. Sometimes it makes me feel like I won. Sometimes it doesn't. 
     I visit this tree a lot. It's not the one I've written about before. I should give it more credit. I think it's the same tree I started this late night ritual with, but that was a long time ago. I can't be sure. Let's say it was. Full circle. It feels nicer. 
     It's on a street called Abbey. Fitting. This is kind of my church. We mirror each other, me and this tree. Tonight it's cold and so am I. It's bare, looks a little defeated, but it knows, like I do, that it'll seem prettier, more alive to others some day when the weather changes. We'll both remember how it looked before that though. We'll carry the knowledge that it'll appear dead again eventually. 
     This tree and I are close. We always find each other. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with company. We both secretly hate when company comes. This is our place, that's all. 
     Tonight I feel taller than this tree. I am above all the things I've heard and endured today. I'm towering over the emotions of others. Not because I'm better, no, not that at all. But because if I keep my feet off the ground I don't run the risk of having to run. Or, let's face it, of being trampled, knowing my track record. 
     I'd rather sit and look at this tree and its bare branches, white against the Halloween sky, trying to find the moon in my rear view mirror than pick up the phone and keep trying to fuel fires that will burn without me or not. 
     My eyes aren't burning as much as I'd like. That lump isn't in my throat. I accidentally play memories in my head like the melody of a song I really liked in high school, but don't remember the lyrics to. 
     I don't know how long I can live up in the branches of this tree, dangling my feet above the pavement. I suppose I'll come down some day. Probably a Sunday. It's always a Sunday. It feel better up here for now. Out of reach, not from your grasp but from my own. 

Dear Mr. Carver-

     You said all we have is words. I think of this often; when filling these pages; before I display my heart on new tables, in unfamiliar houses that smell like home; while I replay or write future conversations. But I do not have the right words tonight.
     There are few dark roads or empty parking lots in this town I haven’t littered with cigarette butts and the contents of my head. The car stereo will never be as loud as I need it to be. It plays words written by men I’ve never met, juxtaposed in perfect lines. They’ve all felt this before. This isn’t new to anyone.
     With every night lit by passing headlights my voice gets softer, my tongue dry, it gets harder to weave the right words. My mouth moves in familiar patterns, silently trying to recall a time when the noise it made drew the hairs on the back of someone’s neck toward the sky. Affected.
     I always meant to speak simply, even in my long-winded sentences. Tonight, I feel so simply, without, that silence seems like the only thing I can say. It’s been a while since I’ve heard my own voice. There are no mirrors for that.
     I admire you for your simplicity. For the scenes you paint with brevity. For your words. For the weight you’ve placed upon them. I believed you when you said they are all that we have and we must make them right. But tonight I wonder if all we have are the words what can be done when there’s nothing left to say?

-K

"That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones."

The Difference Between Medicine and Poison

     Do you remember the night we sat on your roof? It was summer I think, or getting close at least. It might have been the day we walked around a city you lived in when your life fell apart, where I now spend all of my week days. I sometimes I drive past your old street thinking about the night it all started. One of my destinationless drives that led me to your front porch, and eventually that shitty couch where we crashed into each other.

     The air was cool. my skin was burning. We sat too far apart. We didn't touch. I didn't know if I was allowed to touch you anymore. Or if I ever touched you at all. Your eyes were clear, tired. The lids a translucent pink. I think I loved that about you. That you always looked like you'd been crying. In retrospect you always were. In retrospect I always thought I loved you.
     It felt like the place we should have sat years ago. On top of that blue house. Sharing a pack of Camels, letting the nicotine swirl through us. We were the slowest burning fire. You looked out across the rooftops of neighbors we never got to know. You talked about the ocean. About the problem with all of our friends. Or maybe you talked about the future that you're still working toward. The ideas that rolled off your tongue like dice. You'd be fine no matter what, just never alone. I watched you from where I sat. My fingers dying to lock within yours. My lips dying to taste the smoke on your tongue. You still blow so much smoke.


     We headed back in through the window. You first, I followed, so common those days. The lights were on. We were alone. You kissed me. I panicked. You asked if I wanted it and I said "yes", breathless. A lie I didn't know I was telling.
     We laid close in your bed. Our skin in familiar company. Your arms loosely wrapped around my waist. It felt crowded. The bed was always too small. We just didn't fit anymore. Or didn't want to. Your breath on my neck felt like history. I closed my eyes and prayed to the empty sky I'd forget your smell, your crooked smile, and all the things I ever knew too well. I turned over and kissed you hard on the mouth.

     It felt like the worst night of my life, and in comparison to the rest of the nights that compete, it still wins.

I am the best person to talk to when you're stoned.

I like opposites. 
Mostly the kind we are. 
The complimentary kind, 
or maybe the perfectly contradictory kind. 
Split brains and tugs on bracelets in other states, in dirty cafes, in sticky bars that make me claustrophobic.  
I like how you appreciate songs about oak trees and everything that would scare anyone else away from me. 
I like that you never condone my bad habits or redundant mistakes. 
I like that we've conquered time zones. 
I will remember everything. 
And you will remind me time and time again. 
We should say "I love you" more. 
But not this time. 
It's ok, this time.