Tuesday, September 21, 2010

dear lover

Dear Lover,

If I could, I would take you in my arms and hold you close to me, the way a mother does a son, the way I do you when you place your head in my lap, but I can't.

I can't do that because you don't deserve it. I can't do that because it wouldn't make sense.

I'm the one who longs to be held, but I refuse it. I don't need another man to come along and hold my head close to his heart and make me believe that true love has come to rescue me at last.

It's time that I stop waiting for love to "rescue" me from my life.

My life is mine, imperfect though it may be. It's actually not that bad, when you look at it.

I have all of my limbs, all of my teeth, all of my functioning.

My family is healthy, and my family is, for the most part, all still alive. My great-grandmother didn't die until she was 94.

I can still visit my childhood home, and my childhood neighborhood, and converse with people I knew in childhood. They are all still here.

I've traveled, maybe not as far as others, but I have seen more than some.

My eyes have witnessed much more beauty than horror, and the moments of sadness that have tinged my life have been overwhelmed by the many moments of joy I have experienced.

I work with children, and I have come to witness the innocent amazement they add to your life. I have a sister. I have many young cousins. One of my good friends is having a baby.

I am blessed, and imperfect though my life may be, when you get right down to it, it doesn't seem half that bad.

I have been divinely blessed with the gift of writing; the gift of word; a gift I didn't study to receive, but one that I had from birth, as will say my mother, who witnessed me pick up a book without prompting at two years of age, and start reading.

My life is mine, and I'm tired of waiting to be rescued from it.

In fact, that's probably 90% of my problem.

Once upon a time, I needed to be saved. From many things, but mostly, from myself. But the only person who could save me, was me. I didn't know this until the pattern was set, but I looked for others to be my Superman when who I was really looking for was the Wonder Woman inside myself that I didn't know was there.

So, my lover, I don't need you to save me. And I can't save you.

But I can love you. That's about all I can probably offer you in complete confidence.

I can't promise you I won't be angry with you. I can't promise you I won't lust for others. I can't say I won't touch another in the dead of night. I can't say I will always talk to you. I can't promise you these things.

But I can promise you that I, if even a little tiny part of me, will always love you. Always. Like a great author said, as I get older, I hope what I feel for you will ebb away. It's strong, you know. But even in writing that, I don't want it to ebb away. I can't let go of it. And in the next life, I'll look for you. And I hope you're the first I find. But I hope I find you a little sooner. Like maybe in high school. I would have liked to have been your friend then. I would have liked to know what kind of person you were through my own interactions with you, rather than just your descriptions of your past self.

I lied to you, you know. I told you that I could get over anyone I wanted to. I said that, knowing I was committing a falsehood against the universe. I will never get over you. Part of me will always have her hands out, reaching in blindness for your familiar touch. That part of me will always live with you. That part of me will live, suspended in time, never aging, but still searching.

The rest of me, however, will move on, as will you. One day, this will cease to exist. What was once so familiar to us, will become nothing more than the memory of what was. And when the memory pops into my head, as they so often do, I know I will smile and allow it to envelop me, until it lets me go, back to the reality that will be wherever I am; whatever I'm doing then.

But we, somewhere in time, will always live, wrapped in each other, conversing until the moon turns to sun, and until our words become the touches that set our bodies apart from this world; transcendentally on another plane.

It is that place where I will go, at night, when I give my mind permission to roam to places that, in daylight, seem foolhardy or weak. It is that place that will always grant me the comfort of that which I once knew so well; that which I will one day inevitably long for.

So, lover, in the end, all I can offer you are my words. Even my caressing of your head pressed into me can not always be guaranteed. One day, I'll have children who will need that exact same motion; their needs will be more pressing, and will beseech my urgent attention.

But I can always offer you my words. They are the most uncensored part of me. Though I share them with all, know that they are written just for you, and no one else.

These are yours. Take them on your journey; let them be a blanket when you are cold; a remedy when you are ill. I need them no more. The feeling lives in me.

