Words for You Only

If you think this is for you, that is a mistake. It's only for her. 

[wordsforyouonly]

I ask to work.

Tell myself

it‘s not because I need the distraction.

It‘s because I want it.

I forego sleep to buy flowers.

Purple ones.

Three stores are out,

and I try to convince myself it isn‘t a sign.

I think about all the hand

holding

purple flowers,

the hands of someone they love.

It‘s 67 degrees in NYC today.

My fingertips are blue.

More than that.

Much more than that.

[wordsforyouonly]

Year 5.

This day is where I come to hyperventilate. 

To take all the breaths I have held this year

in twenty-four hours. 

To cry and ache and let myself wade in your absence. 

And not feel foolish. 

And try to not feel foolish. 

--- 

I wonder if I will ever know this day 

and not know it. 

I wonder if it will ever not know me. 

---

I watched midnight come and thought: 

maybe this is when it stops hurting. 

But I drove home across the George Washington Bridge, 

and the sunrise looked so perfect, I knew you would take a photo. 

And the song playing in the car next to me at the red light 

spoke about finding home in a human. 

The arrow turned green, and I made the sharpest left of my life

because I’ve failed so many times at trying to make it right.  

There’s tire marks burned into the street now.

And I didn’t notice I was crying until it was too late. 

It’s morning. And I am mourning. 

---

I’m so tired of feeling like a failure. 

---

There’s no beautiful way to say: goddamnit, I miss you so much. 

--- 

There is more. There is always more. 

[wordsforyouonly]

I am deleting old photos. 

Ones that make my phone weigh 100lbs. 

And I am reminded that for months and months 

my phone would constantly say: 

Text Emmy. 

Call Emmy. 

And I remember that I always thought: 

And say what? 

Nothing is going to make her come home. 

But I still texted.

And I still called. 

And, eventually, you stopped answering.

And you never came home.  

[wordsforyouonly]

I used to write you letters. 

I’m not really sure why. It might have had selfish intent. I wrote them like I used to write in my journals. Ange found an old journal of mine when I was I really sick- in the thick of it- and said: You’re writing like you know someone will read this. Like it’s a narrative. A story.  

I have trouble writing honestly. You know that firsthand after I sent you that draft of the chapter in my book. The one where I pretended to have any semblance of chronology and purpose to the worst moments of my life. I get nauseous now, thinking about what I wrote. How fake it was. How I couldn’t be honest to the void about myself. 

I know I used to write you letters because I missed you so much, I thought I would die right there if I had to let the feelings sit. And because I thought it was romantic. And because... I thought maybe one day, if I was good enough, I could write something that flipped a switch. Make you remember why you loved me. That you loved me. Past tense. Maybe- if it was really good- you’d remember how to love me again. 

My God Complex. Thinking I had any power to do that. 

Kinda like this stupid blog. There’s so much “miss you” in it. But there’s just as much “remember” in it. Even though that’s not what I want anymore. Most of the time. 

I’m going to try to write the truth. 

-- 

The truth is that, I’ve been awake since 1800. I got up for yoga because that’s pretty much the only reason I get out of bed these days. And not because yoga brings something to my life. Because I paid $200 a month for it. 

You and work. 

I accidentally wrote that. I meant: yoga and work. I was in the middle of back-spacing, but I thought that was some psychological joke. 

Anyway, I went to yoga, got a Green Tea Frap as a reward, and came home and just sat and watched stupid Youtube videos and tv. Trying to distract myself. Because since you told me you were going to a game, I’ve been trying to really really distract myself.

I hate the idea that you guys are going to have fun doing things we used to have fun doing. And I hate the idea that you ever do anything that we used to do. And I think it’s because you’ve changed so much, and in a way, I hate you for it. It feels like you did it out of spite. It feels like you do everything out of spite. Especially the good things. Like going to games. 

Going to Austin.

That’s my place. I have good memories there. And now, no matter how many good memories I have there, I will always have that taste in my mouth. 

Which isn’t your fault. Because I know you’re allowed to be a person. You’re allowed to take new memories with the person you love. With the person you plan on spending the rest of your life with. Because that’s what all of us deserve, I think. 

And it’s been almost five fucking years. Except, lets face it, it was ending way before that. It had been ending slowly since 2013. Since you stopped trusting that I could love you/not turn you into an enemy. And I stopped trusting that you’d ever forgive me. 

