Let's Make this our Story.

"I write it down on paper, and then the ghost does not ache so much."{poetry, words, stories. love, God}

[pensandpositivity]

An Open Letter to Any  Boy Who Has Ever Touched Me

A kindly worded letter to any boy who has ever touched me in a way worth remembering:

Thank you.

Thank you, in a genuine way, for helping me forget my present pain. Maybe you weren’t the healthiest way for me to try to get over things and maybe you just made it harder in the end. But at least for the moment or moments we were together, you made me feel better.

Hell - you made me feel beautiful. And I know I should feel beautiful without you - and believe me, sometimes I do - but you have something about you that fills a hole inside of me that is always screaming to be filled, an empty mug once filled to the brim one day so long ago, maybe childhood, maybe before that.

So yes, you filled me if only temporarily, but there are some other things I’d like to say: I’m sorry. Whether you care or not, I am truly and utterly sorry for using you to fill myself with worth and meaning. It is a sad place to be when you are filling yourself only with the touch and passion of others and not the unique, necessary touch of God’s hands upon your hungry, broken soul.

On a lighter note, it was so much fun. We are young and we experienced a moment of passion and beauty and recklessness, and what else are we supposed to do when we are so young and still learning so much that will change us into someone better and wiser?

I was learning, you were learning, we always were and are and will be, as long as we are alive. But something I go back and forth on seemingly everyday is whether or not I regret it - what we did, what we shared for a night or for many. I want my answer to be a simple and straightforward “no” - I want to say I don’t wish this or that would have happened, but to really say that would be lying.

Truthfully, in my soul, I do regret sharing my body and myself to young men who don’t know the first thing about me. To boys who just yearn for the physical part of me and nothing more - almost always nothing more.

To any boy who has touched me in a way worth remembering: you hurt me. You maybe took advantage of me, and I want you to know that it wasn’t okay. Maybe I was to blame, too - for sending mixed messages, for leading you on, for letting things go as far as they did - I too listened to my body and not my mind, and now I live with the consequences, the memories bitter and sweet.

Dear any boy who has ever touched me in a way worth remembering: it is all over, and it seems it is the past, and I want to let go of it, believe me, I do. I want to travel out of the pain and regret and sadness I swim in nearly all of the time - I am so close to just drowning in it all on my worst days.

Nearly every waking moment for me seems to be full of overthinking, worrying, anxiety; I let it all get the best of me. Yes, I want to let go and forgive myself, but I also want to change for the future - I want to do things differently and be a better, more authentic version of myself.

Maybe you did something to help that, though. Maybe you gave me the ammunition and the inspiration to finally change - oh how I would love to finally change, a new blank canvas even after mark after mark of fingerprints, dark colors of paint that sing in ways so haunting. Sometimes, starting new  means looking back, reexamining what was to get a better picture of what should be, going back to go forward, gazing at what didn’t work to be a step closer to what actually will.

Maybe starting new means first looking at your past, for all it was and all it wasn’t, for all its beauty and pain, and somehow throwing those old, unhelpful yet addicting emotions out the lovely open windows in the corner of the room, rusting yet decorating with solace and peace and hope, sweet things you never really knew.

Today, at a coffee shop, alongside a honey-cinnamon latte and a new purple pen and a yellow-orange-red-and-black swirly painted table, surrounded by voices soft and loud and always echoing through the tall ceilings of this old building, house shaped in style - I made a feeble and heartfelt and equal parts hopeless and hopeful attempt to start new. That is, I opened up my favorite journal to a fresh page - lovely, bright-colored flowers subtly decorating the corners - and I wrote a vulnerable letter to a group of boys spread out in the country, busy with their Saturday routines, whatever they may be, and more likely than not, not thinking of me, not writing to me, not wondering what I am doing on this last Saturday in August, the start of a new school year in college - a happy and hopeful time, isn’t it?