Love, always,
Malorie

Monday, September 20, 2010

starting over, from many wrong turns, not just one

I don't need another man calling me beautiful when he doesn't even know my name. Yeah, you may see the physical beauty, but you don't know the extent of shit I've had to go through to gain some semblance of my inner beauty back. Fuck what you see on the outside.

I don't need another man giving me advice I didn't ask for; playing Mr. Paternal. I have a daddy, and he's the only man I need giving me advice I didn't ask for. Because he didn't have to earn that right. He played part in my birth.

I don't need another man who is so attracted to my body that he just can't help himself. Again, fuck what's on the outside. You're not the first man I've met whose attracted to my body, you won't be the last. Why don't you try being attracted to my heart, or what I have to say, or the way I get emotional and shed tears when things really touch my heart.

I don't need another man saying let me get your number after we've barely exchanged any type of conversation. Just because you make me laugh doesn't mean you deserve to talk to me. Just because you told me I'm beautiful doesn't mean you get the right to blow up my phone all day and night. I don't want you to have my number, and I don't want your number. Thanks, but I've heard it before.

I don't need another man who's an asshole.

I don't need another man who's a "nice guy."

I don't need another man who likes me but just doesn't want to be in a relationship right now.

I don't need another man who will waste two years of life conversing with me when he has no desire to date me or be with me.

I don't want another man who has to ask me every time we have sex whether I'm on birth control. I'm not one of those types of chicks who will intentionally trap a man because I think that if I get pregnant, he'll stay, and I'm not one of those types of girls who wants to have a baby because then someone in the world will love me unconditionally. I'm the type of woman who can't wait for the day when my husband/partner/lifemate and I get to celebrate the forthcoming of our child. I'm the type of woman who wants to wait a few more years before bringing a child into the world because I want to make sure I have the resources available to provide a marvelous life for my child(ren).

I don't want another man who disappears for days at a time.

I don't need another man who feels that it's okay to go for long periods of time without talking to each other.

I don't want another man who doesn't get me, and doesn't try to get me.

I don't need another man whose idea of going out on a date consists of going to McDonalds, or doing the same cliche shit.

I don't want another man who cuddles with me because it's just part and parcel of sex.

I don't want another man who does special things simply because "[he's] not a dog" and not because he's dealing with a special person.

I don't need another man who thinks that text messaging is the only form of communication.

I don't want another man who feels like letter-writing is outdated, or stupid, or that I shouldn't write letters, or that my writing is just a thing that I dabble in.

I don't need another man who thinks that my intellectualism and proper speech is a ticket out of his less proper life.

I don't want another man who analyzes more than he feels.

I don't want another man whose age in maturity is younger than the number of my shoe size.

I don't need you

and

I don't want you.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

tired of this...

as i paint my toenails in the continued silence of morning slipping into afternoon, i realize that i am ready to rip my skin from my body--i can't handle the silence any longer. but in the same instant, i need the silence to envelop me, and take me away--one of my roommates is playing some godforsaken music/sound from his room, and i want to take a hammer to the sound's source--i want my silence back.

all at once, i am a bundle of contradiction, and i remember what it's like to feel this way, and i wish it would go away. i don't desire spending another day of my life lying around simultaneously hating and loving something or someone ever, ever again.

i have spent my entire morning in silence, with the hope that it would give my mind and my heart a clearer path to communicate with one another, but all i have really successfully done is thought about any and everything my brain could run through. maybe that's the sign that my brain and heart have successfully communicated.

i would much rather talk to you, than to sit in silence. but i guess after these past almost two years, there's nothing left to say. (ouch.) i would much rather lie next to you, with your hands about my body, but i guess i've learned that all you really do like is my body, this damned body that i wanted so much when i was younger, that now seems to bring me nothing but trouble and misplaced intention. (ouch again.)

what are you supposed to do when you need the silence that's killing you?

"i just don't want to be a fool... no i don't want to be a fool, never, never again..."*

i learned this week
that either i am a fool
or you are a liar
and since i take people
and what they say at face value
that makes me a fool
for believing that
our middle of the night toe touches
and your forehead, nose, shoulder
bellybutton, thigh, leg kisses,
our laughter
our conversation
the tears that seeped from my eyes
as the tip of you
touched the depth in me
could ever
ever
ever mean anything
to anyone
other than me.