But that’s my place. And I have so few places that don’t remind me even a breath of you. And all I want is some peace. 

I hate soccer now. And I hate that I hate it. I can’t watch it. It doesn’t make me happy anymore. It makes me nostalgic, and then it gets me thinking. And then, I hate it for making me remember. 

I am almost nothing of the person I used to be, maybe out of some sort of rebellion. Maybe because I wanted you to look at me, the next time you see me, and feel like there wasn’t someone to miss. I think I wanted you to feel what I feel. Hurt. Abandoned. Widowed. 

But you won’t. Because, no matter what you’ve said, you moved on. Quickly. And, I wish I could understand it. God I wish I could. I wish I could understand not trying as hard as I tried. It makes me feel worthless. Like I wasn’t worth the effort. That I had to dig and be a sleuth to have proof of something I already knew. And I hated myself because, even now, I feel like I deserved it. And, even now, I don’t care. 

I was telling Ange that a couple weeks ago I finally realized why it hurts so much... what the worst part of it was. It wasn’t the cheating. The ending. The loss. SO much fucking loss. It wasn’t the loss of trust in you or in future people; we both know I never really had that anyway. I realized that I don’t trust myself anymore. That I refuse to date people because I don’t have good judgment. I don’t trust myself to let someone into my life who won’t hurt me like that again. I don’t trust my vetting skills. 

I’ve made a lot of excuses over the years as to why I keep to myself and don’t try to find someone. I remember the big one was: I just need to know why. What was the straw that broke the camel’s back. What was it that made me not worth trying for. What made the decision final/easy. Why didn’t I win out? What was the one thing I did that made uprooting everything justified. 

For a while I convinced myself that it was because I wasn’t her. That I could do everything she does and like all the stuff and talk about the things and hold you hand in public and show you off to my friends and play DnD and learn everything about Star Wars. Star Trek too. I could do all of it, but no matter what I did I would never be her. 

That may be true. I mean, it quite literally is. But that wasn’t enough for me. I thought all those times I asked you what the breaking point was, you would go home and sit and think and try to give me an answer. You would see how much it was hurting me to not know. You were always so in tune with my hurting. You knew it was coming even when I didn’t. 

But you never did go home and think about it. You never did give me an answer. Because you were living a life, and I was waiting. 

And Heather convinced me that I don’t need that to move forward. And she’s right. But I’d like it anyway. Plus, in some masochistic way, I would like to know what you- the person I loved and let in more than anyone else- found, in me, that was the worst thing. The defect. 

- -- 

Most days now, I’m okay. Distracted. I’ve put almost everything that is a blatant reminder of you in the trunk I bought you all those years ago. I still keep that last card you wrote me in my bedside table drawer. I never read it. But I basically remember everything it says. It’s like the LoTR length version of “Goodbye.” And who needs to read it when I remember it. 

--- 

I started this because I had a heavy thought. I watched You’ve Got Mail, and I was thinking about love. Because that move is the ultimate love story. I sat here thinking: I want to be loved like that. And then I felt soaked in loneliness. 

My atoms were buzzing still, and I went and sat in the windowsill of the cats’ room. And both Panda and Pax came walking in. I know they thought I was feeling them- because that’s the only reason I go in there. But Panda jumped up onto the sill with me, and I just cried. And then Pax sat there and listened to me cry. And they didn’t meow. They didn’t ask anything of me. They just sat there with me. 

We never would have lasted. I know that I couldn’t have made you happy. No really. And I don’t think you could have made me happy because I felt so lonely. I beat myself up about it, but I felt so fucking lonely in our relationship. 

Lauren was the first person I told (outside Jenny, Joey, and Jess accidentally) that we were engaged. The first time. And when she said Congratulations I wrote back to her: Thank you. I don’t know. It feels like she did it because it was the next thing to do. Because it was the next step. I wrote that. Or something almost identical to that. And it was earnest. 

I was talking to Ange a couple of weeks ago, and I said: I know you love me, I just don’t really ever feel loved by you. I went with the conversation we were having, where I, evidently, was telling them that I trust them like 90-something percent. I think it was 92, but let’s be real, it’s probably more like 87-89 because that number sits more comfortably in my body. 

It reminded me of our convo. Ange knew immediately what I meant. They said: I know you don’t, and it makes me want to kill myself. Which is Ange’s very dramatic way of saying: that hurts me. 