I wrote a letter to all these different boys, all with one thing in common: they have touched me in a way worth remembering, and did you know that more than anything I am thankful they did this, because if you made it this far in this letter - the same way I’ve made it this far in my life, a life smudged with mistakes and hurt yet I smile and smile because that is what I love doing - you will have realized I should let go and be thankful they have touched me.

Look what I have done - I say this to you and to my soul with wide eyes and a forever open heart - I have sat down and I have written, I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and it lead me to the ending of this letter. I wrote and as I finish writing I realize I have written something worth remembering, and it doesn’t matter if this letter reaches one of those boys I once new, shallow or deep, it is only me who needs this letter and it is only me who needs to believe I am a girl with a good heart and I am a girl worth remembering.

Maybe if I knew this, boys, I wouldn’t have needed you for some kind of support to feel better about myself. I wouldn’t have needed your lovely, sacred touch in the first place - you see, it all starts and ends with worth.

What a beautiful place to be - writing, and full of my own special, messy, silver-lined worth, one I have been searching for for so long, one I will need to never ever forget, even when others may forget about me.

[pensandpositivity]

Gray

Gray

The room screams “empty”

and I am locked up in it and my thoughts

The sad window sits there

Waiting for me to say something,

Anything,

But I have been taught by example

That words were born to tear down,

cut,

ignite flames,

divide.

So I write in silence until I’m numb

to the pain,

Take my worries and turn them into a poem

and desperately hope I articulate

the healing words that someone else

was searching for.

[pensandpositivity]

You Already Have the Only Two Things You Need

See, I believe that the only things that really matter In the grand scheme of life are God and people And if people are made in the image of God Then when you spend your time with people It’s never...

[pensandpositivity]

People write for all sorts of different reasons. For an A, for a gift, for a response. For money, or because they realized they weren’t half-bad at it and decided to give it a chance. But I have a theory that the rawest and realest and most passionate of all writers are writers who write to simply survive. It is not a side thing that they do in spare summers, but ingrained in their soul, in who they are. I do not write for your approval. I do not write for fame. I write to keep myself breathing every damned day. And I am thankful I have been blessed with so many sunrises, and the endless words to describe them. And of all this, I am sure.

[pensandpositivity]

An Open Letter to the Opposite Sex You can call me beautiful, But I've heard it enough. Boys, you can twist my long hair Through your fingers And wonder if the sparkle In my green eyes is A working of God or not And you can joke with me and Flirt with me and Do things that will solve each of our own kinds of loneliness for 30 min at best. You can run your fingers down my thigh And make me yearn for the pleasures you offer You can even take an important element of me for yourself, Steal it like a thief in the night But is it really stealing if I let you? I know this answer first hand - You see, I gave an important part of me away Not so willingly, with much worry and confusion And later on, that special boy wasn't there to Hold my heart or me Anymore. I was not needed Anymore. Not of use. Afterwards, I knew he had stole it Had stolen the breathing life and magic out of me, Because for a while I couldn't breathe in without breathing in his name and perfections and all the times he broke me. Some nights, it happens again And I am short of breath for hours. So you can do this boys, but the silence we experience afterwards Never sits well with me. I want you to know that I am not looking for you. Thank you for your affections However superficial they may be But, no thank you. The next date I want to go on Is a blind one- no, literally, We will sit at my favorite restaurant, each wearing cheap tye-dye blindfolds That were my older sisters' growing up. And this time, this man will fall in love with my laughter and my horribly-told stories, With my passion for life and adventure and God and people and poetry and words, beautiful and ugly and he will never worry if I am ugly because he will have already experienced the real beauty Inside of me. Nothing Is more important than that, and this man will fix all of the nothings i have ached with after experiences of empty love And broken promises. The waiter will laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and wonder if we were a. On drugs or b. Lost a bet But right now, I am doing the same-- Laughing. At how we place our highest affections into what matters least: a good body and pretty face and sex appeal and the amount of physical gain. The time ticks and our entrees have arrived and my date tells a joke and I laugh, an empty and sarcastic laugh but I am not laughing at him or the joke but the ridiculousness of it all, The ridiculousness of the physical, tangible love society and romantic comedies drill into our broken minds. Because I believe and know in my heart That the only love that is decent enough to be spelled out l - o - v - e The only love that is real That will survive a thousand and more Moons That will survive Long after Our eulogies are given Is the stark and simple and sanguine love of the soul. And to anyone who has Done that And to anyone who will I want to say thank you: Thank you for loving my soul Thank you for loving Me.

