On Separation

It begins as it continues as it ends

It’s a street sign that looks different. A shop sign that’s changed. The renovations have been redone. There’s construction lining blocks upon blocks that warble your senses of direction. 

And you come back, and you come back, and you come back 

And suddenly, it’s not your city anymore 

But you don’t think on this, as you arrive. You don’t think of what has changed and what is no longer there
Because you’re being questioned in a customs line
You’re being told these things flat out.


And if this isn’t your home, where do you go?
Because there isn’t here. It never will be, it doesn’t want to be. You don’t want it to be.

And maybe it’s not so much that you’re missing your home, as that home no longer exists.
It was a fleeting moment in time you can not go back to


Really, would you want to? To forget everything you have learned, everything you have done, and go back to the person you were yesterday?
Just think of what your bar tab would look like.


And you can long for what is gone, but maybe
You should not dwell on the feeling of your heart split in two
But rather,

Can you extend your heart to somewhere new? Can you love what this has become, and what that is now?

And one day, can you wake up when you arrive where you are going and say
This is now mine, too.

It doesn’t have to be today.

But someday

Maybe.

On Time

It’s been over a year since I saw your face

So why is it

That I’m suddenly reminded of things I thought were gone

Of that night in your garage
Of you holding me steady, your hands on my knees, my hips, as I try to balance, reaching for something high above me
Of the feeling of your smile

I don’t want you back
I don’t want you back
I don’t want you back

I hear a song,

And we’re back on your couch
We’re doing nothing, together
You’re telling me you like my legs
Your roommate is making us drinks

Four months after you left
I started seeing Someone Else.
And he made me happy, for a moment
And when he told me what you didn’t think to

When I felt the crack and saw him falling through
I held on like he was a man thrown overboard
Desperately trying to pull him back to me
When he’d wanted to jump in the first place

He wasn’t what you were
But I tried to convince myself he was
Because I couldn’t do it again
Couldn’t have the same reason twice in a row
Couldn’t be the inbetween

The rebound

The pause button

Again.

These things have been repeated in my mind, in my words, for so long, it feels meaningless to even try to write them out

Not that you ever would

But

You could come back to me on bended knee
And I would still want to say no
I can’t live in fear of your mistakes becoming reoccurring nightmares

I woke up this morning
And I don’t know why I thought of you

It’s been over a year since I’ve seen your face
And I never told you then, and I certainly won’t tell you now
But I loved you
I want my love back
I want my time and my secrets and my vulnerable words whispered in the dark

I don’t want to erase you
But I need your ghost disappear
Vanish under the cover of a smoke bomb
And leave no trace of itself behind

I need my memory to let me go

On Looking in the Mirror

Love, listen 
You gotta own up to this shit too 

Because no, it’s not your fault that he’s a lying asshole 
But it’s on you that you said

“I’ll be patient.”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
“I promise it’s okay.”

When it fucking wasn’t okay. 

Because you are the one that prides themselves on being chill. 
On never being called crazy, or at least, not to your face. 

Because you have seen women, so many women, who let their emotions ride them and force men into that passenger seat. Who can’t let little things go. 

But those little things add up. Those little things mean something. And chill does not mean that you don’t have emotions. That you feel nothing. 

And because you’ve not been monogamous, you haven’t had a real, concrete relationship, you haven’t learned how to speak for yourself. To say, this isn’t right.
This isn’t how I should be treated. 
You’re not my boyfriend, but you fucked up. 

Instead you say 
You’re not my boyfriend, so I have no right to be mad. 
Even though you are.

And that’s on you. 

For setting the standard so damn low and being annoyed when even that isn’t met. 

Because my darling you deserve the moon 
The stars 
Flowers and hugs and kisses on the cheek. 
You deserve to have your hand held 
To be introduced as, ‘You know, that girl I was telling you about?’ 

Just because you aren’t monogamous doesn’t mean you are undeserving of respect 

Maybe if you didn’t act like you knew you weren’t, and didn’t deserve to be, his number one
He wouldn’t make you his number two

You’ve spent so much time bottling it inside, swallowing your emotions down, allowing tension to creep through your shoulders and to turn your muscles to cement to contain the feelings threatening to drown you. 
And when asked a question, instead of the answer you want to give, your flood may leak over, you may speak in nonsensical ways because you are not just batting with what you should say – you are battling with yourself if you should say anything at all. 

