I wrote an album for you. Did you even listen to it? Did you hear the words I’ve tried so hard to say to you for so long? I didn’t think you did. You continue to talk to me like you never broke my heart, like I don’t still love you, like I didn’t just write A DAMN ALBUM FOR YOU. Every song on that album, well almost every song on that album were just different ways of expressing how you left and how you made me feel when you did. In one song I hated you for leaving, another one I was drowning in my own sorrow, and in one of them I even tried to pretend I knew that we could never work out. I wrote that song in July. It’s been 3 months and I still have hope. You give me so much fucking hope. I know you don’t love me and I know you never did. But that doesn’t help the fact that I do love you. And I know I won’t feel this way forever. But you took something from me that I’m never going to get back, and until someone else comes into my life and makes me feel higher than you ever did then there is not one doubt in my mind that you’ll be the one I turn to in the worst of times. Or even in the best. All I’ve ever wanted to do was be with you. I wrote a fucking album for you.
Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened every day and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.
I’m stuck between wanting:
1. A long lasting relationship with my soulmate who supports me and protects me and is my partner and we are completely bad ass together and in love
2. Wanting to have casual sex and rip out the heart of everyone person I meet
3. Being independent and having a loyal dog while I’m married to my career
It scares me how accurate this is.
When sex becomes a production or performance that is when it loses its value. Be mutual. Be loud. Be clumsy. Make noises, be quiet, and make a mess. Bite, scratch, push, pull, hold, thrust. Remove pressure from the moment. Love the moment. Embrace it. Enjoy your body; enjoy your partners’ body. Produce sweat, be natural, entice your senses, give into pleasure. Bump heads, miss when you kiss, laugh when it happens. Speak words, speak with your body, speak to their soul. Touch their skin, kiss their goose bumps, and play with their hair. Scream, beg, whimper, sigh, let your toes curl, lose yourself. Chase your breath; keep the lights on, watch their eyes when they explode. Forget worrying about extra skin, sizes of parts and things that are meaningless. Save the expectations, take each second as it comes. Smear your make up, mess up your hair, rid your masculinity, and lose your ego. Detonate together, collapse together, and melt into each other.
I’ve been told that alcohol is bad for me.
I’ve also been told that loving you is bad for me.
I’m still drinking