[pensandpositivity]

I guess now all those poems I wrote for you, are just words on a page. Maybe they meant the world at one point, and believe me when I say you meant the universe to me, Maybe they were crafted not by me, but from the source of love; that is, God. I am young. And I do not know what love is. But I do know that at one point, your arms around me felt like home. And I know that every kiss I gave you was a piece of me, the mosaic of my being and I gave them and gave them and gave them and they're gone away from me And I don't know where they went because you don't hold them anymore. But I am young. And I do not Know what true love is. Maybe though, I was learning what true love was, each day you drifted further apart. True love is not bitter jealousy, and your anger scaring me so much that I can't even tell you I'm hanging out with other boys. True love is not endless tears, or my Heart being ripped into two. True love is not using me for my body because you wanted to "spice things up" to try and fix them, Well our relationship isn't a god damned recipe and there will never be an ingredient you could use to fix that brokenness, to fix my brokenness, because brokenness is being told "I am in love with you" and then having that exact same person who spoke those words to you, can you speak those words to me again, walk away from you. You used to be my happy place, and everything I held dear. Maybe years from now you will look back, and remember the girl who was young and in love and stupid to give all of herself because you couldn't keep her with you for long, The girl with big eyes and a heart bigger than those who holds your secrets and your flaws and your words and every embrace you ever blessed her with, and who would have held them despite the turmoil, despite your painful words. And years from now you will be walking through the city streets on the way to some friend's apartment, and see her at some bar with close friends. She will not look the same... She will stand taller with a sweet confidence, and have a heart not closed but guarded to those who intend to hurt, sparkling eyes and shiny pearls and sleek black heels adorn her; Strong and classy and grown up she will be, away from older days. She will be transformed. and there will be nothing more Beautiful than her face, which will whisper Thank you for the pain you caused; thank you for helping transform Me.

[pensandpositivity]

And some days I still think about the nights we shared, nights before your name became synonymous with "asshole," nights before I became disposable to you, We spent hours under the moon Discussing the contents of our soul Sharing kisses or sips of champagne Offering the acceptance and comfort to the other that was Missing from past wounds I don't think you can remember Them so crystal clear as me But if you could, I hope you would shed tears for them And from Them Like me right now. I hope you would give the universe Just some tangible proof that What we had was real, That we actually did give a shit about each other That the times we shared Were not lies, That all those times you laid with me in bed -- both of our intentions were Pure. It's 11:52 p.m. on a cold December night and as much as I hate to admit it, I am still in love with you, my heart aches for you and from you, And the present and the past Collide and unite as I look up at that silver moon, The same silver moon that watched over us so many times, I want you to know that I am here Thinking about all of the nights we Shared, Thinking about all of the nights We will spend no longer entwined And I want you to know that despite everything I am surprisingly and actually and beautifully okay.

[pensandpositivity]

November 15 Stupid things my mind remembers, like We met a year ago today. I had a good feeling about you, wasn’t sure you would get as close as you did, didn’t know we would end up being as serious as we were, couldn’t guess the love and comfort and happiness you would pour into me, and let me pour into you. I sit here now and mentally look back over the span of months, sad calendar now that doesn’t hold the promise I thought it would. I try to think of things I would change, conversations I would have over again, the little sour and bad parts of our relationship that I would kindly mend, gently fix. But a thought deep down in my being lets me know: you have done everything you could. And even though I’m in pain now, if your mind ever strays to me and the good memories we lived out, the countless times we could simply lay there, content with the sound of the breeze and our own quiet heartbeats, ticking clocks that we had no idea were one day going to tick out of beat with each other… I hope you can look back at them, hold them in your palm, breathe in and breathe out, and cherish them, recognize them for their worth and memorize the palpable love and acceptance that decorated the air. I hope one day you feel that same feeling again, just as deeply if not more. God has let me know that it’s okay if it is not with me. Without me is a heartbreaking phrase, but a year ago today you once were. Years are a funny thing, and I will let the breeze or harsh wind, whatever it may be, come. For the years will spread us like dandelion seeds, sanding down the edges of our jigsaw parts that used to only fit each other.

