Between the Lines

I tend to write cryptically, either in a literal or metaphorical code. It's a girl thing, apparently, or so I'm told. I reference song lyrics so that someone who knows the song will recognize it. Usually, the lyrics I'm relating to aren't the ones I reference. It's the ones right before or right after. Or I'm referencing the entire song, the feelings behind it. If I make a personal statement, like the letters I write here and elsewhere, they're for those who understand. Specific people. I write for those who care enough to try to understand. For those who read between the lines. For those who've felt the same things and find something between the lines to grab on to.
I write for the dreamers.
For the poets.
For the lost.
For me.

And occasionally, like now, I'll write for other people, too, to give them a glimpse inside this inner world I'm archiving.

Revising

I'm having to revise my thoughts on all of you. Because as much as I'd like to rely on the stories I tell myself, I keep wondering whether or not they're true. I'd like to keep the thoughts I made at the time, and maybe it's better if I do, but they say hindsight is 20/20 and while I'm not sure I believe that's true (things are always foggier with distance), it's the least I can do to try.
One: I don't regret you, but it wouldn't have worked. You were a savior, an idol, and I worshiped you. I don't know why I walked away. It killed me when I did. I wish we could have been friends, but you have your own life now and I imagine I hold no special place in your mind. So while I apologize, allow me to fade into the distance. I'll try to allow you to do the same.
Two: You were the first pressure in making me the person I am, so congratulations. I don't remember much of you, except that I was too Christian, too innocent. Or stubborn. Who knows.
Three: I want to say you were abusive, but I believe I allowed it. I didn't know how to moderate my giving, how to be my own person. It was an infatuation at best and I don't believe you had anything but lust for me. I don't believe you knew what you were doing. I don't believe you meant to do the damage you did. But you were the one to break me. I don't think I hold that against you, partially because it was my own fault. Still, I have no desire to return to that life. And a piece of me resents that I've ever known it.
Four: I don't know whether or not to consider you, actually. I'm not sure our feelings were mutual, only that I knew how to reciprocate. It was awkward and self-conscious and I remember later telling you no, that it wouldn't work out. That there was barely a "before" and there wouldn't be an "again." You were the first one I rejected. Or... rejected for my own sake. But I believe you're fine.
Five: We're entering more serious territory. I didn't mean to lead you on, but the entire time, I felt like I was doing exactly that. You gave so much and I'm sure you would have been and maybe are great for someone else, but I never actually knew you. I cannot fathom someone allowed in such a close position without the same level of knowledge. I don't know whether or not I should have believed your words. I was scared of hurting you, but I was also hurt by pretending, and I know pretending like that isn't fair to you. Wasn't fair to you. I wish you luck and joy with another.
Six: I'd like to say I gave you everything. I gave you a lot. Probably more than I should have. We bordered on very dangerous territory. I know that because I remember having to hide my phone from my boyfriend's view while he took me to a poetry slam, or maybe I was just friends with him at the time, but I don't think so. Was that the first time you said you loved me? Or maybe it was when you admitted your feelings. I don't know. When it finally did happen, I loved you deeply. I don't know that I've loved the same way since then. I regret our breaking and I wish I could have stepped in sooner to fix the fractures. I want to believe there was more I could have done. But I also remember how tired I was, how broken, and I'm not sure I could have lasted. You treated me well even after and I'm sorry for the pain I left you in. You're more cynical now. More abrasive. I'm not the only one to notice. And while I'm not conceited and egotistical enough to believe it was all my fault, I can't help but wonder whether or not I played a role. If I did, I'm sorry. I miss you. I miss what we used to have. But I don't think I could ever return to you.
Seven: I am sorry. Maybe it's only that this wound is freshest, but I truly believe I did you wrong. And for that, I'm sorry. I know I was worn and hurt and tired, but I'm wondering now if I let a few difficult weeks poison nearly a year of goodness. I miss you deeply and I believe you treated me well. I'm learning to move past it, but I know I mistreated you in other ways - the ones that led to alcohol. You hate that vice. I hope you didn't hate yourself for it. I hope you're happier now than you were then, that things are better, that you got help or are managing or I don't know. I'm glad we still talk. I'll see you soon and the thought leaves me both with joy and with tears in my eyes. I hope things are okay. I hope you are okay. I don't know whether or not I gave up on you, but I'm hoping I didn't. I'm sorry if I did. I know you're strong. Keep growing stronger.
Eight: I don't know what to think about you. Those initial things never should have happened and I'm sorry I didn't stop them. I hold you equally accountable. I want to believe your words, but I'm not sure if I can. Even if I do, I can't accept them and I think you know that. I feel like I've complicated your life. I feel like you resent the fact that I want to treat you well. But how is that fair to me? I want what's best for us both and I'm sorry if that hurts, but I'm doing everything I can. Or I'm trying to.
Nine: I'm doing everything I can. Or I'm trying to. I want what's best for both of us, whatever that is. We both know what it is. I get frustrated at you because you won't cooperate, because you resist it, because you insist on being just a little closer than you should be. I'm running out of options, but I don't want to push you away. I care for you, but I don't believe either of us could legitimately call our feelings love. You need to learn to be strong for yourself, to become a whole rather than pieces. I can't help with that. I'm doing all I can. But I need you to do the same.
Ten: Please don't try to be them. Don't try to be better than them. Don't look at me the way I look at myself for looking at the number of them. They're more than numbers. They're also more than scars. Some are dearer than others and I'm sorry if that hurts, but could you care beyond it? Could you look at the core, beyond the scarring and masks, and call it beautiful anyway? I know they say I won't accept it, but I want to. I believe I would if the love didn't involve so much pain. Could it be a new beginning? Could it be safe? Could it be healthy and holy and a place where I can grow? Can we start strong and keep it going? Can you keep from filling the gaps you shouldn't? Can you be the last one?

