I’ve been haunted by a ghost every night since you left.
He shows up only when my thoughts have quieted.
He looks like possibility, and sounds just like you.
You were inconsistent, and especially dismissive.
I found your polo shirts annoying, and your attachment to your “boys” unappealing.
You took up all of the space in the room with your obnoxious laugh.
it’s taken-up permanent residence in my mind and haunts me in the in my moments of quiet.
To drown it out, I think about how the sun touches down on the earth, kissing her daily
…and how warm that unfailing embrace must feel.
I wonder if the earth misses the sun in the dark of winter as much as I miss your obnoxious laugh in the silence of night.
She’s the kind of girl who leaves immediately after sex. It’s not so much to say that she crawls out of bed, but she rolls over and checks out getting lost inside her head, trying to forget all the shame and sweat poured into something that she would ultimately regret. And it isn’t because she isn’t capable of love but if I had to muster up an excuse I’d be willing to bet that it’s the way every other boy said it was the best she’d ever get.
So she pushes on broken, making every step count but what she doesn’t realize is that stepping backward will never amount to anything more than the very least she could’ve ever hoped for. Because inside the shell she created and painted to look like a smile is a puzzle with half the pieces missing and the other half damaged, barely holding together and managing an image, not quite recognizable, of a girl who barely managed.
And though she’s only a few years older now, she’s a million years wiser. She writes the word love using more than syllable. She uses her heart as a cup as if it were fillable, storing every last word that’s been said to her as if they were willable. As if someone someday could cash in on her loss and use the things she’s bottled up as a self serving cross. But if you stopped to pay attention you’d see her eyes are gloss. There’s no life inside the damaged hide covering the broken bones making up a girl who died the first day she decided to lay down for him. And for him. And him, and so on. But she goes on. Until someone stops her to make her feel worth something, anything, she will go on.
I loved this show, but I’ll get to that later.
Check this post over at Hello Giggles out!
Hey world, I know we all get upset when we see someone being mistreated so blatantly, but before you decide to sell your stocks and write-off United for ever, let’s consider for a second that this man was completely ignoring an officer who was telling him to get off the plane.
If we know anything about TSA in the US, it’s that they don’t fucking mess after 9/11.
Sorry, ya’ll…I didn’t fact-check this blog post that I’m about to share, out of lack of time… but I’m relieved to read a new POV. Honestly, I’m sick of everyone talking about this. No one should ever be treated that way, but also.. if an officer tells you to get off the plane, get off the plane and don’t act like a toddler who refuses to comply. In no way did his behavior warrant their mistreatment, but their mistreatment doesn’t negate that he’s an adult of sound mind and should have taken his happy ass off that plane of his own accord. I know all commercial airlines can bump people, and I don’t hold all of United responsible for what happened. I hold the people involved responsible for the mistreatment and the poor behavior. United still has my business.
Check out what the Pilot Wife has to say about all of this uproar.
Some of you, like the author of the article I’m about to share as well as myself, are survivors of sexual assault. For many of us, the election has brought back those feelings of disgust, lack of safety, and feelings that you’re alone.
Well, you’re not. If yesterday’s historical event taught us anything, it’s that a whole lotta people care about you, me, and everyone in between.
You are thought of and you are loved.
Together, we rise.
Do check out this Hello Giggles post How to Continue Fighting Rape Culture After Inauguration Day, After the Women’s March, and Beyond By Caitlin Flynn.
Would you sit idle while someone victimized a loved one? No? Then use that voice the gods blessed you with, and stand up for your fellow American brothers and sisters who are being victimized by the government and other hateful citizens. We have to compensate for those who are not speaking up and advocating for change. ✊🏻✊🏼✊🏽✊🏾✊🏿 #KeepYourRosariesOffMyOvaries #BlackLivesMatter #AllMinorityLivesMatter #StopMuslimRegisteries #SilenceEqualsViolence 📸 cred: @subwaymanners
Am I right!?!
How many of us have thought “I just need to lose____lbs”, “I just need to be in better shape”, or “I just need my long luscious locks back”….”and that’ll show him! I’ll be too hot for HIM!”
I’m guilty of this, and I know many others are too. Let’s work on this, guys and gals. Let’s collectively work on valuing our journey enough to not invalidate our present. You are who you are right now. Nothing superficial has changed who you are underneath all the bullshit.
So what if I’ve been in better shape and my hair is in a weird transition phase -I’m the same catch I was last year and the year before. I’m still the same sassy mouthed, moody queen who loves fiercely. Chances are, whoever I’d want to “teach a lesson”…things were not that great anyway. Superficial relationships never are.
It’s great to joke about the quirky things we all do (and I genuinely am someone who has thought the above…in the last month!). But I think the most dangerous thing about having this mentality is that we constantly say to ourselves “you’re not good enough…yet!” So, we’re not only putting ourselves down, but we’re seeking out this fictional version of ourselves that we’ll finally be happy with. We’ll feel better about where we’re at in life when they’re pining after us.
This is a sort of fucked up concept, guys. One that extends beyond the romantic. I’ve got a yogi bestie who thinks she’ll get more people in her classes if she looks better in her Instagram photos. What does her leg cellulite have to do with her ability to teach yoga? Not a fucking thing. What does my weird hair phase have to do with my ability to love? Not a fucking thing.
Let’s all do better, ladies and gents. Remind yourselves and your friends that we are all perfectly fine in the present. Own your path. We may be flawed, but we’re constantly redefining our perfectly flawed mold.
We need the support of the collective to break this bad habit.
To be continued,
It’s funny how my memories of you can spill onto a piece of paper in a series of letters; foreign to the unlearned, yet just as beautiful.
But I scrawl them out on whatever sits in front of me, as if hesitating for one more second would erase you from my mind.
The shape of your bones drip with blue ink on a crumpled up newspaper that I’ve been meaning to throw away for weeks.
The curve of your smile and the softness in your eyes engraved in the floor at the bottom of the staircase after I lost the strength to climb them. Or maybe I lost the will to climb to an empty room.
I can see the curls of your hair dancing off your shoulders as you tiptoe across the room staining the couch with your favorite color of nail polish.
Your pale white skin and the constellations of freckles on your stomach defaces every mirror I’ve looked into because I’d rather see that than see the hallow eyes and sunken cheeks pretending to be me.
And there, chiseled into the mantle where the dust surrounded old picture frames, is the makeshift novel of how your sharp breaths pierce my ear when I plant my lips on your collar bone.
I can see your nimble hands unperched from your hips as they reach out for mine scribbled across the doorway from the day I thought I could leave, but just kept waiting for you to follow.
It’s funny how all of these memories of you can spill out and be just as beautiful.
I made a list of all the words I should have said to you.
They turned into a book; the kind of book that you can read over and over, and still learn something new.
But there was a certain way the words looked to me every night.
They spelled out something sinister, and somehow never looked quite right.
They would stare me in the face and mock me for not understanding them.
And as soon as I’d start to figure it out, they would mix themselves up again.
The story never changes though.
It’s always the story of me and you, and all the things we’d never make it through.
And I guess somehow, before I even wrote it, I always knew.
I’ve memorized the lines but can’t quite figure out what to do.
When my arms reach out, grabbing nothing but air as if the emptiness is trying to give me a clue.
When I stop breathing to try and hear your heartbeat just once more, until my body starts to turn blue.
My God, what am I supposed to do when my sheets no longer smell like you?