We Act As Though We Know Each Other. We Do Not. We Act As Though We Need Each Other. We Do Not. We Act

We act as though we know each other. We do not. We act as though we need each other. We do not. We act as though we love each other. We do not. But perhaps I like your company. And perhaps I crave existence.

Everything I Never Told You

A Good Writer vs. A Writer

As a writer, I often find myself in the middle of odd places at odd times. In odd situations. At least I assume they are odd. What makes them so is simply my awareness of them. Or perhaps lack thereof. The sentences in my head, pull me out of reality and daydreams into another layer of both. I watch them helplessly even as I create them.

There is a scene I found myself itching to write a while ago. It would not leave me alone until it encased me. Consumed every thought. Every step. Until I had encountered every detail it needed me to, and so it goes:

I am standing in a room. But I am not. For the sky is black and speckled with stars and the breeze is blowing and the stone floor is hard. I am wearing a dress, but no shoes. And I feel the warmth, of blood, running up to my elbows, splattering my face, pooling around my bare feet. It is soaking into my floor-length gown. There is enough for it not to be sticky. I have no weapon. See no bodies. But I know they are there. I do not know if the blood is there's or mine. I do not know what happened. Do not know what I feel. Or why I am standing there motionless. All I know is that the blood is warm, but my shoulders are cold. That my hair is down and my heart is steady. 

I do not know what happened. But I do not ask questions. Maybe because I do not want to know. And perhaps that is the difference between a writer and a good writer. Good writers ask why. They explore what happened before, what will happen after. They will work it out. Figure it out. They know or at least want to. But I, I don’t. 

I do not want to know why am I standing there is a flowing dress, covered in blood. Do not want to know why I came here, or if I will leave these bodies and go home to another, or if someone will come to get me. Do not want to know who these bodies belong to. I refuse to ask. I take what it gives me. And do not pry for more. I do not care about the beginning or the end. About where I came from or where I will go. Mostly because I do not want to know. I do not care. All I care about is that this is the one place I do not feel compelled to search for the answers that too often I cannot find or leave me broken. 

So I am just a writer. Who finds herself in the middle of odd places, at odd times, in odd situations, soaked in blood and refusing to ask why. 

Sometimes your heart is the only thing worth listening to.

Heartless Marissa Meyer

There are some things even poetry hesitates to remember.

The Intangible things 

Our love was Baby blue leather jacket  And sunflowers Our love was Second grade "What do you want to be when you grow up" And the "What do you like on your pizza" question Our love was  Lullabies on the piano Heart in timezone tatters Our love was More I miss you Than I love you Our love was Cute animals GIF's  And orange juice Our love was Not knowing of the broken or the healing But just knowing you are helping  Our love was Me trying to be happy Just for you Because you made me want to

The Belgium Boy, The Boyfriend Boy Excerpt from the poem The Ways In Which I have Been Loved

I know now Why you said it As he tells me he loves me Tells me I should open up more  As he tells me he loves me I feel the words clawing their way up my throat 'You don't even know me' I know now why you said it

And I do not blame you