And through the mess you see what you fear the most. 
That look of 
‘You’re crazy.’ 

But now you’re sitting here wondering why he’s not texting you when you gave him carte blanche 
To treat you however he choose 
While you say 
‘It’s fine, I’m here for you.’ 
While you’re dying on the inside 
Wondering what you’ve done to deserve this 

And you did not ask for this level of jackassery 
You did not ask to be treated like shit 
But you did not demand better 
Because you felt you couldn’t 

That, my love, is what’s crazy 
You know you deserve more 

That someone fucking up your night and saying ‘I’ll make it up to you…Netflix and chill?’ Is not enough 

That someone saying ‘It’s just so confusing right now, I know she wants monogamy but…you’re just so cool.’  And then taking her on dates but ignoring you for days on end, is not okay. 

That someone saying ‘I promise, she means nothing,’ taking you home with them, then announcing on Facebook she’s their girlfriend is some cheap shit.

You are allowed to be upset. You are allowed to feel. And calling out this bullshit should not be your responsibility – but it is.

Because you have to be your own cheerleader 
Your own advocate 
Your own coach and overprotective best friend 

Because if you don’t set that standard so high that it provides you shade is this sweltering sunshine

Why on earth would he?

On Daydreams

I’m wiping down the bar when you come in. 

The door swings open, and I look up to say that we’re closing, I already did last call, but stop when I see it’s you. And I smile.

You’re wearing a faded shirt, and those dark jeans I love so much. Boots that are not weather appropriate. Your hair is a perfectly tousled mess, but you’re already running your fingers through it again. 

“Hey,” You look around at the empty place, and stay by the door. “Are you closed?” 

I shake my head. 

“Not quite yet. You want something?” 

You nod, and try not to look too awkward as you sit where I point, a seat at the end where I can be close to you. 

“What does not quite yet mean?” You don’t open the menu I put in front of you. 

“It means, I’m shutting down, but can’t lock the doors for another fifteen minutes. So, it’s last call, basically.” I smile, you don’t. 

“I’m not-” 

“Shut up and pick a drink.” I keep working, cleaning, running mats and tools through the washer, and try to ignore your eyes on me, remind myself how to breathe, keep my heart rate down. 

You ask for the beer I already know you’ll want, and grab one out of the fridge, and pour a whisky for myself. I tilt my glass to you, and you tap your bottle against it. 

You keep looking around, not sure what to do with your hands. You tell me, “I didn’t think it would be this quiet already,” 

I shrug, and don’t say anything. I’m waiting for you to speak, to tell my why you’re here. But instead, you just keep drinking. So I turn around and keep working.

“You always close this early?” You ask. I shake my head. I lean against the shelves, looking at you, picking up my glass again. 

“I don’t want to keep you.” 

“You’re not keeping me.” I take a drink, needing something to do. I’m afraid, afraid you’re going to leave, afraid you’ll decide it’s too awkward, that you need the break of other people around, other things to be distracted by. 

“I’m glad.” 

You say it as my face is turned, and I don’t hide my smile. Five minutes to go, and I’m counting the cash in the drawer. I move around to the front, decline your offer to help, and bring the sign in, turn off the outside light, and lock the door. 

And now we don’t know what to do. 

Because we need to talk. We really do. But neither of us want to. Neither of us know how to. There is so much there that we don’t have answers to. So instead, you ask me how much more I have to do before I can leave. I tell you, not much, and finish what I need to finish. You’re nursing your beer by the time I’ve finished and clocked out, but I need another whisky. Badly. Need something in my hands if you’re here, looking like you do. You smell like smoke and something else I’ve never quite been able to place. 

I sit down in the seat beside you, and the corner of your lip tilts up in a smile. 

“Do you usually have after hours drinks with customers?” 

I shake my head. 

“Emma,” You don’t know where to start, I don’t know where to start. But you’re here, and I want you to be here. And that’s enough.






But this is my problem.
I don’t know what happens next.
I think of you and how you’ll look and what you might say, but I don’t know from here. 
Because in my mind, this is where it ends. It’s you being there when I need you to be there. To show me that you care. 


But this is not our story.
This is not you. Or anything you would do.
And I know this.


But when it’s late, and hot, and I’m about to lock the door
I wonder what it would be like if you were there, hoping to be let in.

