lost // poetry

you say that you are lost
as if that is a bad thing,
but darling, don't you know?
you are simply traveling --

the world is big and scary,
or so they've always said
but these demons that you're fighting
are all inside your head. 

fear is a part of the wonder
that we feel when we let go,
and the answers to those questions
are all things you'll someday know. 

do not fear the open road
or the first glimpse of an ending -
for the outcome of any journey
is written at the beginning. 

m.a.l. //

(just a few lines of poetry scribbled down last night; i miss this. always. these past few weeks have been exhausting - new job (!!!), new faces, new experiences, planning for (yet another) Ohio trip, more than a little bit of stress, etc - and writing was pushed aside for a time. but i always come back to it. i have to. as always, i hope to be around here more, but we'll see. life usually has other plans. here's to grace and growth and room to breathe. it is coming. 🌻✨ how is September treating you, friends? xx)


tremble // poetry

i remember that night the storm blew in;
every moment etched into my mind 
as vivid as the lightning that split the sky. 
there was thunder in my chest, 
invisible fingers in my hair as 
the ground quavered with the 
voice of the storm, and yet, 
even as the earth shook 
before the fury of the gale, 
i did not tremble.

i have never feared the storms,
for i have loved the aching wind and 
wild beauty too much to fear the lightning.
with your hand in mine
i could face the death of all we know,
the end of every beginning,
the ache of every goodbye and
i would stand tall. 

it is the pang of absence that 
cuts me deepest, the emptiness
between my fingers where yours
should be, and still, after all this time
how can you not understand
why someone who smiles at the
incoming storm and laughs into the wind
trembles when you walk away? 



a soliloquy //

there is salt drying on your cheeks, a thousand thoughts - a hurricane, a storm - battling for domination in your mind; an ache, a murmur, a whisper of something you cannot understand; something you cannot even explain. an emptiness, a longing, a need; to be known, to be accepted, to be understood. 

"what is wrong?"

they always ask this, undisguised fear in their eyes, caution in their voices; as if their question - or my answer - fought for, inconsequential, insufficient - will somehow make what i feel less real; as if putting it in words will somehow make it go away. 

(as if i could find the words anyway.)

they don't want to know what is wrong; i have learned to recognize the charade, the polite attention, the mask that is stretched over their empty faces, the selfish search for an answer; an explanation to the way my pain is displayed. 

in anger. in silence. in frustration and slammed doors and silent walls as impenetrable as steel; walls you yourself taught me to put up at such a young age; walls i have never been able to lower. 

you want an answer; something you can relate to, understand, fix.

i don't have one. i don't know how to explain what i feel to you (to anyone) without breaking, without destroying the only place of safety i have ever known. my mind is a trap, a storm i cannot escape from, both a blessing and a curse; a haven and a prison. 


do you know what it feels like to love someone with everything you are? some would, perhaps, describe it as the most invigorating sensation; a feeling of freedom and bondage at the same time; joy and pain, light and darkness.

in a way, they're right. the freedom, the joy, the light, comes from finding someone to love with that kind of devotion; a reckless abandon that few have ever known. 

but they're also wrong. because loving someone like that? it feels like dying. it feels like watching something you created - something you love - destroy itself, using the very abilities you gave it, because that kind of love is rarely returned. 

(it has never been returned to me. of all i have loved and who have loved me, i have loved the hardest, the longest, the most desperately, searching for someone who understands what that kind of love is.)

love itself is a blessing and a curse. the ability to love is a blessing; a thing of beauty, of life, of sacrifice and selflessness, of determination and resilience and steadfast devotion. 

the choice to love, perhaps, is too often a mistake. 

there are those who would argue that loving is never a mistake; that, maybe, love and loss is all a part of the beautiful pain of existence; that love can hurt, but it never means that the love you felt was a mistake. 

yes. they would argue. i would let them. 

i speak for me. i used to love blindly; the ones i love continue to receive the residual effects of that passionate devotion, but they do not understand - or appreciate - it. 

