#pseudotalks

[pseudomenudo]

I can not say

I do not want

You in my life

But I don’t miss you

As much as I used to.

[pseudomenudo]

When I Met Love:

I met Love for the first time at twenty four. I say for the first time because she Wore a mask I had never seen before, And she was nothing like I imagined.

The Love I knew felt like a friend She was always there to play, to hold To laugh, dance, and sing. She was young, cheeks round and flushed A gifted child that blessed everything she touched Spinning round and round in wonder and awe Eyes sparkling with the promise of forever.

She was my closest companion I believed in her, even in my darkest days I believed in her power, in her innocence Though I trusted her, I still felt so alone She was always there, and yet so out of my reach. I could never touch her for too long. Giggling mischievously, she’d come to my side And as soon as she arrived She’d leave, taking everything with her Like the moon waits for the sun to set I waited for Love.

Now we meet again It’s been so long since I last saw her At first, I’m elated—I have so many questions to ask her, stories to tell I want to hear all about her I want her to tell me where she went And why she never returned.

As I take a step closer, I realize She’s changed, her eyes are darker And her once flowing hair is matted, Tangled in knots She scowls when she sees me Fangs glinting in the light “What have you done?” I gasp, terrified As I watch her devour countless souls Souls who once cherished her Believed in her, lived with her  And ate from the same table. Her ribs strain against her skin Stomach sunk in, flesh bruised  She growls on all fours, a predator. She’s hungry, starving, and she wants more.

I met Love for the first time at twenty-four In the arms of a man who fought against her and won. Released himself from her chains of torment. A champion, victorious, his sword buried deep in her bosom.  “The Love you know doesn’t exist,” He tells me. Grief stricken, I hold my head in my hands.

Once again, I had her for only a moment And then she was gone.

I met Love in the arms of this man With a set jaw and hardened eyes Like a Hero he looms over her, over me His armor made of steel, impenetrable He tosses Love aside  And she crumbles at his feet She was nothing like I remembered.

He tells me she wears masks, Various disguises, to tempt and tell lies And that, like him, I’ve been fooled  All this time, thinking  She was mine.   A traitor, a villain, a witch “A demon with flowers in her hair!” He goes on, and as he speaks I watch his eyes fill with blood A murderous rage consumes him. 

He aims his sword towards me Screaming, spilling profanities Yells at me, forces me back. I tremble as the tip of  The blade reaches my throat Yet, I am not afraid. I tremble because I know She’s alive, I feel her inside Like a disease she grows Possessing me Wearing my skin Like a dress Her spirit engulfs me But I am not afraid.

I met Love again at twenty four And realized she takes on many forms The Love I knew could be found in music In flowers growing from eager, wet earth She was the wind, cool and refreshing on the hottest days A babies cry, a mother’s smile, a tender kiss An “I love you, goodnight.”  A sweet good morning, a tearful wave goodbye.  A “Are you hungry? Have some of mine.” She was every color, every word of my favorite book.

She was the blush in my cheeks The beating of my heart The blood that rushed to my head The shaking hands and sweaty palms The warmth I felt When I looked at him. 

The Love he knew was unforgiving Relentless and cruel, taking everything Ripping away from him what he held dear Leaving scars behind as she caressed him. Dripping venom from her lips when she kissed him.

Tears fill my eyes as I hear About the Love he suffered through I do not pity him or sympathize I cry because I hardly recognize The Love he knew, cold and grotesque. Using her devotion against him Hanging her affection over his head Like a prize to be won.

No, I do not know this Love. This Love like a curse, Which punishes those who near her. I do not know this Love,  Who’s left wounds and battle scars On your skin, who’s dug a hole  Like a crater, where your heart Was meant to be.

I do not know her, though She  Fills me, every inch of my being She glows inside of me, like a flame Which refuses to be put out. A candle, flickering intensely  Spreading light through me I can feel her, hear her  In every word you speak  In every breath you take Like her, I consume them. 

