The more I want to let it go

I wonder if it's redundant to put honey on my Honey Nut Cheerios. This isn't a critical thought process, but really, the honey in Honey Nut isn't as bold as I want it to be. & I seem to have a slight addiction to honey. It's one of the fucking coolest substances out there- seriously. It's luxuriously thick, so much so that it sinks to the bottom of my bowl and when I scrape my spoon against the underbelly of the ocean of soy milk (alright, it's more like a small pond of soy milk), I unearth clumps of smooth honey. Totally makes my mouth happy, and that's important.

A couple years ago (three? four? : time overlaps anymore and I have a chronological impairment), when I was dating A, two things happened. We fell in love and therefore overlooked everything we ate, AND we began to put honey on everything (excluding ourselves, as far as I can recall, because I don't like being sticky; food + sex is not appealing to me, probably because when I was in high school, I was "hanging out" [he'd never admit we were seeing each other, and we couldn't qualify as dating since we never spent time together outside one of our houses, so apparently we were just Hanging Out] with this boy, the only boy I "dated" that I actually went to high school with, and we were experimenting sexually and once upon a time I do recall chocolate syrup [how cliche, how 1999 of us] being involved, and just, ew, now). The best part of the honey addiction was when we put it on ice cream cake. Hindsight says it was probably sweetness overkill, but thanks to my grandmother, I have an incorrigible sweet tooth. I'd eat ice cream for all 3 meals of the day if I wasn't so influenced by society's heavy-handed food rulebook. A and I did get our terrible eating habits under control, and then I started going to the gym a lot, and then I cut off all my hair, and then we broke up, and she was mad because now that I'd gotten "really hot," she wasn't dating me anymore. We haven't spoken since we broke up, which is strange considering we still live in the same area but because I don't go out much when I know a lot of the gays are out, we never run into each other.

The whole food thing is bothersome, though, because it's always on my mind. I lost my natural curves during a particularly shoddy relationship about five years ago. And admittedly, I really liked the fact that my hips & boobs shrank and finally allowed me to have somewhat of an androgynous body. It didn't last, though, because real life came back/the relationship ended, and all of a sudden, my stomach unclenched and I could eat again. Fast forward to seven months later, and I had my old body back. The curvy, in-your-face-girl body. Since then, I've been trying to shrink my hips. I haven't succeeded, but I have done a fairly excellent job of tightening my quads and calves, as well as honing some pretty kick-ass triceps.

I don't really eat well. I don't care to, because I like being alive, and I like enjoying my life, and therefore I like indulging when I feel the need. I go through spurts where I lack an appetite, and I have weeks where nothing but pizza/ice cream/french fries will quell my appetite. The key to me liking my body has to do with recognizing my limits, the most important of which is realizing when I'm hungry. This is such simple logic, really, but I can understand how people overeat. I eat when I'm bored and when I'm thirsty. Totally not proud of that, but it is what it is, and at least I recognize it. The good news is that I don't eat when I'm upset... I am definitely not an emotional eater. What I forget, sometimes, is that I don't have to eat when I'm not hungry just because all the food authorities tell eager listeners that you need to eat three balanced meals + three light snacks a day. Sometimes I'm not hungry after I eat my fucking Cheerios, okay? Does that mean my metabolism is going to collapse in on itself if I don't eat again until 5pm? NO. Well, actually, I'm !!!! I was going to say I'm right-brained, but the quiz I just took is telling me I'm 65% LEFT-BRAINED. This can't be! Oh shit, I think I'm becoming logical in my late-twenties. That is the suck. I'm losing my creativity/flexibility because I'm not writing. See, no one to blame but myself!

Anyway. All that just to remind myself to do what's right for me, fuck people who tell me what I'm doing is wrong, and eat when I'm hungry and leave it at that.

subtle imperfections / i think i know too much

http://newyork.craigslist.org/brk/abo/768961969.html

I'd like that. Like, now. I'd need a roommate though, and it'd have to be someone as modestly introverted as I am. And it'd have to not be someone currently in my life who also wants to make the shift to true city life (because this "city/town" that I live in now is pushing the limits of wanting to be bigger than it really is).

Slowly, I'm allowing myself to realize that my tendency of feeling boxed-in and claustrophobic, though bizarrely comforting at times, is unhealthy and can only be remedied by uprooting this life.