If you ever wanted to know the one thing that was missing for me- what I was chasing and angry about and trying to figure out. It was that. There were a handful of times when I felt it, and so I knew it could be felt. And the only person I ever felt it with was you. But that’s not the reason why moving forward has been so hard oddly enough. 

But I think Pa and your mom are the only other people that have ever made me feel loved. But it was a different type of feeling. A different love. 

I remember people used to accuse me of only missing you so much because what I really missed most was your family. I bet you thought about that a few times yourself, when the negative thoughts would come. I entertained it. Tried to really be honest with myself, which is very hard. That’s not true though. 

I don’t want what I used to have anymore. I thought that was progress. Now, when I think about Emily, I miss a person, and I don’t associate her with you. She looks different than you in my head. She’s usually wearing pajamas that smell terrible and good at the same time. Or that green and white Celtics jersey from Scotland. And I usually picture her walking with me, at night, through Rittenhouse Square. The fountain-pool-thing on our left. Empty, of course. 

I remember being so anxious at Christmas to have you in my house because I wanted to keep it free of you. I wanted to keep it safe and comfortable. I didn’t want to picture you pacing or sitting on the couch. I didn’t want to replay the conversations at infinitum. But, that feeling never came. I don’t feel like Emily was in my house. And I was surprised at how sad that made me. Makes me. 

I have effectively written until I forgot the point of this letter. But I just think the actual point was that I wanted to be honest. And I was.

I used to think you read everything I wrote here. I remember asking you once if you had found this blog. Part of me always hoped you did. I think for the same reason why I would written letters. And I’m not sure I believed you when you said no. Sometimes, it felt like you were reading them or maybe just reading my mind. 

If you are reading this, thank you for getting to the end. 

There’s a line in You’ve Got Mail that made me start crying around 0200. And it’s now almost 0700. Tom Hanks’ character writes: In the meantime, I’m still here. Talk to me. 

I started crying at Talk to me. 

How nice it would be to have someone eager to hear it all. Not like a therapist and not someone who was being nice/cared about me so they listened. Someone eager to listen. Who wanted to know. 

It would be nice to talk. 

[wordsforyouonly]

Brains are stupid.

The amount of horrible chemicals and the visceral reaction my body had to learning that someone I loved is doing things that we used to do/enjoy together with someone else, was astounding.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

Sometimes, healing is tending to the apparent wounds, thinking you‘ve got them all, and then submerging yourself in a salt bath to see where it still hurts.

One day, I hope to emerge without a single ache.

[wordsforyouonly]

It's Christmas Eve.

I woke up to hints of snow in New York City.

Traces of something that couldn’t stay by sunrise.

My apartment smells like cookies and roasted chicken.

Not because of me but because the neighbors are preparing for family dinners.

I’m trying to remember the last Christmas that I felt like part of a family.

I think it was year that you left.

My grandfather made me cry and hugged me tight while we cried together.

I’d forgotten that tears looked different on the faces of people

broken at the thought of hurting you. At the knowledge of it.

And your parents gave me $300 in a card that felt like a consolation prize.

And I don’t remember you being there, even though I know you were.

But were you really?

Now, there’s a song on repeat in the kitchen.

The shower’s been running for 30 minutes.

I’m crying in my room with the blackout curtains drawn,

and the cats run over and jump onto the bed to be with me.

We’re huddled together like we can’t get warm

because we can’t get warm.

This is family.

[wordsforyouonly]

I thought this 3am-missing-you crying bit was ripped out of me, but surely enough my brain decided to revisit some of my most painful feelings tonight.

[wordsforyouonly]

And you say to me,

You’ve changed.

And you say it with such disgust

there are teeth marks on my heart.

As if you wanted my wounds to still be raw.

As if you wanted to see me wracked & writhing.

[wordsforyouonly]

Hey, I’m mainly writing this for the couple of people that I chat with/message that know me through this blog. 

I’m working on saving the works I don’t already have saved, but then after that I’m going to delete this blog. If you want to talk to me still, just ask and I’ll give you my personal page link. 

Sorry & thank you. 

[wordsforyouonly]

I hate that you have 

so much of me. 

The parts I want. 

Practically all of the only

parts I like. 

I feel left 

with the worst parts of myself. 

You point them out 

almost like 

they were another one of my freckles

that you used to adore. 

I look at you 

and the bruises form. 

The handprint around my throat. 

