You don’t see me

She watches him cradle their friend’s baby close to his chest, his left arm supporting the two month old’s bottom while his right hand rest at the base of her neck. He’s got a small bounce to him and he’s swaying slightly back and forth, whispering sweet words that make the baby coo happy noises.

She finds herself falling more in love with him. She starts thinking about her future and how good he would look holding their babies. That he would look good with her. And every now and then she catches his eye and he gives her this smile that makes her feel like he’s thinking the same thing too.

But then reality sets in that he probably is thinking all these things. Only he’s not picturing her or their kids or their future together. How could he when she knows he’s never looked at her like she hung the stars in the sky just for him. How could he when she can never work up the nerve to tell him. She’s had so many chances but she let them all slip by. Because when she catches his eye it never lingers long. And she knows that he sees her, but that he will never really see her.

These kinds of moments and feelings come and go. She’s been trying to retraining her heart to not flutter so when he’s around. She needs her heart and brain to work together and understand that she needs someone who’s gonna look directly at her and spare her a second glance or more. Someone who’s going to light her way, take her hand and make waves with her.

But right now, she’s watching him and can’t help getting lost in the fantasy.

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A Rough Writing Day

My hands are heavy with ink
and pristine blank pages are all I have to show.

Words have left me
when I need them most.
They don’t linger to be used
even for bitter, dramatic or desperate prose
that will secretly make me feel better.

Words refuse to take their place one by one.
Even after I tell them order doesn’t matter.
I just need them to be here.
It’s uneasy feeling so alone.
I know I need to go after them,
but I haven’t a clue as to how to make them stay.

My hands are heavy with ink
and pristine blank pages are all I have.

100 word story (2)

Breakups are messy no matter how okay the parties involved say they are. It can take a lot to be okay again. It’s picking up the pieces of your shattered heart and putting them back as they were that’s hard. It’s realizing they don’t fit quite like they did before. And maybe they never will. Maybe they can’t. It’s learning that it’s okay if they don’t fit. That’s how we grow and learn what we really need from someone else. When the right person comes along, they’ll fill in the gaps. They’ll be careful with your heart.

Baby

I’m doing my best to give you everything
but the one thing left to give
is something I’m not sure I can control
and I want to so bad.
We’ve been trying for years to expand.
More space.
More responsibility.
More love.
More ours.
It’s just not happening for us.
Every time I cry and say it’s me, not you,
you take my hands and look me in the eyes.
You remind me we are a team.
If one of us is struggling then we both are.
You never let me feel like I’m letting us down.
You never let me feel like I’m alone.
It will happen when it’s meant to happen
as cliche as it sounds.
We haven’t failed or let anyone down.
We are not broken.
It’s not our job to live and do
as everyone else sees fit.
The only people who matter are us.
And what makes me so grateful to you is
your reassurance that you’ll never love me any less.

Blood sugar High

My whole life depends on a small vial.
It fits in the palm of my hand
and gets to decided if I live or die.
I’ve experience how hard life is
without the incredibly expensive liquid gold.
That I can confidently say
everyone in my life would leave me.

I’m unbearable when I’m high.

I wouldn’t blame them.
I’m unnecessarily irritable.
I can get angry and rage with no notice.
My inexcusable attitude over every little thing.
The extreme headaches and
not feeling like myself
would be my life all the time
if it weren’t for insulin.

I’m unbearable when I’m high

Even I hate me when I slip.
Because I know
I’m being an absolute monster.
I make everyone tip toe and second guess
every word that comes out of their mouths and
every action they do and most don’t understand
why I’m reacting this way.
Those who try to help me come back down
I know in the moment it doesn’t seem appreciated
but really it is appreciated more than you’ll know.

I’m unbearable when I’m high

It’s so easy and quick to get high
but it takes twice as long to come down.
Twice as long for me to think clearly again.
Twice as long for me to calm down.
But not nearly as long for me to understand just how awful I was.
There are days when it leave me such a mess.
I’m crying and swearing that I’m not that person
except when I’m high.
I hate being high.

I’m
Unbearable
When
I’m
High

A snippet of a story I’ll probably never finish (2)

He’s standing outside the bathroom door when she opens it. She has her left foot poised in the air to step over the almost waist high puppy gate. “What are you doing here?” Her foot resting on the gate now.

“What are you doing still awake?” he counters offering her a hand.

She takes it with a frown. “You said you’d be at practice until late.”

“And that upsets you why?”

She pauses, straddling the gate, “Because I look like this.”  She gestures to the messy bun on her head with hair sticking up everywhere and the long shirt with stains from dinner caused by her very demanding cat. “This was the first time you were using the key I gave you and I wanted to look a little more presentable.”

He squeezes the hand she’s still holding, “You know I’m gonna see you in the morning.”

“Yeah but that’s forever away. I wanted to give the illusion for a little while that this is not how I usually look.”

He smiles before kissing her forehead, “I love you either way.”

She sighs dramatically, “I know.” She tugs him closer and wrapping her arms around his mid section, burying her face against his stomach. “But I do love hearing it too.”

“I’ll gladly keeping telling you but first let me get changed and lie down for a minute.”

“You can’t shower me with praise and love while lying down?”

He mimics her sigh, “I suppose.”

She stands up to finish making her way over the gate when she makes a pinched face. She stops again wiggling her right foot trying to jar whatever is in her house slipper loose.

He raises an eyebrow, “You okay?”

“There’s something in my shoe,” she says like it’s obvious.

“Yes, dear, it’s your foot,” he answers.

Writing Again

I weep when words flood me
rapid and overwhelming
like a raging river.
They force me out of bed
with how swift I am moving.
I’ve become accustomed to the loss of words.
My old writing habits nearly forgotten.
Frantic scribbling to get every
thought, word, and half idea down before it slips away.
Staying awake for hours, like a caffeine high
because I’m afraid if I stop writing,
stop listening to the words that
suddenly fight for attention,
that they’ll be gone just as fast
and leave me wondering
when they’ll be back again.
Either way, I weep.
Grateful for the sounds and sights
Of ink decorating blank pages.
Grateful to be writing again.

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