On Distraction

If I fill my calendar 
With drinks 
Coffee 
Lunches 
Work 
Training 
Sex 
Then I won’t think about you
Right?  

If I scan through apps like it’s my job 
If I search for something, anything, that’s like you but not you 
Then will I finally forget you? 
Will the memory of your touch flee from my mind? 
Will I stop looking up when I see someone who looks like you, not want to flinch away from them, because I see you in their eyes, their nose, their movement? 

And if I keep my brain occupied enough, paint my nails to stop myself from biting them, focus on everything that is not you, then each day should be easier. If I let the days become a blur, will it take a month, two, three, before I can go back to the places you took me and the drinks we had together and not care? 

And with each day I don’t hear from you, will it be easier to forget why I wanted to hear from you in the first place? Remember that you are replaceable, that you were the placeholder on the road to something better? 

Or, is that how you think of me? As a temporary solution to a problem you wanted to ignore, to be cast aside when it was convenient? 

I will never know. 

Maybe with time 
My resentment 
And my anger 
And my hurt 
Will fade

And I can think of you the way I want to 
With a fondness and dull ache 
Instead of the bubbling of something I don’t know how to process when your song comes on 
Or when I see your book on my shelf 
The bottle on my counter 

So I’ll preoccupy myself. 
And forgive myself that I need time, and probably will for a while. 

And I will hope you don’t show up 
Making me start all over again 
Unless you’re there to stay.

On Springtime

On a chilly dark night
You walk beside him on the street
“Just for a few blocks,” he says, “I’m close by.”
And you talk, and you laugh, and you shiver in your jacket.

When you get inside there are books, and things to look at. Things to compare.
There are candles, and dim lighting and music comes through speakers
A list you suggested and he likes
There are curtains that could be closed or not, windows that could be shut
You say no
Because in a few moments his skin will be on yours
And you don’t do well with sweat

Then it’s sighs, and moans
Fingernails scraping skin
The tickling of his scruff against the inside of your thigh
“Please,”
“More, please,”
Hands everywhere, gripping, pulling, supporting
softness of lips against the feeling of your hair being pulled back, and back
“Such a good girl,”
And he says your name
A whisper as he’s done.

An arm is draped around your shoulders
You lean back against the couch
And you discuss things, improvements for next time
Kisses, then more kisses goodbye
They are different than before, less restrained
“You’ll see me around,”
And he sends you on your way

And you’re walking back down the street, to a bar you know
That will always be open for you
And you sit back with self satisfaction

You won’t think
Well, you’ll never see him again
You could have said no, let’s go out another night.
Let’s go get a drink first
Treat me like more than a booty call
Because that was what you wanted
You wanted him on top of you
You wanted him to make you scream
To make you feel
To know that someone like him was not out of your league

So you’ll leave it, for a few days
And assume he’ll message
But
Eventually
You have to decide
And you think
Oh, he’s probably traveling
He’s busy
He’s with someone else And you hope
Well, maybe he’s just as awkward as you are

But you’re not awkward
You know what you want
And so you send a message, a joke, an olive branch
You say hello, in a way you know how
And your phone will stay black
And silent

You will come home, and light a candle
The scent of spice a reminder of another season
Of a past time
When things were changing
And leaves were dying
And you were hurting from new things and healing from old ones
And you will want to retreat, but you no longer can
Not the way you used to

You can no longer run and hide from things
From how you feel
Or the idea of feeling
And you what you wanted that idea to be
You will breathe in the calm air, the humidity will cling to your lungs
As you try to understand
That you were weaker then

Because to be the one that says hello
Is admitting that you want to talk
That they were on your mind
And all your time hiding in the dark, refusing to try
Did nothing to prepare you
For when you finally tasted the sun.

On a Drunk Text

I don’t want to drunk message you.

So I’m writing this instead

Because I’m sick of using inebriation to tell you what’s on my mind.

I want you to fuck me so hard I see stars.

I want you here, in my arms.

I want you to sneak me away and fuck me against the bathroom stall – with girls coming in seeing my fingers curled around the metal frame, hearing moans and grunts and sighs.

I want you to pin me down, twist my hair in your hand, and tell me I’m not going anywhere.

And then I want you to hold me close- like in that moment I’m the only person that matters.

Because goddammit, I miss you.

I miss you so much it hurts.

And I know full well you don’t feel the same.

