We Act As Though We Know Each Other. We Do Not. We Act As Though We Need Each Other. We Do Not. We Act

We act as though we know each other. We do not. We act as though we need each other. We do not. We act as though we love each other. We do not. But perhaps I like your company. And perhaps I crave existence.

Everything I Never Told You

And I know it is hard to hear. But it is the truth we both see and choose to look away from. The truth is that we were artists looking for a new muse. Searching for inspiration. For someone to knock down the brick wall of writer’s block. We were two people looking to feel alive again, looking for someone to light the ashes of our mind on fire. 

How long did it last? A day? A week? A month? Of sweet nothings and soft caressing terms of endearment. Of pages of poems and colour covered canvases. Of seeing the world in a new light. Manufactured arguments for the sake of making up and making out. Now? I look for any excuse not to write of you. Look away from your messages. Your glances. The tenderness in your voice. 

Maybe it is the guilt that keeps us here. For we both have sinned. Maybe it is the grief. In lost time. In knowing someone and yet knowing nothing of them and even less of yourself. Perhaps it is selfishness. On your part, in wanting me for the distraction I bring that you masquerade as healing. Perhaps it is selfishness. On my part, to think that someone may want a small part of me and I masquerade that as love. Perhaps it is arrogance. In thinking that our love is helping. 

But I am tired. Of living my life on autopilot. I am tired. Of acting like we have made this choice. I am tired. Of stealing and wasting time. I am tired of living my life on autopilot.  For it is barely living at all. And perhaps this is the issue with two artists being in love. The issue with two humans being in love. But rejoice, for heartbreak will free you and fill you with inspiration a new. 

love is only love at first, after that it becomes a convenience

He smelt of coffee and cologne, and I did not mind at all.

All The Things I Never Told You

A Good Writer vs. A Writer

As a writer, I often find myself in the middle of odd places at odd times. In odd situations. At least I assume they are odd. What makes them so is simply my awareness of them. Or perhaps lack thereof. The sentences in my head, pull me out of reality and daydreams into another layer of both. I watch them helplessly even as I create them.

There is a scene I found myself itching to write a while ago. It would not leave me alone until it encased me. Consumed every thought. Every step. Until I had encountered every detail it needed me to, and so it goes:

I am standing in a room. But I am not. For the sky is black and speckled with stars and the breeze is blowing and the stone floor is hard. I am wearing a dress, but no shoes. And I feel the warmth, of blood, running up to my elbows, splattering my face, pooling around my bare feet. It is soaking into my floor-length gown. There is enough for it not to be sticky. I have no weapon. See no bodies. But I know they are there. I do not know if the blood is there's or mine. I do not know what happened. Do not know what I feel. Or why I am standing there motionless. All I know is that the blood is warm, but my shoulders are cold. That my hair is down and my heart is steady. 

I do not know what happened. But I do not ask questions. Maybe because I do not want to know. And perhaps that is the difference between a writer and a good writer. Good writers ask why. They explore what happened before, what will happen after. They will work it out. Figure it out. They know or at least want to. But I, I don’t. 

I do not want to know why am I standing there is a flowing dress, covered in blood. Do not want to know why I came here, or if I will leave these bodies and go home to another, or if someone will come to get me. Do not want to know who these bodies belong to. I refuse to ask. I take what it gives me. And do not pry for more. I do not care about the beginning or the end. About where I came from or where I will go. Mostly because I do not want to know. I do not care. All I care about is that this is the one place I do not feel compelled to search for the answers that too often I cannot find or leave me broken. 

So I am just a writer. Who finds herself in the middle of odd places, at odd times, in odd situations, soaked in blood and refusing to ask why. 

Our love was Baby blue leather jacket  And sunflowers Our love was Second grade "What do you want to be when you grow up" And the "What do you like on your pizza" question Our love was  Lullabies on the piano Heart in timezone tatters Our love was More I miss you Than I love you Our love was Cute animals GIF's  And orange juice Our love was Not knowing of the broken or the healing But just knowing you are helping  Our love was Me trying to be happy Just for you Because you made me want to

The Belgium Boy, The Boyfriend Boy Excerpt from the poem The Ways In Which I have Been Loved

Our love was Coffee lots of milk Tea extra sugar Our love was Light left on for you at home Brushing gloved hands on Fall walk Our love was Handmade Gifts Bad jokes Our love was  Deep breath sighs Domestic Life Our love was Cooking pasta with the wooden spoon Conversations about the weather Our love was Christmas Carol  Candygram Our love was  Casual Closeness Comforting Caress

The Dreamer and The Chef - Excerpt from the poem The Ways in Which I Have Been Loved