[pensandpositivity]

"Nothing on this planet can compare with a woman’s love—it is kind and compassionate, patient and nurturing, generous and sweet and unconditional. Pure. If you are her man, she will walk on water and through a mountain for you, too, no matter how you’ve acted out, no matter what crazy thing you’ve done, no matter the time or demand. If you are her man, she will talk to you until there just aren’t any more words left to say, encourage you when you’re at rock bottom and think there just isn’t any way out, hold you in her arms when you’re sick, and laugh with you when you’re up. And if you’re her man and that woman loves you—I mean really loves you?—she will shine you up when you’re dusty, encourage you when you’re down, defend you even when she’s not so sure you were right, and hang on your every word, even when you’re not saying anything worth listening to. And no matter what you do, no matter how many times her friends say you’re no good, no matter how many times you slam the door on the relationship, she will give you her very best and then some, and keep right on trying to win over your heart, even when you act like everything she’s done to convince you she’s The One just isn’t good enough. That’s a woman’s love—it stands the test of time, logic, and all circumstance. "

— Steve Harvey

[pensandpositivity]

This poem is very long So long, in fact, that your attention span May be stretched to its very limits But that’s okay It’s what’s so special about poetry See, poetry takes time We live in a time Call it our culture or society It doesn’t matter to me cause neither one rhymes A time where most people don’t want to listen Our throats wait like matchsticks waiting to catch fire Waiting until we can speak No patience to listen But this poem is long It’s so long, in fact, that during the time of this poem You could’ve done any number of other wonderful things You could’ve called your father Call your father You could be writing a postcard right now Write a postcard When was the last time you wrote a postcard? You could be outside You’re probably not too far away from a sunrise or a sunset Watch the sun rise Maybe you could’ve written your own poem A better poem You could have played a tune or sung a song You could have met your neighbor And memorized their name Memorize the name of your neighbor You could’ve drawn a picture (Or, at least, colored one in) You could’ve started a book Or finished a prayer You could’ve talked to God Pray When was the last time you prayed? Really prayed? This is a long poem So long, in fact, that you’ve already spent a minute with it When was the last time you hugged a friend for a minute? Or told them that you love them? Tell your friends you love them …no, I mean it, tell them Say, I love you Say, you make life worth living Because that, is what friends do Of all of the wonderful things that you could’ve done During this very, very long poem You could have connected Maybe you are connecting Maybe we’re connecting See, I believe that the only things that really matter In the grand scheme of life are God and people And if people are made in the image of God Then when you spend your time with people It’s never wasted And in this very long poem I’m trying to let a poem do what a poem does: Make things simpler We don’t need poems to make things more complicated We have each other for that We need poems to remind ourselves of the things that really matter To take time A long time To be alive for the sake of someone else for a single moment Or for many moments Cause we need each other To hold the hands of a broken person All you have to do is meet a person Shake their hand Look in their eyes They are you We are all broken together But these shattered pieces of our existence don’t have to be a mess We just have to care enough to hold our tongues sometimes To sit and listen to a very long poem A story of a life The joy of a friend and the grief of friend To hold and be held And be quiet So, pray Write a postcard Call your parents and forgive them and then thank them Turn off the TV Create art as best as you can Share as much as possible, especially money Tell someone about a very long poem you once heard And how afterward it brought you to them

[pensandpositivity]

my dad. and when he will bring a bag of candy from speedway or mobile or the local gas station. I somehow feel his light-hearted and simple spirit that is happy and content with what is, who he is and life in general. sometimes, I want to steal this spirit for myself.