*--the man, Luther Vandross, though I could have easily written these lyrics myself.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Sunday nights = uggggh

So, I finally worked on my blog. The right column still isn't where I want it, and it still looks like a manufactured blog... but at least it's a pretty, manufactured blog.

One day, I'll have my own site.

But, for now, I'm working with what I've got.

Clearly, my priorities are in order.

Working on the blog trumps working on work for tomorrow.

Yeah, that's about right.

that being said...

--I don't think I want to get married on the beach anymore. Mind you, I'm not engaged, not the apple of someone's eye, but clearly single. I have no immediate plans of marriage anywhere, but I still don't think I want to get married on the beach. I don't think I ever concretely decided that this was my plan, but tonight, after looking at an acquaintance's wedding pictures, I realized they looked exactly like the pictures from when my old roommate got married a couple of years ago, and that's not cool. I don't want my wedding pictures to look like anyone else's, and clearly, if I get married on the beach, they are probably going to resemble someone else's beach set up. Besides, I don't want barefoot people at my wedding. I mean really, bare feet? And don't get me started on those damn flip flops...

and, lest we remember, my family is Black, and the majority of them (and by that I mean about 96% of them) are not water people. Pretty much, despite being from the East Coast, my family is not from Florida... which kinda rules out the notion of them being used to the water/ocean/sand, etc. That being said, my mother is Black, and she hates sand. Thus, the beach is out.

--Snow White was a damn fool. I just watched Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs yesterday (and I swear I never saw that movie in its entirety as a child), and I couldn't help but cringe when Snow White spoke. She sounded like such a dingbat. And all she really did was be extremely, extremely nice to wild animals and bake pies with the "little men"s names on them. No wonder the Queen tried to kill her ass. Nevertheless, she stood in her kitchen and sang that one day [her] prince would come, and lo and behold, her lucky ass got buried by the Seven Dwarfs in a glass container, and the Prince came and saw her and she magically woke up. I swear, he didn't even do anything except kneel at her bedside. What if the Dwarfs decided to bury her ass underground, huh?

Thursday, September 9, 2010

no, no, Elmer Fudd, it's not quite rabbit season...

My only comment for the night, is this:

clearly, it's baby making season. And since I don't plan on avoiding sex (safe sex, mind you!), I'm scared.*

Since when did baby-making season become an official addition to the year? I swear, every time I turn around, I find out someone is pregnant, just had a baby, or was pregnant at sometime during this past stretch of time we can call the recent past.

*shivers*

That is all.

m.


*--even having safe sex is scary when you know mass amounts of pregnant/were pregnant/will be pregnant people. It's unlikely that all of those people were having unsafe sexual encounters... well, I hope it is.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Ode to you

I am flying through the night, no more than eighty, no less than seventy-three. The stars and that one planet--you know if you're looking at a planet because they don't twinkle, but shine instead--are my companions as I make the three-and-change hour trip in darkness.

Color me irresponsible--I need to be at work at 7:30, morningtime. I leave home at 3:00, middle-of-the-night-time.

I couldn't leave. The warm scent of your skin next to mine left me trapped in your room, more bound than usual. Your bed is made of magnets, I said, in the haze of our forever conversation.

What started out as a text to make you feel badly for not talking to me turned into me leaving my house to see you before making the trek back to South Florida. I knew there was no way I'd be leaving by eight, but I expected to at least leave by nine... maybe ten.

You let me wear your shorts as I demonstrate yoga poses to you, and we end up wrapped together on the floor, your head in my lap, and your lips pressing lightly against my stomach; giving me butterfly kisses. I rub my hand across your head like a mother would to her child as we talk about the topic du jour--a friend's pregnancy; a co-worker's firing. You press your head into my stomach and pretend that you hear a baby in there--your idea of a joke, as I playfully slap your arm and tell you to cut it out, but my insides flutter at the mere sight of your head pressed to my abdomen, and I want to walk out of my body when you kiss my bellybutton. There is no baby in there, after all, but the thought is nice. (For later on in life.)