Minor Cross-Promotion

I've been writing a little more recently. There's a lot going on, a lot that needs processing, and a lot of old processing that needs to be typed out. That said, I'll probably be posting more often. Check out these other sites of mine for different content:

Poet Hearts (Poetry)
Novel Narratives (Short Stories)
Emotional Sideshow -- Coming Soon

The War Zone

You've been invading my dreams again. And I doubt you'll ever read this, but for the sake of honesty, it's kinda nice to put this out there somewhere. It feels better than keeping it in my head. You never talk to me. If I'm lucky you mutter something in my direction under your breath. But it's always as cold as your stare is and leaves me wondering what I did wrong. I don't believe I'll ever know. And I'm not sure it's fair of you to withhold that from me, but I feel like asking now would only draw up old blood and make things worse again.

Maybe it was just the timing. Or something that wasn't me at all. Or living in your head too much, but you've already claimed that's not the truth. It's fine to dream, darling, just not to make monsters out of people when they sleep. You end up terrified or indignant or hurt and they're left wondering when they became so hideous.

I listen fairly often to things that remind me of you. That song in Wicked when you nudged me and I believed we could still be friends. That things would be okay. But that was the day before the war began. The anger still hurts a little when I let the memories of it surface. I still believe you almost hit me, and maybe I shouldn't have tried to stop you like I did, but I couldn't let you wander off alone. What was I supposed to do?

What was I supposed to do with any of it? How does a nation react when war is declared against it not for purpose of land or power seizure but for some fault of which it is unaware? When it gazes out across a wasteland it never intended and wonders if things could ever grow back? When it realizes that it won't? When it finally discovers the desert is smaller than it seemed at first, that the rest of the country will survive, but that the land will still lie dormant forever? At best, all this is a broken piece in a complicated machine. And I'll never know what broke it.

It may not be fair to me, but there's nothing I can do now. I'm not sure I can say I miss you, although a part of me does, because to invite you back within my borders is to risk a more devastating destruction for us both.

I see only anger in the dreams. But maybe someday I'll be able to see life there again instead.

Pages of Life

Immensity, I think, is one of the most impressive things to me. The number of stars, the size of a mountain, the vastness of space, the amount of work and information that your brain processes at the speed it does. All things incomprehensible and not entirely obtainable. I think I live in the land of theories, somewhere between reality and imagination. I think it's a place of mystery and not knowing for sure is one of the best parts. That's why I get so excited with new thought lines. It's like a new toy to puzzle over. I can twist it and turn it and look at every side I can think of. Then when I show someone else, they can point out new sides or new views on ones I've already found. Or, even more often, I find a string attached that leads to another toy, or maybe a different limb of the same one. It's hard to tell sometimes. But I can look at the connections and see all these new things and it's exciting because I think I know I have someone to share it with. I can give somebody something important. Thinking about how clouds are really just water and wouldn't look so white if you were in them. It'd just be like fog. Or thinking about how your body is made of parts made of tissues of cells of chemicals of atoms of subatomic particles that we can't even see. Particles that could be infinitely small. Or thinking about how really, there's no one normal. It's a collection of "normals" that's a little different for everyone. But I think we express and understand individual sides of "normal" enough to know what's communally accepted. And from that branches culture and religion and stereotypes and rules and laws. What is accepted by the masses? That is what begins to define us as people. Certain people have an idea, something that would benefit them, and they act on it. They advertise it. And they are the ones that change our culture. They determine what is accepted because they hold power over people. Simply put, they are the influential. Not only that, but they're idealized to the point that we mere mortals feel we have no right to question or challenge them. Scientists, singers, actors, pastors, even the founding fathers. No one seems willing to ask if Washington could have done a better job as a president or if Einstein could be mistaken about one of his formulas. I'm not saying these weren't great or iconic men. They were. But they were still men. Human. They messed up. They were mistaken. They had problems. Celebrities are in a bit of an inverse situation. Their faults are exposed, blown up, made to look as if no one else on earth has ever had a divorce. EVER. There's just something about drama, about people having specific roles, that we don't dare question.... and I'm not sure it's so good for us....