[pensandpositivity]

A burnt orange leaf whispers a secret I should have known so many sunsets ago. How do you let go of something so ingrained in you? The excitement you felt waking up, the comfort you felt falling asleep. Everytime change comes around, I subconsciously duck and hide, try not to let it see me. But its eyes are limitless, always managing to find me even behind stone walls of concrete and insecurity. Do you know the feeling of being past tears? Not a sea of calm, not an embrace of content, but a horrific wave of apathy and indifference and a numbness not known until felt. I’ve always agreed with the Lumineers, that the opposite of love is indifference...and now all of my being knows this truth.

[pensandpositivity]

how many times have you come to find that love is a stranger to you? It feels like too many for me. I am 5 again, and my innocent cheeks of rose and wonder blush and rise in laughter and bliss. I don’t know much about the world around me. my eyes are peepholes into a place I may not understand, but that is so easy to see the beauty in. my sisters’ voices are a twinkle of bells, safe. at least there is something I understand. my cousins’ playdates and table dinners of my dad’s mashed potatoes or sometimes wendy’s chicken nuggets, I know those too. It’s funny how you ride the endless train of not knowing, to knowing, not knowing, knowing, not… The next time I know, I tell myself, I will be sure to get off swiftly at the nearest stop. The tough thing though, is I’m not sure if I’ll like the destination.

[pensandpositivity]

To My Future Husband, Well, for starters, I hope you exist. It would kind of be a letdown to me if you don’t, considering how much I want to be a mom one day and have little babies of my own. Second, this letter is much more cynical than the last “to my future husband” letter slash poem I wrote last year in creative writing. Side note: is it sad that I will have written multiple letters to someone who doesn’t even know me yet? Anyways, even if it is, I know you won’t care because you will love me for me. (another side note: I actually hate myself for saying love me for me because it’s cliche and cliches are horrific). Through bad experiences with guys, I have often considered becoming a nun. Sometimes I say this jokingly, but I have legitimately considered it as well. But thank goodness I have Maria from The Sound of Music to illustrate what happens when you go to the convent as an escape and not because you are truly passionate and that it is right for you. She ran away from heartbreak and her problems, replacing it with becoming a sister. That may be a good short-term solution, but definitely not a long-term one. I hope you know that I am trying to become a better person everyday, a better woman everyday. I remind myself that the hardships and struggles that make me hurt and upset now will help mold me into a strong wife and mother one day. I want to grow immensely in faith, knowledge, talent, love and hope the next four years. My first semester of college has gone by pretty fast, and it was a huge culture shock at first, as well as disorienting not being at home. But like anything else, over time I have grown used to it. I can’t decide if the getting used to things makes me sad or happy… at the same time, “I am both sad and happy and still trying to figure out how that could be.” I have some questions for you: what college do you go to? What town and state are you from? And did you ever imagine you’d end up with a girl that laughs too much and loves poetry as much as she does chocolate, from a town in Illinois and who is five of eight kids? Likely not, and thats a good thing. Surprises refresh our dull minds and spirits, let us know that life is not always what we imagined it would be, but instead, so much better, because “What you can plan is too small for you to live. / What you can live/ wholeheartedly / will make plans / enough / for the vitality / hidden in your sleep.” A guy named David Whyte wrote that in his poem, “What to Remember When Waking.” Surprises too, let us know that we are not in charge -- God is. Do you like poetry? If not, I want to make you love it because I’m convinced there are certain truths and stories and phrases and words and emotions that can only be told through poems. I think I will know you are the one when I write the best poems of my life inspired by and about you… my best writing stems from immense passion, passion that can only stem from my soul, whether it is from a place of great joy or great pain. What are you doing right now, October 30, 2014 at 8:31 p.m. central time? I am currently procrastinating on a fifteen hundred word essay about Julius Caesar that is due Monday. I’ve barely begun getting quotes, let alone write the thing. I’ll probably force myself to stay in tomorrow to get it done in order to pass the honors class, and hopefully get that A- I’m striving for. Wherever you’re at, whoever you are, I hope you know that you are already loved. That whatever awful pain anyone has caused you, I wish I could heal it now and I will help heal it one day. I want you to know you are worth so much, and that although I don’t know who you are yet, I yearn to save and preserve my heart, soul and body for only you. Yes, maybe others will get in the way, but hopefully they will only strengthen me further. It will be many years before I hand you this letter, and its kind of cool that I don’t know who you are yet, or you me -- at least I think. I’m a firm believer that God does, though. I started to read When God Writes Your Love Story tonight, and I couldn’t be happier that I did. I ordered it for one cent plus three ninety-nine shipping on Amazon, and it was probably the best four dollars I’ve spent in a while. Minus the four dollars apart of the eight dollars I spent on a Chipotle burrito last night. It may be a long time before our paths cross, but I can only pray God will let me know that you are the match for me. I have a lot of love in my heart to give, and may have been hurt before, but this will not close me off from feeling and giving away little pieces of me, one bit at a time, a story, a laugh, a gift, a listening ear, a hug, until one day I sit down I realize that I have given myself -- all that I am and possess. The other day at mass, the priest giving the homily quoted a beautiful quote from a pope whose name I can’t remember at the moment. It said that life is simple: it is the process of giving yourself away, and isn’t that love in its simplest form? Giving. It may be scary, but I can’t wait for the day when I can do just that with you. -J.S.

