In Between Days

Things I write to keep from writing to you:

A crumb at the corner of your mouth and I take my finger and wipe it and put it in mine. That is how I know I want my sweat, tears, cum, blood to mix with yours

That is one way I know I love you But also when we’re riding down a backroad in some small town in Alabama where you have never been but somehow have history here so close to me that my mind is blown all the way into galaxies unheard of; and the sun is shining on you in the passenger seat and your head is tilted back and your mouth wide open, a portrait of you burned into the far reaches of my memory, so soft, so vulnerable, so achingly intimate to know you while you slumber. I fell in love with you a million times in those half second glances while I was driving us through those rural towns you’ll likely never see again. That one small ember in a universe as vast as the internet made its way to you up there in the far corner of a map, bypassing millions of people, it’s glow imperceptible to them but not you. It was a raging forest fire

—————————————————

I read somewhere the other day that when you want to send a text to someone who has hurt or is hurting you, it’s best to open up the notes folder on your phone and type it out there and then sit on it for awhile before you decide if you should actually send it to the person or not.

This, apparently, is a form of emotional regulation and is a good practice to take up so that we don’t accidentally and unintentionally let said person know that we think they are a total
fuckwad-
dickfaced motherfucker-
absolute wonder-
gods greatest gift-
love of our life-
complete asshole-
dimwitted idiot

I guess that makes us look bad? Or desperate? Or something?
I don’t know.

But the overwhelming consensus is we should not tell them all the things our heart feels in the exact moment it feels them so that we can instead reflect upon our emotions and then present them in a much more refined way than, say, like Linda goddamn Blair in The Exorcist who ruined my life and is the reason I will never know a peaceful night’s sleep. All because of her demon possessed, terrifying as fuck, portrayal of some girl named Regan who peed at the bottom of the stairs because she couldn’t suppress the fucking devil inside her evil pre-teen body and ruined my life forevermore.

Fucking Skank.

I mean, sure. I suppose I could blame my dad for letting me watch her roll around and stab her vagina with a crucifix when I was only 8 years old but that is a whole lotta trauma and baggage to unpack and I don’t get paid enough to be my therapist so Linda Blair, AKA Bed-Shaking Banshee, will have to do.

But, I digress.

That was a little off the rails, which is exactly what we are not supposed to do when we feel big emotions and need to express them. We are supposed to practice breathing and meditation and look at butterflies and put flowers in our hair and wear a sundress down by the river while we roll around or frolic in a field of honeybees and wildflowers.

Or sit at our desk and chug black coffee and listen to rage music and stick pins in a voodoo doll we made ourselves that actually looks nothing like the conductor of our broken heart but it’s the best we could do because we weren’t’ gifted with all the talents, only the motherfucking one, which is using our words to soothe and rage,
hurt and cleanse,
regret and empower.

That’s all we know how to do so when we get told to suppress our words until we have emotionally regulated ourselves….well….motherfucker, we can’t.
We simply can not.

So what are we to do then?

Well, we can’t tell them all the shit inside us and the absolute havoc they are wreaking on our heart because they’ve already asked the goddamned pilot to make an emergency landing and the inflatable slide to freedom is deployed, my baby. One unhinged rant from you is gonna send their ass sliding all the way down that bitch before the plane has even landed and they don’t give a single solitary fuck because a cracked ass or a broken leg is preferable to being the keeper of your heart.
You know…the very same one they once treated with such care and compassion.

I guess, then, the armchair shrinks are right.? That we shouldn’t go gushing and gagging to the very one who is breaking our heart.  No matter which way you slice it, and there are only two ways when it really comes down to it-your way and theirs-is that while you’re busy hoping and praying for their love to return, they’re busy hoping and praying for someone besides you, someone who isn’t you.  Their contribution to the team project has reached its final conclusion and they have nothing left to contribute. So very sorry you were still working on your part over there but you can lay the hammer and nails down now, sis.

———————————————

Things I write to you to keep from writing to you:

Took from me and gave to her, emotional burden, I release you

I’m glad you said hi.  I hope you’re having a good day

Thank you for the daily check in.  You really don’t have to keep reaching out just to say hi to me.  In fact, it’s kinda hard for me when you do because I think I’m gonna get some attention but I’m not so it’s just a big let down when you go silent for the next 8+ hours.  I know you mean well and I love you so much and I thank you for your thoughtfulness because I know it’s coming from a place of love and you are not trying to or meaning to hurt me.  Please believe me when I tell you that only getting a small portion of you when I used to get it all is actually very painful and hard to reconcile.  These daily breadcrumbs are breaking my heart over and over and over again every single time you throw some my way.  And again, I know it’s not your intention at all and you may think you are letting me know you care about me by doing this but all that is happening is a deeper and wider chasm is opening up between us and I feel like everything that we were is going to fall into its abyss and the fog will roll in and obscure us from the others sight and we will be lost, gone forever.

Asshole motherfucker dick for brains. You don’t deserve my love. I fucking love you

——————————————————

Listen my bitch,
my girl,
my baby,
my ride or die,
my Raggedy Anne for life

That man doesn’t want you no more,
my sister,
my love,
my friend.  

His well is dry for you.

His well is dry for you.

I know you don’t understand.
You are still so in love with him.

Your heart is a patchwork of love, all dirty, mad, passionate, desirous, envious, glorious and so painstakingly real that the patterns bleed one unto the other until all you can see with the naked eye is a blank canvas of a scorched wasteland where lovers traipse around in their steel toed boots and their bullet proof vests so that your love will not stub their toe or penetrate through to their heart like their love is doing to you. It is all up inside you, boiling and basting, murmuring and shouting; taking you so high you could fly and so low you could crawl.

And you wouldn’t change a thing because it felt so achingly good.
Like good good.
Like the best good you ever had.
So good you wonder if it’ll be that good again.
The goodest good,
the greatest good,
gooder than good,
gooddammit.

Good googly moogly

And you still wouldn’t change a thing even though it hurts so achingly bad
Like bad bad
Like the worst bad you ever had
So bad you wonder if it’ll be this bad forever.
The baddest bad,
the worstest bad,
badder than bad,
baddammit.

Bitch ass mother fucker

But hey,
sister-friend,
lover,
my bestest gal,
keeper of my heart and soul and all my secrets;
the one I secretly love more than I hate

Only through death can we find our resurrection

Post Script:

If you’re reading this
I love you still and always