Prologue

 

felt like a villain, a serpent.  scapegoating, neurodivergent.  i fucked up.
one in 8 billion, dime a dozen.  dopamine drip, cruelty's cousin

no one ever tells me to shut up.

I meant every word I said.
I mean every word I say.

You don't see me how I see me.
Not everyone's cup of tea.
the devil is in the details
not just the nicotine and coffee
commonality
what's different this time
dot the i's, cross the t's
endorphins

felt like i was reaching, a pipe dream
it just can't get better than this
black and white, failed to see the color scheme
You.
Depersonalized, Overanalyzed
All in the same breath
Villainous at best
Disingenous, at worst
All in the same breath

Indifferent or neurotic
Intimate or platonic
Meticulous or chaotic
Strategic or myopic

I meant every word I said
I mean every word I say
I just don't speak in gray

Second coming, sloppy seconds
words meant to disarm became weapons

I meant every word I said
I mean every word I say.

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

Got no regrets, it got us to here.  But I am sorry.
I am not sorry.  But I regret humilating you.
Can't apologize for humiliating you.  But it was cruel.
I shouldn't admit the cruelty.  I was well intentioned.
Got a few regrets, it got us to here.
I apologize.

Clarity is underrated.   I cannot explain the internal turmoil.  I've mentioned the hamster on the wheel.
What used to be daily is few and far between.  Because of you.

Everything I write now seems trite.  You've had the discomfort of reading words meant for someone else.  Yet, you read them.  And with that same depth of love, you read these now.  But now, they are written for you.   I've had the discomfort of watching you with another.   There is a depth to my love for you that goes unseen.   Words fail me sometimes.  Even now.   But I always knew, you were the one.  And that sounds trite.  

Got no regrets, it got us to here.  And there's a reason why we never get a do over.
Second chances aren't the same as a do over.
I am not sorry.  But I regret the collateral damage and the time wasted.  
Can't apologize for those years and the reoccuring outcome you know too well.  But I threw you to the wolves.   
I shouldn't admit it.  Everyone is wearing sheep's clothing.  Especially me, sometimes.
Got no regrets, it got us to here.
I apologize.

I sat on the edge of a hotel bed; holding my silent phone.  Just hoping it would vibrate. 
I felt like I didn't exist to you anymore.  And it felt easy for you.
The self-absorbed person was me.  Never you.  I just didn't realize it.
No regrets, it got us to here.
I aplogize.
You're single-focused; steadfast in your devotion to each task, each person you love.  One at a time.
Now I am the beneficiary of that trait.
No regrets, it got us to here.

It's Christmas.  I'm surrouned by a tree, enough ornaments to decorate the forest, gifts, food meant for a family.   And your love, it abides.  It's omnipresent.   It cannot be mistaken or mislabeled.  Clarity is underrated.

No regrets, it got us to here.
And I am sorry I made this road hard for you.
I am not sorry.   But I regret I played a part in your suffering.
I shouldn't admit the suffering.  I was well intentioned.
Got a few regrets, it got us to here.
I apologize.

Clarity is overwhelming and underrated.

 

blank pages

 

Blank pages are for those who have nothing to say.   For those with empty minds and inescapable voids. Blank pages are for the uncreative and for those absent of inspiration.    

I was never apathetic to your feelings nor unrepentant for my actions.  Or my lack of action.    I mocked kindness with cruelty and good intention with the selfish excuse of self preservation.   Losing you was not the worst possible outcome   Hurting you was.   And I did.   I never forgave myself.   I really still don’t.   But as usual, this blank page becomes a palette of painting myself the victim.   And I know I’m not nor have ever been.   

I can’t relate to your real stories of battle and the demons that came after.    I can’t relate to the betrayal and abuse nor the broken promises of until death do us part that you know too well.   You’re stronger than me.   You’re a better person than I can dream to become.   And I find inspiration in how you rose above all your needless suffering.  

I loved you each time I came to this blank page to write things.  Even if they were about someone else.  I simply did not know yet on some occasions.  Please don't disregard the deja vu nor believe your fears are not valid.   I will never allow anything from your heart, mouth and brain to feel invalidated.

Blank pages are for those with quiet minds.  For those who don't hear a ghost of yesterday screaming at them when they exhibit a behavior today that once was held in disrepute; towards the living and present one they love now.   Blank pages are for those who lack self awareness.  Being content in our own skin leaves us to slowly decay in mediocrity.   I'm okay if you're okay with both of our tendencies to question how are we wired.

I love you more each day yet I still find myself staring at this blank page trying to find new ways to tell you.  Blank pages are potential masterpieces.   Like our story.   Blank pages have the possibility of crushing all hope and leaving one to question everything they thought they knew.   Yesterday's pages become today's restraint.   You said dont you dare when I offered to throw old pages into the trash.  And I will never be able to tell you, it was the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.   Blank pages do not offer forgiveness.   Mercy comes later.  After authenticity.

Blank pages offer a future snapshot of beginnings.  Journeys.  Peaks and valleys.  Irrational fears and valid concerns   Hyperbole is not an art form welcomed on blank pages.  Blank pages exist for open wounds and the healing that comes to all someday.  And the hope lies in that we can heal together.  

The hope that only blank pages can offer.

 

 

untitled

Don't fuck this up.   Don't fuck this up.

I'm too old for this shit.   Funny at the time and the man with the mullet agreed.   Takes on a new meaning now.  

I always wonder how my mom made it to 75 with the last 35 years not even including a cup of coffee with a man.   At some point, it begins to feel like its a genetic thing.  And then you just accept your coffee alone from the drive thru.

