For Sundays

The humming of the refrigerator has become my favorite sound.

It’s Sunday and we’re up before the sun, laying side by side with our backs flat on the shaggy carpet in the living room. Blankets cover our bodies and I place a sleep mask over my eyes. He opts for his blue bandanna. We breathe deeply, our arms intertwined and hands clasped. I try to listen to every sound, but it is so early the rest of the world is still sleeping.  There’s just the humming of the refrigerator and the swooshing of our breaths filling the space around us. In and out. With my third eye I see flashes of light and a never ending dark night sky. And when the time comes to fully return to my senses and this body in this world,  I will see a sky colored in pink, purple, and orange, and he will still be wrapped up tight in a blanket and I will look back at him and wonder how it is that the sight of him can rival a sunrise.

I live for these little moments when I can feel so full and whole and safe.

For slow Sundays and sunrises and plans of forts while drinking coffee and making pancakes. For the every day magic and the humming of the refrigerator that keeps me believing life is worth living. Love is worth giving.

 

 

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RIP to all the orgasms that could’ve been

There comes a time when a woman needs to bury her missed orgasms. Throw the bones of shame in the dirt. Once and for all.

It’s as if I’m just now learning to befriend my body. Telling the little girl inside me feeling pleasure isn’t a sin.

But feeling numb for years should be.

How much time was wasted in trying to achieve some holy state? When they taught me to pray they asked me to connect to a higher power, but tell me what is mightier than the universe between my legs?

I’m just now learning to explore. To confront my desires. To befriend them as well. I’m just now learning that there’s nothing wrong with my hands or anyone else’s bringing me pleasure if that’s what I want and was created for.

God is a woman.

So for God’s sake, just let her get off.

the everyday tragic

You lose people.

sometimes to death

and other times not.

You lose them in coffee shops

and through telephone wires

and sometimes

you even lose them in bed.

You lose people

before they even know it,

at times you can even lose them

in the most ordinary moments-

the walk to the store,

the deposit at the bank,

the shower you take before bed.

You lose people.

Some may even lose one every day.

But the ones worth keeping

will always find their way back to you

somehow.

You lose people.

But sometimes when you lose someone

you also find yourself.

Loss can be a win

if you let it.

You lose people

and other times,

people lose you.

and so it goes, round and round,

losing and winning

join forces

and in the end

the only thing that matters

is that you don’t ever

lose yourself.

 

wishful melancholic

A couple of years ago I had to reteach myself how to dream.

I should be grateful I realized I had forgotten.

But what to do of the dreams come true?

Is now the time to dream up some more?

I would say it’s almost a shame to be getting everything I wanted, but then again,

I’m the one living my dreams.

And it’s hard to be sad when you’re happy.

But isn’t it weird how easy it is to be sad about how happy you are?

edge of change

I’ve fought for a lot in this life

and if I have to add our love to the list

then so be it.

I will not just walk away

from the storms and tears.

And I won’t let you do the same.

I’ll face them head on

shatter in pieces in front of you

if that’s what it takes for you to realize

that even crashing waves can’t keep me away from the sea.

I love the ocean too much.

Just the way I love you.

Without limits, borders, or end

My emotions crash down like 10 feet waves and

I pack my bags but can’t seem to leave

This door never felt so heavy and big before

And if I have to carry the strength to support

your heart, darling

Trust me when I say that I got it. I can handle it. Life and death have made me strong

And these tears I spill in front of you, these hesitant feet, are proof of it.

I learned to stay and not run away anymore.

Even when washed ashore

You will find me at the edge of the sea the next chance I get.

Don’t give up on me.

I never wanted anything more

than you and I

and this love.

first light

I talk a lot about darkness because I’ve learned to treat it as an old friend of mine.

But don’t be mistaken-

There’s a lot of light in my life, too.

Light in people and faces, in places and spaces, light that comes suddenly and inundates my entire world in a second’s time. Light that comes in the shape of clouds, of $20 dollar bills found on a deserted staircase, light that comes twinkling down all around me filtered through big tall leaves. Light. So much light. The sun rises over my bedroom window and I lay beneath the covers and notice the golden streams of light dancing- first across my white comforter and then over my face, settling down to make home in my eyes. Sparkling light, new and bright. Virginal light, the kind that carries no shadows or hint of darkness. Because if there’s one thing I learned walking through it, is that darkness ends. Always. And then, there’s all the light. And aren’t you glad you stuck around to see it? You held on for all this light. Of course you can see it down to its atoms. It’s only natural.

Just because I have befriended darkness doesn’t mean I can no longer speak of the light. The light in his eyes when he tells me he loves me. And means it. And then the light in her eyes when she tells me I’m still her favorite person. We lost so much together when he passed, it only makes sense we rebuild our lives together. Brick by brick our love strengthening our breath, giving wind to our feet. Drenched in the light streaming through the big windows of the bar nearby, grabbing drinks and spilling quiet, reluctant tears as we affirm to each other in our silence that we’re doing alright.

Light.

I live in it. I just dabble in darkness sometimes. Perhaps just so as not to lose the habit. We’ve come such a long way, after all. Maybe that’s the biggest gift I’ve gotten out of all the loss: to be able to co-exist in both darkness and light and find beauty in it all.

my spirit animal is a cockroach

I was born good at building home inside a box.

I was born good at organizing my insides so they look nice and neat for others.

I was born good at fighting the fight and hiding the tears.

So I shouldn’t be judged too harshly when I resort to doing those things. But let’s talk about the weight of carrying the world on your shoulders.

Tell him you love your scars now that you have them, but it hurts knowing and remembering just how you got them. Tell him sometimes you wish you had just been one more privileged kid. Too. Tell him you just want to be happy. Too.

And so what if challenges gave you strength?

So what if the battles gave you character?

How far can those two traits get you these days anyways. Some of the strongest people are still having fights with God and praying for things to change.

You will survive because you have before.
Survival instinct isn’t asleep inside you any longer. I’m pretty sure that’s how these things go. But what do I really know. I don’t mind the idea of having a spirit animal I just wish mine wasn’t a cockroach.

Maybe I’ll keep the stories to myself. The pain locked tight inside.
Or maybe my heart is big enough to carry that, plus love.