and the truth? the truth is, people do not know how to love. it is learned over a lifetime, perhaps, and cultivated, tenderly, cautiously, a green shoot in the earth, pushing through the soil, towards sunlight, until one day, it bursts through. perhaps too early, perhaps too late, or maybe just in time. (it is rarely the latter.) but until then, the ones who are born knowing how to love are left to try and try, to wither, to die, and to try again. 

and the tragedy is, when the rest of the world has finally learned what love is - and how it is grown, and what it feels like - those who have tried and tried and tried and loved and lost are too weary to try anymore, for they have been hurt to deeply to invest in anyone; they are too tired, too scarred, too fragile, to risk the possibility of more shrapnel from the fragments of a passion that once burned too brightly for the ones they loved. 


(disclaimer : this probably doesn't make much sense; i have read it over a dozen times, trying to figure out how to make it more legible, more sensible, more organized, but nothing happened. my words are mere scrawls on paper tonight, scattered like my thoughts. this is honesty - this is how i feel most of the time, but especially right now. if it makes sense to you, good. if not, at least it is off my chest, in the open air where it cannot choke me anymore; at least, for now. my thoughts are too heavy, most of the time; too loud. i used to shy away from sharing things like this here, but this is my journal; this is how i feel, right now. read it or not, it's here for me to look back on, to remember, to feel a few of these things again. and this is what this space is for, right? ;) xo)


maybe, perhaps //

i lose myself in the ones i love.
i (still) lose myself in the ones i've lost,
only to find
(and lose)
 myself all over again.

i once thought this was a good thing.
a journey, a discovery, a series of realizations.

maybe once, it was - perhaps.

i have been hurt once to often
to think so anymore.

> > >

"you love with everything you are"
he told me, and lately,
i have realized that it's true.
i am an ocean of emotion; a
hurricane of the ones i love most,
a collage of those i wish
could learn to love me;
a broken mirror, reflecting their own
selfish understanding of love back
to them, while my own
burns and burns and burns,
a smoke screen,
a fire that smoulders,
and, eventually,
dies -

because even a forest fire fades
when there is nothing left to
keep it alive.

i am a hurricane of ice and fire;
a contradiction held together
with trembling fingers and
fragmented "somedays".

and maybe, perhaps
this is the problem;
i have always found myself
in the ones i love,
but i cannot keep from
getting lost there too.

(i have always found myself
in the ones i love, yes -
so why do they never
find anything in me?)

> > >

my love is a winter storm;
ferocious and deadly -
or so they say.
i have learned that the cold 
rarely kills anything
that love has touched;

winter, however, always dies;
a memory of ice that fades
with the fire of the awakening sun.

there are those, perhaps, who
love snow while it lingers --
but they always look past it,
holding their breath,
waiting for spring.

i have grown used to it.
nobody longs for winter to stay.
it is simply the way

> > >

they say soulmates are the ones
we simply fall in with.
elbows rubbing at the table,
conversations that hold
no spoken words.
the ones you feel at home with,
the people whose hearts you have come to
acknowledge as a place of safety,
the ones you can whisper your deepest
fears to, and expect them to care
enough to simply s t a y. 

(it's true: nothing frightens people
away more quickly than
the acknowledgement
of fear in another being that is
just as human as they are.)

> > >

i (am; have always been)
a second thought;
the one in the background,
loving and loving and loving,
yet unable to voice the words
that are tearing me apart.
i am vessel of emotion and love
and passion that even the bones
that form me cannot contain.

what i feel is too powerful for words,
and too fragile for anything else,
less i lose myself (again) in
the ones my heart has loved.

let me say this -
let me understand -

it is not enough to love someone.
it is not enough to love someone.
it is not enough to love someone. 

whether we know it or not,
despite the fears we hold onto,
we all desire to be loved in return.

they say that
those who are heartless once
cared too much -

but maybe, perhaps,
it is the other way around -

maybe, just maybe,
the ones they loved
simply cared too little.


it's strange how my own heart bleeds into fiction; sometimes i don't know if it's a character i've made up that i'm writing about - or myself. but then, i suppose every character we create is a part of us in some way, just as the ones we mold them after are. xx