I stopped being good to me.  Going through the motions of life.  I still love myself, I said silently.  I rejected grace and all of her follies.  Mercy is unconditional love, I read.   And I can't stop thinking about that.   So, here I am.   Because I won't fuck this up.   I won't fuck this up.

I stood outside, peering through the window of a dying man.   He hid in the closet; waiting for me to disappear.  I made the mistake and did just that.   I think about that all the time.   Kindness and cruelty are cousins, I thought.  I still do.

I want to ask forgiveness for everything.  Even when it't not called for.  I talk to you when you're not around.   I have for so long.   I don't yearn for people, usually, I convinced myself.    Just mercy.  I can't fuck this up.  I can't fuck this up.  

I run by mirrors.  I avoid first person personal pronouns if possible.   I find pleasure in really simple things.  Like alliteration.   And everyone moment with you.  Hope is a dangerous drug, I used to tell myself.   So, I would go cold turkey.   But I won't fuck this up.  I won't fuck this up.   

Every part of me knows this is right.   For the first time.   I don't use words and sentences lightly.  Even when I am wordy.   I love that you don't mind.   

That dying man sat with me in the lobby of a place we had our hair cut.  I was reading Seventeen magazine; learning about prom dresses and menstruation.  Twenty minutes earlier, he was hugging the staff at rehab and said, "goodbye".   I thought he simply meant he would never be back.   I learned a month later, he meant this life.

He leans into me as I am reading horrific tales of relationships from the Seventeen demographic and he says, "I will not fuck this up.   I will not fuck this up".

He did.

Mercy is unconditonal love.   And that includes being kind to ourselves.

I can't fuck this up.  

 

Atrial Fibrillation

 

Makes me sad sometimes
Frankly, it's depressing as fuck
I just call it bad luck
Makes me feel less fucked up
I'm expressing as much
Makes me mad sometimes
Repressing the thought of your touch
and suppressing this hunch
Won't be confessing too much
All these feelings do suck
depressing as fuck
And a blessing as much
Go ahead, be feckless as fuck
I'm reckless as fuck
They probably wouldn't respect us as much
and expect us to jump
Pathetic as fuck
the pandemic is up
and its depressing as fuck
Start over, self destruct
Made me sad sometimes
you'd fall down
I'd be holding you up
it was depressing as fuck
Addiction is relentless as fuck
Makes you defensive as fuck
Some treasures are junk
Rather be drunk, when these lessons get stuck
and you'd be covered in muck
Still would help you back up
Makes me ashamed sometimes
exhausted and drained as fuck
Lost it somewhat
Embarrassing as fuck
This place I've been stuck
I apparently fucked up
Don't know how you smile so much
Makes me sad sometimes
It's depressing as fuck
everything is mysterious as fuck
curious to touch
who needs experience to fuck
just love
still wouldn't just want to hook up
I'd spend the tribulation with you
and be needy as fuck
when you're sleepy as fuck
And hope you still need me when the sun comes up

And hope we're happy as fuck.

 

the therapist

 

There's a burden in being loved.  Sometimes, I know I say too much.  Overpromise.  Sometimes, I hold back.  Underwhelm.  I think she's the one.  Whispers in the back of my mind.  I don't think it would be fair to say this aloud.  I am not comfortable on this couch.

For what it's worth, I'm pathologically self aware to the point of paralysis.  I know it's love when it hurts.  Finding balance.  The worse part of talking with you is the silence.  Only because I hear how ridiculous I sound.   Like now.  Like every day, we talk.

There's a burden in feeling unlovable.  But I'm not unloved.  I want the best for her.   The hardest thing for an only child to come to terms with.  I won't cry over hypotheticals.  I am not comfortable on this couch looking up at you.

I get these dreams where I am transported back in time.   Doesn't feel like a mid life crisis.  I am comfortable at this stage of life.  Sometimes, I write down these thoughts.   Overthinking.  Sometimes, I let these words float around aimlessly.  Uncompromising.

In a perfect world.  I always stop myself there.  What's perfect for me is not necessarily perfect for her.  These dreams where I am transported back in time are cloaked in loneliness.  I was too busy to notice then.  And I still don't feel lonely.  I think she's the one.  Loneliness isn't why.  It's not fair to tell her.   I am uncomfortable on your couch.

For what it's worth, you and me.  

Therapy.

Things I'd never tell my therapist.  

  

the poets

 

Let the poets write, we lament.

Nails and thorns become a metaphor.  I've never really suffered, I admit quietly.  There's guilt in that admission.  

And guilt becomes suffering.

Those poets are never heard.  And we long to hear them.

So young, stupid and pretty.  So self-confident with the ability to say what needs to be heard.  So self aware to know too much is said.  So foolish to not realize tomorrow's memories are being made today. 

So intelligent, stubborn and enigmatic.  So proud of the unaccomplished, forgot to say it's not over.  So deluded to think everything will improve.   So ashamed that stage was absent of my words.

So unaffectionate, stoic and misunderstood.   So distant as she brings me dinner.  So loud nothing is heard.  So disconnected from that kind of love.

Sex and love become a proverb.   Discernment, a lost art, we lament.  And the artist stares calmly into the empty eyes of his muse.

Let the artist paint, we lament.

There's wisdom behind each stroke of the brush.

Kinda felt kind enough to not run past my reflection.  Into yours.  
Kinda felt anonymous isn't as safe as once thought.  Kinda felt safe inside your unspoken words.  Your implied feelings.   Kinda felt kind enough to accept them.

The poets know what I say.  They know what I think.

Let them write, we lament.