[pensandpositivity]

You've got a knife-throwing kind of love, But your silence cuts the deepest.

Vanessa Carlton

[pensandpositivity]

Love does not cost anything. Kind words and deeds do not cost anything. The real beauty of the world is equal for everyone to see. It was given by God equally to all, without restrictions. Everyone, was given a beautiful vehicle in which to express love to others. Feelings are free to express and give to ourselves and each other through our willingness to give and care. What is complicated about this... Why have we made others feel they have to climb mountains and swim oceans in order to make a difference. All we need to understand my friends, is that human life was given equally to us all, not partially but in totality. The sun was given to all. It does not shine on the few. So, just has nature is indifferent to our station or situation, we need to know that we are all equal. We need to focus on the things that are constant and not place our values on things that can be blown away with the next, great, wind. Value life in what ever house it dwells. For when it comes time that we are all stripped to bare bones before the divine and facing eternity, we will understand that the only law we were meant to follow, was to love ourselves and each other. Nothing more...nothing less.

Carla Jo Masterson

[pensandpositivity]

A Letter I Won't Send I love him Silently maybe, But love him just the same. I don't know if anyone notices the way you dark bronze eyes hide behind your glasses, two perfect pennies not lucky for me, just like your emotions and secrets Lie hidden behind your Stoical Disposition, I may not like this position we stand in now; who knows how long it will last. Tonight I sat in a dark room filled with only the quiet and my thoughts. Even though my eyes crowed with tears When I remembered the kiss we shared, our reunion kiss, a seal of broken love that desperately wants to be whole, I am okay that my mind strayed to You: It means I once shared a piece of Beauty and truth with someone that mattered, a dazzling kind of experience and significance I've never known before. Like someone said before, it was a privilege to be loved by you. Whether you have stopped loving me or not, It doesn't change the contents of my heart, the way I feel. If you ever feel alone, know that some girl somewhere far away Is still in love with every little thing about you even though you've hurt me, That your features and what you stand for are beautiful. My silent love is all I can give, and little prayers dance around in my sub-conscience, they say that one day, I hope you develop the ears to hear this love, to hear what cannot be heard with the senses of the physical world, the eardrum or sound waves but with the Heart and Spirit that stems from someone much higher than us. He is the source and center of love. These words will not reach you, They are not strong enough to travel All eight hours away; no stamp or mailman can help this sad fact. And besides, I am not sure if you would even care enough to hear them. Still, an important truth remains: at least they are outside of me.