The blows to the gut

that bring me to my knees. 

There’s even

one on my shoulder 

where you would rest your head.

I look at you 

and pray you don’t touch me. 

I look at you 

and feel like I will die

if you don’t. 

You don’t hug me when you leave. 

You linger,

but you don’t reach. 

I can’t always be

the one who reaches. 

I miss you 

like Pompeii misses people. 

Devastating reminders 

of lives partly lived. 

If you place your ear to the earth

you can hear 

the roots’ heartbeat.

Even though they 

are charred.

I am riddled with 

cracks of bitterness for 

all the new soles walking through 

the ruins. 

And we are ruined. 

Do not dig into me

too deeply

because 

part of me hopes

no one ever uncovers all 

of us that got buried. 

We were met with tragedy, 

let us die,

let us rest. 

Let me keep you too.

Hold the pieces that you want most

hostage. 

It’s only fair. 

But the wheels of the car

turn on the highway. 

You say goodbye, but 

you’re already gone. 

Not in the ways that help me breathe. 

Only in the ways

that leave me feeling empty. 

Only in the ways that

remind me 

I was not a promise 

you could keep. 

[fuckindiva]

Mahmoud Darwish, Counterpoint (for Edward W. Said) in Almond Blossoms and Beyond (tr. Mohammad Shaheen)

[wordsforyouonly]

I am hurt,

and I am hurting.

I am angry,

and I am indifferent.

There are words burning my throat,

but, as another act of grace,

I swallow them.

I let them hurt me.

I am hurting,

and I am hurt.

[wordsforyouonly]

One of my favorite poems I’ve written goes like this. It’s called Conversations from therapy II:

I was trying to explain our relationship now,

and the confusion that comes with it.

How you try so hard to be my friend.

How you try to establish new boundaries

without removing the old boundaries we had as a couple.

How you try to show me you care

while building a life with the person who broke us apart.

She asked, “Does she get to keep you both?”

And I’ve since thought about that question every day.

Trying to figure out if you still have me. If I feel kept.

[wordsforyouonly]

Extra weight

I grew up with people who constantly told me

You could do with losing a couple pounds.

When I was eight, I convinced myself I hated sweets.

I considered turning one of the two meals I ate in a day

into the butt of a cigarette

and some Ipecac to wash it down.

When I was sixteen, I stood in front of a mirror

and pinched parts of my body-

mining for the extra pounds

and leaving trails of bruises.

At 27, I still wish I could stop carrying the extra weight.

I wish I could lose the pounds that come with

knowing my mother had to sacrifice her youth,

feeling womanhood being forced into my body with illicit hands,

remembering the lies I told to soften the edges,

seeing the world burning with a matchbox in my pocket.

[wordsforyouonly]

Loving is a language

I used to think that if we tried hard enough, it wouldn‘t matter.

But you love me with sculptures.

But I love you with poetry.

Firm hands and careful intention.

But you can‘t read, and I can‘t see.

I thought we could get around this by putting in a little extra effort.

By translating our love into something we both could understand. Could receive.

And love is worth the effort, but translating carries so much weight.

In the end it is nothing but prosaic.

I used to think that if we tried hard enough, it wouldn‘t matter.

But knowing doesn‘t always mean feeling.

And we are both collapsing under the weight

of the effort it takes to convey something so effortless.

[wordsforyouonly]

Just whisper to me all of the things you aren’t taking into Tomorrow. 

Don’t say my name. 

Even if it’s true. 

Just let me live in the illusion that there’s a future with you. 

[wordsforyouonly]

I am still learning my own language- 

the one I created just for you. 

The one where “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay,” translates to “Stay.” 

And where “There’s an exit door” translates to “I have room.” 

I’m trying to break up the rock that feels lodged in my throat, 

and while I tell you that everything will be alright, 

I know I am trying to convince myself too. 

You know, we’ve never been in different time zones before?

I wonder if the sky will look different when the moon is a few hours between us.

Will the red thread withstand the stress? The burden?

I am dreaming with selfish intention. 

I imagine setting up a P.O. box for you. 

One that only I will have the address for, 

and I will send you letters on hand-picked parchment, 

and they’ll smell like New York City and Eastern Standard Time. 

And it steadies my stomach

like it had never waltzed with the sea. 

I never learned to throw knots,

but I promise, if I had I would fasten you to the pilings. 

I would be your excuse.