You don’t say hi anymore. You don’t call, or message, unless I cave and make the first communication. And it sucks. So fucking much.

But, I also get it. You’re hung up on your ex. You are very, very far away. So, I won’t tell you any of these things that occupy my mind.

But I miss your arms around me. I miss the way you look at me and the way you say my name. I miss the way you smile at me when you haven’t seen me in a while, kiss me and say, “Well, I feel better.”

And I can only say these things when there are stars in the sky, when my breath smells like whisky and life is blurred around the edges.

I hate that you make me feel these things, and that you don’t feel them back.

So that’s why I’ll write them here. I won’t burden you with a message you feel like you have to respond to, and probably won’t know how to, when you’re thousands of miles away.

But,

This is my safe place. To openly feel whatever it is I’m feeling.

So.

I guess.

I miss you. And I really wish I didn’t.

On A Drinking Game

tumblr_o4x8k2jetg1u824vuo1_500

Written at the end of a very long day. Meant to be all in fun. Would write a female version, but I don’t have any experience with female profiles on Tinder. If someone wants to write that and link it to me, I’ll probably repost it if I think it’s funny.

Use Responsibly!

TINDER DRINKING GAME

Take 1 drink each time you see:

A professional headshot ala American Psycho
The picture doesn’t include the guy
The picture includes the guy but the guy is out of frame so you have to go to the profile
The picture includes a girl that could be an SO
The picture has poorly edited out other people
The picture basically has neon lights screaming DOUCHEBAG
The picture has you wondering where the bodies are buried

Take drinks each time:

The profile advertises the guy as some version of “dominant, *nudge nudge wink wink*
The profile openly advertises for a sub/slave (+1 if the guy has a gf and they are vanilla)*
The profile has any pseudo philosophical quote, i.e. You can’t destroy energy, only transfer it
The profile advertises the height of the guy as it relates to dick size
A girl popped up, & that’s not what you’re digging right now.

Take drinks each time:

The profile advertises height as though they didn’t want to/it’s a chore
The profile says the girl has to message first
The profile “can’t believe they are on Tinder again”
You got through almost all/all of the pictures onto to see one that fell under the first category and/or once you read the profile

Blearily take a sip while continuing to swipe when:

You got so lost in swiping you’re pretty sure you passed a soulmate 5+ ago, and can’t do anything about it and it’s too much effort to care.

*Added because there is a website for this – Fetlife. Although people get angry on there too because its supposedly Kinky Facebook and Not Kinky Tinder. Because nobody can win, I guess. 

 

On Iron Man vs Hulk

sex-dice

He was the hottest guy in a five mile radius of my friend group, with a giant stockpile of charisma to boot.

 

I was seeking anything remotely like machismo to pull me out of a seemingly never ending rut.


I was warned he was the biggest player of the players, the biggest man-whore of the man-whores, and don’t touch or you’ll get burned.

And I looked at that and said, But, actually? Sounds perfect.

We met at a flat party, and discussed video games, and I tried to suppress my nerdom in an attempt to impress, but actually ended up in a half an hour conversation about button masher games. He then invited me to join the group going to see the next Marvel movie together and we freaked out at all the same moments, while our other friends watched and rolled their eyes at the ongoing battle that ensued the entire movie.

I will forever and always be team Iron Man.
He thinks Hulk will always be able to kick Iron Man’s ass.

 

Had we ever actually slept together, our idea of foreplay would have been discussing the scene in the first Avengers movie where Iron Man throws the nuclear weapon out into space, and then Hulk saves Iron Man’s life. We would have been stripping each other while arguing about which moment was more badass, fuck each other’s brains out, and during the after sex cigarette resume a similar argument as a pump up for round two.

But, alas, we never did sleep together. Not that we didn’t want to.

I was out with a group of girls, he was out with a group of guys, we ended up at the same club. We saw each other, he got me a drink, and we ended up dancing together. He kissed me, and boy was a damn good kisser. We continued dancing, he kissed me again.
It would be the last time he ever did so.

He invited me for coffee the next day, and I was excited, if a bit confused.
What would this mean? Where did we stand?
We chat about nothing for a while before he finally got around to the subject.
He had a girlfriend, which I knew.
He had an open relationship with the girlfriend, which I knew.
He was not allowed to fuck other people he cared about, which I did not know.

Ah. Uh. Heh.