I came into this summer with high hopes of: remaining single, keeping my head above water, Figuring Things Out, getting lost in New England (mainly Maine), writing, organizing my life, bettering my soul. It hasn't really panned out to any of those accomplishments, and I didn't think those were lofty goals, really. Totally attainable. But I should have known myself better.

I allowed myself to be lured back into my formerly dismantled relationship; we broke apart for all of 2 months, maybe. I went back in with these outrageous expectations and not even a month later, I'm already disenchanted. Bitter, too, I think. And yet, because I am who I am (a part-time eternal optimist/total closet masochist), I've stayed/persevered and continue to try and make it work. Probably, I A) should not have allowed this to happen, B) should not tough it out, and C) am a slight moron in the heart area.

While I have completed significant beach time, I haven't ventured to Maine, which's completely sad because I haven't been there in ten years. Or eleven? Last time I was there, I had a boyfriend instead of a boifriend (and I've never said that out loud but one of my exes refers to herself as a "boi" so it's only fair that I lump her into that terminology; she'd like it if she wasn't busy sending me text messages about how she hopes I'm happy that I'm a liar, but I've no fucking clue what I'm lying about especially if I haven't spoken to her in three weeks), had long hair, and wore a lot of striped shirts from The Gap. Maine is beautiful and prime for escapism; the kind with brilliant mountains and ankle-numbing wisps of waves. Also, lots of rocks and lobster, but I'm not the seafood type.

I'm not sure what exactly I thought I would Figure Out over the summer (and I love how I keep writing as though the summer is over when it's not even August yet), but it probably had something to do with:
1. The Former Ex, Now Current Again
2. The 5 Years Ago Ex, recently resurrected Something, now thinks I'm a Liar and is a WTF Nothing
3. The Persistent Infatuation/Never Gonna Get It
4. Non-heart/libido things like my job, where else I want to get certified, where I can transfer to finish grad school
5. My Work with the Keyboard/Pen, which has been completely nonexistent since, actually, I shoved off #2 and gave #1 the means to enter stage left

About that #5... I don't know why it's so hard for me to write when I'm feeling mostly normal. And "normal," of course, is such a loose term for semi-okay-not-crushed-&-incapacitated-by-tedious-affairs-of-the-heart-&-libido. My dad is forever telling me that I'm dramatic/a good writer, but he seems incapable of putting together the equation. In order to be a good writer, I have to have a good imagination, which therefore lends an artistic and perhaps exaggerated perspective when dealing with/manipulating data in my everyday life. I'm not dramatic; I simply like to react (usually), embellish (sometimes), and have a wide variety of facial expressions that generally do not include casual/constant smiles. Why I struggle with taking the hideous normalcy of my life and turning it into something creative, I so don't know.

What I can do in these dwindling days of my summer freedom is attack with vengeance the possibilities that are accessible to me. Totally possible. And yet, kind of improbable. Which's lame.

i will show how i take casual & embellish into:

Heartsick is not among my favorite
feelings. Nor is sadness due to the inability
to have the one I want, nor a billowing sheath
of perpetual lovelust wonder.
I gave you my words, scrawled out in the heat
of the night, darkness pressing onto my curved
back and curiousity swallowing my swollen heart.
The envelope skittered onto your desk and I had turned
away before I realized that you had picked it up,
cut it open, absorbed the delicately threaded words (much as
you have done to me without the slightest awareness).
You came after me,
calling my name quietly,
meeting my stationary form in the dusty damp hallway.
You thanked me, a deliriously serious and heartfelt
gaze decorating your face, and our bodies came together
in one sweet casual moment,
fitting perfectly
as I've known and worried they would.

embellishment:

You were hungry, you explained. So hungry, and I came at just the right moment
with a box stocked full of tantilizing treats.
You nearly grabbed the box
from my hands
your skin skimming my own
in your frantic sedentary beline for calories.
Filling a void, again and again,
I've watched you try to close the emptiness.
Your eyes dug into mine,
steady aqua shoving against yellow-green.
I wanted your hunger--
I wanted you to admit your hunger.
I am perceptive, you know this,
and we stalk the white elephant in the room
tripping into lines of vision, sprawling
into purposefully ignorant stares.
Tonight I will drink to the chance,
to the cinematic daydream of us,
to the I can see that murmur from our friend,
to the way you drove your gaze into me this afternoon,
to the off-handed smiles and spin-cycle flushes,
to the delerium brought on by your everything,
to how I anger you, and how you frustrate me,
and I will drink to the drink I hand you
in wind-tossed hope and pure,
heart-seizing possibility.