Your head floats up from my lap and our lips meet in mid-air, and the feeling is indescribable. ...using words to try to say, what I feel... Your soft lips are drowning me in the water of you, as we inch closer and closer to the ground, still wrapped in our warm, yellow-brown pretzel.

In typical fashion, our clothes are discarded as kisses explode between us. I suck your tongue and you bite my bottom lip lightly as we grope our way backwards through the haven of your space. Instead of crawling out of skin, I now want to jump out of my skin as your strokes ignite a fire in me like I swear I've never felt before. I weep in between growling and staring you down, wondering how you could possibly be doing something so... so... so fucking beautifully carnal to me.

We finish...

and it's already past ten. And I won't go.

We're supposed to shower, but somehow we embark on a conversational path we have journeyed before, though with less positive results--talking about each other.

I lie on my stomach, with my arm draped across your chest, and I touch you slowly, and you lie on your back; your hand tracing the curve of me. You ask me why I hang out with you, and I tell you that I'm comfortable. And when I ask you the same, your answer echoes mine.

And it's then when I realize, that I'm a fool for trying to be rid of you. So tired of being in love with you, I thought I was, but with my nose buried in your chest, absorbing the warmth that is you, I realize I can't live without you. (Though someday soon, I will have to.) My love for you will always exist--lifetimes and lifetimes away from this day, there will still burn a flicker of flame with your name dancing within.

We share thoughts, and time slips by us silently--every time I look up, I look away, refusing to go back to the reality that is my life away from your room; away from you. The intimacy of our conversation feels new, though we've spent thousands of hundreds of millions of minutes in the throes of conversational love. I drink of you with my eyes, taking all of you to memory--the shape of your lips when you curve them in a smirk; the way your eyelashes curl toward your ceiling; the shape of your nose; the way your forehead furrows when you're thinking or intrigued. I inhale your scent and rub my hands about you, hoping to mark myself with your fragrance forever. I curl into you, safe and warm, as time steals by us.

It is at some point that you joke that I've got it bad for you, and after we get caught up in our flesh again, I whisper to you that it's true--I've really got it bad. You fail to understand why I would deal with you, and why I would accept having it bad for you, knowing that you will fail to reciprocate, and you tell me that you're a jerk. I snuggle up to you and grab your face, pulling you into me, shushing you and kissing your soft cheek; telling you the truth of it all: you are not a jerk.

Time has left us staring at 3 am, and I want to stay wrapped in you forever, sleeping by your side until we see dawn, together. But I still have an almost four hour drive ahead of me, and work to be seen at the end of those four hours. Without time to waste, I bury my face in the comforter that smells of us, and push myself off the edge of your bed. Fuck my life, I exclaim as I quickly stand up and head back to reality.


Driving in the night, with the stars as my guide, I could swear I see a shooting star fall in the sky. My instantaneous wish is for you, as they all always are. I drive on, reflecting to myself about you; thanking my God and the universe for bringing you to me, and considering myself lucky to love you. Everyone deserves someone to love them, flaws and all. You will never be a mistake to me--you've changed the very path my life walks upon. You will never be a jerk, never be a bad person, never be someone I won't be fascinated by, never be someone I won't pray for. I've found, through you, that love is not as simple as I imagined it to be; not as fairytale as I thought it was; not as painless as I said it should be. No pain, no gain, the song goes.

I fly through the night, going no more than eighty, and no less than seventy-three. I shed tears of joy; how lucky I am... I don't believe in luck, but how lucky I am to have you--in whatever way I have you.

I am irresponsible, driving without having slept on a journey to a reality that is not mine.

I am foolish, for being so deeply enraptured with a person who quite possibly will never feel the same for me.

I am fatigued, sipping an energy drink which will make me jumpy later on.

I am crazy.

I am a fool in hope for love.

I wish upon shooting stars in the night's sky.

I am fascinated.

I am lucky.

I am alive.

----------------------------------------------

words will never be able to appropriately address the topic of you.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

"sometimes, I cry..."

met a new girl... she's been good for me...