I want to delve into the different types of relationships (polyamory, open, monogamy) in a different post, but I have been fairly open about being polyamorous for about 4 years now. Basically, since I heard the word, did some research, and had that glorious moment of Oh shit everything in my romantic life finally makes an iota of sense. 
And I don’t (or at the very least, try my best not to) pass any judgements on other people’s various poly/open/mono setups. I understand that what works for me may not work for you or the next person or the next person. 

But back to Hulk boy.
Basically, it flew in the face of everything I had been told about him. And my brain just went to:
So a one night stand is okay, but I’m not okay?
Are you telling me you care about me? That I matter more to you than that? 

This question was never entirely cleared up, but I do believe that, yes, I did. He would come over immediately on my days off work, he would sometimes try to hold my hand when he’d had a bit to drink, he would give me a look sometimes, that I know meant something, though what, I can’t say. And I have to admit I liked him too. I was annoyed I was being strung along, sure. But, I have to admit that there was a part of me that liked being liked by him, especially when everyone had said he was incapable of such emotion.

Which is why it really sucked when I found out he’d told his girlfriend’s best friend that I was a sure thing.”
Don’t talk about any woman, any person like that. I have not, will not, and will never be anyone’s sure thing. Not in the least because as a human being, I am capable of changing my mind at any given moment.

So I froze him out. I threw a halloween party and didn’t invite him. He found out, he asked why I was mad. I told him. We had lunch, he apologized profusely. He refused to eat his vegetables. I added them to my soup.
We were saying goodbye, and he gave me a look like a little lost puppy.

“Are we friends now?” He asked, so sweetly it would’ve melted any lingering annoyance I might’ve felt.
“Of course we are,” And we hugged.

He was a summer…I don’t know what you’d call it. He’s someone I remember with a smile on my face. I remember flirty conversations and playing Kings in my living room with a wonderful group of people. I remember him coming to have lunch with me at work and showing me pictures of his vacation. I remember laughter and light and fun. I remember poker games and pizza. And I’m sad we weren’t anything more, that we never had ridiculous nerd debate infused sex. But, at the same time, maybe it’s okay Hulk boy is just Hulk boy, and not anything more. Maybe it’s okay some people will remain just as they are in your memory, light moments of fun, never to be tainted, and no longer possibilities. They’re people you can think about, and honestly and truthfully still call a friend. 

On A Child’s Thought

"I want to be an astronaut, president of the United States and ruler of the universe! Chica power!"

I had to visit relatives this weekend. Like many, my family can only be described as “colorful.”

For a very long time, I was the baby of the family. I was delegated to the kid’s table. Even after starting graduate school, it was still the kid’s table. It was an odd contrast, because from the time I was a teenager, I was always asked about boyfriends, what my dating prospects were like, etc etc. So I was being treated like a child while being expected to live up to certain adult expectations.

I thought they’d finally given up, until my cousin asked me a question last night.

Now this cousin, I understand, has not had the best socialization. At family gatherings, there is minimal interactions between mother and daughter. It became very apparent upon entrance that the mother expected my sister and I to essentially babysit her daughter while she got some adult time. My sister and I were having very little of this.

My cousin, at one point, asked my sister and I if we had boyfriends/husbands. My sister said no. The cousin, who is 9, patted us each on the head and said, “That’s okay. You’ll find someone someday.”

Oh, hell no.

What has this girl been learning.

What has this girl been told about us.

What has this girl been told about single women.

What has this girl been told about her goals for her life.

What has this girl been told that she thinks it is okay for her to pat 20-somethings on the head and say, oh, that’s okay sweetie, you’re still of breeding and marriageable age? You could still find somebody…

Fuck.
That.
Shit.

I like men. Obviously. This blog is proof. Dicks can be really good. Can be terrible, but can be really good.

But I have never *needed* to date. Wanting and needing are fundamentally different things.
I will never need a man.  

And isn’t about fucking time we taught our daughters that? That they can stand up on their own two feet and be their own person without someone else by their side hogging their spotlight?

I want to hope that my cousin will figure this out herself, and I want to hope that she will learn it’s not okay to pat single women on the head like a lost puppy. It’s not a lot of hope, but it’s there.


Regardless, I’m currently sitting in the airport, by myself, eating a meringue, enjoying the last rays of sunlight. And I will sleep in my own bed and and enjoy all the space and the blankets myself, because I can and will.