I bury them deep, Making a home for them Within my heart.  Every letter Every call Every laugh Every song I make a home for it all  In my heart, and I call it Love. 

I met Love again at twenty four.  She came into this world, crying Fussing, squirming, warm still My blood coursing through her veins.  She has all her fingers  And all of her toes. With big, round eyes She looks at me and recognizes  My face, the curve of my lips  As I smile down at her Promising to raise her  To teach her how to love A man who wants nothing To do with her, a man who Hears her name and balks at the sound.

I tell her about this man Sing her lullabies as she sleeps Praising him, the harmonies  Swelling in her ears, filling her mind With thoughts of him. She learns of his glory Of the parts of his life He has shared with us. She is grateful to be by his side. She is my Love, who raises this  Man high, who wants to be near him Even as he builds walls, barricades To keep out the Love he knew.

I tell my Love to wait for him I tell my Love to be patient To care for this man, to adore him And fill him with her affection  Without fear, for he is strong, and wise Loyal and kind, though he wears his  Armor and swings his sword

He will not hurt you. For he knows you are harmless And pure, never asking for more Than what he is willing to give. He knows you, my Love, are his.  Though you come from me You belong only to him: A man who deserves to be loved. 

[pseudomenudo]

There’s a lot I don’t know.

I don’t know your favorite color, or how you like your tea. I don’t know your favorite song or what side of the bed you sleep. What keeps you up at night, what makes you frown. What you like to do when you’re not around. I don’t know a thing about you, not at all. I’m not versed in your ways. There’s no class I can take, and if there was I’d be the first to sign up. There’s no way for me to know. That’s okay with me.

Because I remember your voice, and how it’s always made me smile. I remember your laugh, how it swells beautifully, reaching its peak, chiming continuously before faltering and fading out. I remember our jokes and stories, and all the things you said you love and hate. The way you breathe, when you smile as you speak, and how your singing reminds me of warm Sunday mornings waking up to birds chirping...I hold these things close, they’re now a part of me. I’ve spent hours cherishing every second of your time. I’ve documented every moment, and yet...I don’t know anything. And I don’t need to know everything, or anything at all.

Well there are some things I know...

The leaping in my chest, the pain in my cheeks, the days without sleep and waiting by the phone, the days with sleep and waking up to your hello, the best and the worst, when we open up and close off, when we yell and when we sing, listening to silence as we both sit, doing absolutely nothing and everything and...

Telling you you’re perfect, loving you, being your friend, having you listen to me and my endless chatter, you accepting me and my adoration, laughing at and with you, doing all the things you want to do, craving you, wanting you, having you...

There’s a lot I will never know.

And some things that I do.

But none of it really matters if there’s no you.

[pseudomenudo]

Can we stay like this forever, just us three?

You, the Moon, and Me.

[pseudomenudo]

Call Forwarded

Hello? “Can you hear me?” “Are you there?” My darling, you are fading. I fear we’re disconnecting. Before you go, I have something I want to say— ["We're Sorry, You Have Reached  A Lover That Has Been Disconnected Or Is No Longer in Service."]

“It’s too late.”

[pseudomenudo]

And I whispered it as you slept,

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

— sleep talking

[pseudomenudo]

I like to write.

“Why do you write only when you’re sad?”

I write when I’m happy too. However, writing is one of the only ways my mentally ill ass allows me to “digest” negative emotions and forces me to accept that they are there and I need to feel them, process them... let myself be sad, angry, upset, disappointed, emotional.. any negative feeling really. I tend to go numb as a defense mechanism when I even have a slightly negative thought, and put on this mask like I’m okay and everything is all right.

Writing helps me confront the feelings I tend to avoid.

So yeah. I write when I’m happy. But it’s important for me to write when I’m not happy too. For my own sanity. And honestly? For the people around me too. I need to write.