i'm not in love / so don't forget

I don't want to admit
that I like it when you call me baby.
And I won't tell you
that I smile when your tongue slips
and you call me sweetie.
A week, six months, a year.
Ready or not, we might come
as we did
over, and over, and over again.
I sang you eighties love songs
as my fingers played over the warm ocean between your thighs.
You laughed, the sunlight startled us,
and we remembered everything that's always been wrong
is fucking ---.

Won't you come and stay

No / yes / no

I dreamt of segue and transition, all the things we've lacked for five years. Off/on, pressure points blasted by full throttle passion. Yes/no/yes- you've never made up your mind. I broke the word happy over our restless flesh, the sweat drawing tension on my tattooed back. The word rained down like petulant raindrops; a midday reprieve from thunder-dance and you need space.

Where we pay homage to each verb tense, we rest easily in the past. We did, we were, it was, we had. I was. You were. We aren't.

This is a transference of desire. A repetition of never-could-be. Bad timing. Nothing wrong, and that's what's right/wrong.

I could stay here with you forever and be content.

Your mouth stole my lips, my breath, my wary response. The silence robbed my sarcasm, my witty heart-hidden reply. Your fingers pushing through my hair, small brown eyes shut against the glare of sunshine showering over us. I have no remedy for the sickness that's eaten us, the cataclysmic notion that we could be anything more than what we've already been (disaster).

A gold star, a lick of communication. A first.

I have no strings to bind your hands. You won't let me fuck up.

I saw her this morning, and all I could think of was you.
I can't believe I just admitted that.

transference

We've passed from pleasure into pain,
a trimlined segue weeding through
the realm of improbability where sits
your heart and mine.
I have not conquered fear, and it shifts within me
as our mountains stretch into plateaus,
a dancing tendril of daylight creeping
around our purposeful midnight.
I am split open, wounded
for the ruminations, the overlapping rush hour
repetition mottled against our
every-day easy sensual nothing.

You are my sweetest downfall

Sky blue, a new sparkle - (Danish blue; the color of your eyes in June). 21 months of never recognizing. A quick seven months of prolonged wanderlust, desirious deliberation. Fanatical curiosity. I've never asked because I still don't want to know.

Each rise of rose to your cheeks, each maddening flush of my face. Each cryptically ignored register of proximity. You pulled me in when I wasn't expecting to be acknowledged, my tongue smoothly obliging to the context of the conversation that preceeded my entrance. The recesses of my mind tangled over the elevator kiss, trepidation and I dare, but you strayed and brought the focus to a side of you I've never known.

I mistakenly thought you were a passing fantasy.
I don't understand how I've allowed you to become more than that.

Today, you held my stare for a split second longer than average. In a room full of people. We were too close but not close enough -- always, always. There is fire linked between us and you squash the flame.

Intrinsically, I can't tell you if it's going to be or will always be a what if. My head is a blurred mess of fantasy crossing into our greyed-out reality. Did you understand what you wore today? And did you mean to catch my eye so many times, ride out my gaze while talking to everyone else? Did your eyelashes catch on fire from the inferno shooting from my heart?


You are fucking killing me in the most alluring of ways~

Keep with me forward, all through the night

You've infiltrated this house, leaving
fibers of indecency smattered with lust-
I smell you as I walk through the rooms,
a literal fucking ghost meeting me with each pace. I'd be angry
if it meant we'd fallen in love.
You spat the marriage word again, a familiar
intonation of the much-repeated wish to keep
me, tie me down, not let
anyone else have me. But that's not how you mean it.
You don't want me for love,
we want each other for lust. There would be others,
you explain over your naked torso and my lazy fingertips.
Us, and others. Together and separate, all at once and
never at all. For a moment, I think I could
play house with you:
house with a revolving door for our egos and our libidos,
house with an unspoken but laughed about connection.
We didn't get it together years ago, and we won't get it together
now, but where there is nothing to lose,
there cannot be loss.



(i like what we have become/your hands crushing into me/my tongue scalding over you/our naked breasts to our naked backs/you buy dinner/i buy breakfast)