#oddcrush

[god-exi-ts]

You’re talking to strangers and acting like you’re more than okay. You smile from ear to ear when you feel the tears approaching. You don’t know how to let it out you so block out the entrance from the inside. You love making people laugh and laughing till your stomach hurts and your eyes water. You keep chasing rainbows. You’re sitting alone in your head letting the voices talk from your brain directly into your heart. You walk on razors and your feet have no feeling in them, it started from the top of your head and trickled down throughout your body. You can’t feel it anymore you can’t feel anything. You don’t remember what it felt like to feel something so you hold on to the things that make you feel anything. You attach yourself to whatever makes you feel something. Anything. Good or bad. You’ll take any of it because you’re desperate and trying to survive, ease the pain in whatever way you can. You say everything will be alright everything will be alright everything will be alright. If you say it enough it will be okay. If it isn’t okay you can pretend. Everything will be alright. You will be okay.

[god-exi-ts]

You don’t know how to feel, everything you felt in the past was invalidated. You were told it’s wrong to feel that way so you did the right thing and stopped. Stopped feeling stopped and started ignoring your emotions. No, you didn’t let the feelings pass you made sure to bury them 6 feet deep, and crush them under your tar black soul. This is a learnt behavior that you can’t unlearn. Then what happens when it’s 3 am and your eyes tear up. It turns into every emotion you’ve been shoving down for the past few months. You can’t identify what’s pouring out of you, why your body needs to release all this pain you’ve kept in. It’s like a never ending painful waterfall. It ends with tear drops on your pillow and puffy eyes in the morning. Feeling numb is worse than feeling anything, the absence of feeling drives you mad. You want to squeeze something or to grasp onto anything to just, feel something. I just want to feel something sometimes, not everything all at once.

[god-exi-ts]

Anxiety fills up my mind with unwanted noise repeating the same 2 worrisome sentences over and over in my brain for hours. I feel like I’m going to physically explode. I’ve tried drinking and smoking to silence my mind, that only helps for so long. My mind is not a quiet place, my inner monologue keeps coming up with new material. Like an endless conversation someone else is having in my head. My house cannot be silent, as I’m writing this I hear noise. I want there to be silence. I love the night because everyone is asleep and silent. I can drown out my mind and everyone else’s voice out with whatever way I choose to distract myself. The monotone voices, the humming, and the fucking metal cutlery, makes me wish the earth would open up that very moment and swallow me whole so I can escape the constant noise. I wish I could tell everyone to be quiet and they would listen. If only I could let them feel everything I’m feeling and they’d stop because me asking for some peace and quiet is not enough.

[pol-ar-ity]

You text me at two in the morning. (You’re drunk. Surprise.) You admit it - that the whole time you were with her, you were imagining it was me. And each time I DID appear, it was never the right context. Never the right circumstances. The universe was against us.

I respond that I feel the same way. I don’t say that I’ve been waiting years for this. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It doesn’t matter at all.

What does matter is that the planets aligned and you’re texting me at two a.m. and I’m still awake enough to respond. I’m high and emotional and terrified. I’m so fucking terrified. I can’t risk losing you. But what’s reward without risk, right?

So she’ll stab me in the back and my brother won’t approve. It’s going to be messy. Your mother loves me. We’re going to make mistakes. We’re going to fight and bicker and never go to bed angry. I’m ready for this. I’m ready for this with you.

It’s always been you. And finally, karma has won. Fuck the universe. I only need you.

[pol-ar-ity]

Like. Like. Like.

Social media has eaten me alive and spit me back out. And I still crave that validation more than anything. I care about being liked too much. I obsessively refresh apps - Spotify, Instagram, Tumblr - and watch the numbers. I measure my self-worth in follows. No one followed me today. Am I less likable?

Did someone reblog my poetry? No? I’ll write a better poem. I won’t erase the old one to make a point. Make it seem like I don’t care about notes when those notes matter more to me than what I’ve written. Make it relatable. Try to be likable.

I deleted friends off of my personal Facebook without thinking twice. I stared at my professional Facebook, overflowing with strangers, and didn’t delete a single one. I stared at my page and looked at the analytics. Engagement down 8%. Why? What did I post that people didn’t care about? Am I likable still?

I don’t want to care about being likable. I don’t want to care about others’ opinions of me. I don’t want to care about if someone unliked my Facebook page or unsubscribed from my mailing list.

But I obsess. Don’t we all? What’s the first thing you do when you open your phone: texts or social media? I wake up and immediately base my perception of myself for the day based on how many notifications I have. If I’ll be likable that day.

We are so self-absorbed in trying not to be self-absorbed. But it’s not something to be personally ashamed of - society has pushed us to post everything everywhere and only backtrack when you’re close to being canceled. Rate your body on a scale from 1 to 10 and compare it to the Kardashian you just saw. Count your calories today - resist eating above 800. Wear sunglasses because you don’t feel like putting lashes on. Hide in your house because your roots are showing. Look likable.

We talk about the younger generations being shallow because they care about their looks. But they’re not shallow - they’re trying to fit in. Be included in a group at lunch. Have a good relationship with your coworker. Go through friends like a Rolodex and have your heart ripped out each time you wonder if you’re acting likable enough to deserve finding new ones.

Being likable is desired. Revered. Dreamt about. But we are multi-faceted. We are not made to be likable. We are made to be strong. Courageous. Brave. Happy. Smart. Creative. Kind. We are made to be more than a like. We are made to change the world and make connections with other humans.

We are more than comments and follows. We are inherently likable. No subscription needed.

“you’re more than your profile pic”

[pol-ar-ity]

I’m looking at you, pulling your shirt over your head in the backseat of your van. You have scratches on your elbows from eating shit on a skateboard. “It’s a midlife crisis,” I said, and you laughed and didn’t disagree.

It’s been four years since the idea of you was burned in my brain. Four years of niceties and random conversations here and there. Four years of other people and miles and miles between us.

But now it’s Friday, and we’re in the back of your car, and the windows are fogging up, and I can’t help but laugh at how the universe works. Because after four years, we’re finally getting it right.

I pause and look at you, still struggling with your shirt - really, who thought buttons were a good idea? - and feel my heart in my throat. So this is it. This is you and me and four years in one moment.

I close my eyes and make a wish to remember all of it.

“robin hood”

[pol-ar-ity]

You made me coffee

and shook my hand

and that was it.

Seventeen frappuccinos in

and I know I’m falling.

It went from quick hand-offs

to three-hour stays

just because we occasionally caught eyes

and the butterflies in my stomach came to life

each time you asked me a question

or lingered by me a second too long.

Now,

you walk me down the block to my apartment.

You don’t try to kiss me.

You don’t try to force your way into my apartment.

You hand me my groceries

that you carried for me because they were heavy

and say you’ll see me next time

and then hurry to catch your bus

in the opposite direction.

And for once,

I don’t want to rush.

I don’t need to know what we are

I don’t need to meet your mother.

I just want to know if you think this is a flower worth watering, too

If you want to wish upon the same star.

And if you do,

say so

Because I think

you’re one of the best decisions

I could make

and I don’t make them that often.

“starbucks hearts”

[pol-ar-ity]

You nibble on my bottom lip at one in the morning. Half asleep, I smile, press the edges of my mouth to your own. “Is this paradise?” I sigh, and I hear you chuckle next to me. Feathering your lips across my forehead, you tuck my head beneath your chin.

“Baby,” you say, voice low and even. “Paradise is any place I’m with you.”

- wherever you touch me is my personal paradise