I was lying in bed, no more than a minute or so ago, listening to this (what I assume could be new just found out is new) song by Eric Benet, called "Sometimes I Cry." (Well, that was the hook.) It's him, singing almost completely in falsetto, talking about how he had this girl he was really into, but she's gone, and he hopes that she's happy with her new man and new situation, and how it's taken him a long time, but he essentially has gotten to the point where he thinks he's fine... and then he realizes he's going to have to "fake it to make it," meaning that he's not really completely okay without her, and that sometimes he cries over her present absence.

Oh, do I know all too well what that's like.

Anyway, my point wasn't to write about me being familiar with that. I was lying in bed, intending to go to sleep, but my body wasn't ready. I was half lying (down)/half sitting, listening to the song, knowing that his picture was in my periphery--this isn't me being literary, either. His picture is literally in my periphery right now.

There's a line in the song where Benet says that he met a new girl, and that she has been good for him, and I immediately thought of how much I wouldn't like to hear that coming from him (knowing that it's serious, and that he's not just tasting the flavor of the season), and how much it hurt when the ex (you know, that other one) told me he met that girl that could be the one... and then I started thinking about that girl in Benet's line, the one who was good for him, and how often in life, whether we realize it or not, we are stepping into other people's shoes.

How often in life, have we met people and been a bridge for them to get over something significantly damaging? (And no, rebounding doesn't count. That's generally always physical anyway.) When I entered his life, and he mine, I never thought about things like this. Sure, I was off the heels of some fleeting romantic endeavor with a guy (who is now my good friend), but it was nothing serious enough for me to be distraught. I was definitely upset, but rather bitter about men in general when I met him by happenstance*, not sad and looking for someone to be good for me.

But as I found out later, I could have easily been a bridge for him. He had just left an over-a-year-long relationship with his girlfriend when we met. Two weeks before we met. So maybe, I was a bridge for him. Maybe I was that new girl who was good for him. Maybe that's why things didn't last and maybe that's why things are the way they are now.


I wonder if I was a bridge for the ex. (You know.) Maybe I really was the girl that gave [him] hope**, and maybe I was the bridge for him from cynicism to hope. Maybe I was meant to be that bridge so he could go on and meet that girl who could be the one, that girl who is now his wife. Maybe I played some hand in that.

I know he was a bridge for me, one that took a long time to cross. I've been thinking about him again lately; in fact, "thinking about him" is not the right terminology, because I haven't been actively thinking about him, for there's nothing current I could think about. His memory has been floating around in my head, igniting my imagination and sparking my curiosity as to what type of friends we could have been if our relationship had fought the dying light of Fall.

That's better said.

I've gone on a tangent before bedtime, postulating about all of these relationships and wondering about bridges. What I really wonder is, when have I been that, she's good for me girl?

And, am I really comfortable being that girl, imagining that my time with the person I'm good for is clearly ephemeral?



*--though I like the word happenstance, I don't believe in chance, luck, or coincidence. Our happenstance was divine placement.
**--his quote, not mine or Eric Benet's, and yes I remember it like I just heard it. Some things you never, ever forget.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

circles on the lawn

my life is revolving
in big circles
like the kind little girls
turn quickly in
when they are bored--
head held toward Heaven
faster faster faster
around around around around
they turn,
like my life.

last year i was
electromagnetic putty
when after endless hours
of your present absence
you returned, so deftly,
like you always do,
to interrupt my getting over the dream that was you
by asking me how goes it
like nothing ever happened
like i didn't tell you i'm glad you're in my life
and to have you retort i met someone with great potential.

last year, this time,
the hope of you
that i kept buried in my bosom
resurfaced
with your simple message
and before i could half-blink
i was a fool in love with a wise ass man, again.
(sound familiar?)

last year, this time,
my life returned
to the same elliptical formation
it'd been turning on
clandestinely
ever since
he left his silhouette
trapped in my bedroom,
and this year, this time
you are the reason
for the
season of circular motion--

foolishly, i imagine that i'm free--
of you, of everything i ever
needed to be free of--
but really,
i'm just a kid, turning in one big circle,
moving up and down the lawn,
but still,
in one
big
fucking
circle.

Unless otherwise indicated, all words here are property of Miss Malorie

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