Tuesday, October 28, 2014

forest to not return

and so i am indignant.

it's not like you and i disagreeing on the quickest way to the trailhead.  or who is more full of trailhead-ness in the first place.  or who has an actual real taste for IPAs (and which one of us just drinks them because the cute guys drink them).

you're manipulative.

but that's where i might be wrong.  you were (so hard not to use present tense) so manipulative.  and i said goodbye.  through  months (years) of untangling...block, hide, delete.  you said goodbye back, not showing up, not responding, block, hide, delete.

you breathed fire for years.  years and years.  all of the years i've known you, you've breathed fire.  (but maybe you're not anymore.  is this new person the real you?)

i'm indignant because people say things like "she's so funny."  "she's so nice."  "i like your friend."  and i'm all...who did you meet?

we were wrapped too close.  every block, hide, delete was followed by a text, a note, a pin, a like.

and every time, i was indignant.

but we've been friends for so long.  maybe that's it.

i know i hold grudges.  oh man.  do i hold onto them.

you're wrong.  you're selfish.

i'm indignant.
(i'm right)

you do not get to leave your kids for a new life.  what are they supposed to say?  are they supposed to tell you, breather of fire, that they will miss you?  to please stay?


maybe they are fine.  i hope they are.

what if they really are fine?

indignance tilts her head and murmurs...how can you be okay if your kids are fine with you moving to a different corner of the country?

twisty twisty grudges.

you paint a pretty picture.  you say the right words with the right inflection.  syrup instead of fire.

am i supposed to ignore this charred forest where our friendship resides?


i should allow you growth.  i should allow myself growth.  i should allow myself the incredible lightness of being.  i shouldn't hold onto these wounds, these burns.  i should allow you to change, instead of holding you as this fire breathing monster.  while holding you to your fire.

(you are not mine to allow or hold on to)

"they don't need me."


i'm not a parent, but i'm sure you're not supposed to think that or say that.  but maybe you've charred enough of them that they really don't need you.

i think you're wrong.
your actions are selfish.
you play the wounded.
but i'm the one with the burns of our friendship.


forgive.  release.  accept.

i don't want to explain myself to you.  you're a grown woman.  how do you make this right enough to go through with?

do i enjoy being right?  do i enjoy watching your selfish ways?

it feels good, and i know that's not supposed to be a good feeling.

like binge watching reality tv.

i told you what i thought.  and felt an unfriending, delete, block period starting.  so i softened my words.  so i could see how it played out (selfish me).

the wheels are turning, plans are moving forward.  it's hard for me to be excited.  though this should be an exciting time for a friend.  i SHOULD be excited.

but it's a train wreck.  a selfish train wreck painted over with your flowery words.

and that's all i have now, your flowery words.

bu those are better than the fire.

i do disapprove.  that's why my texts come across as flat.  i am not enthusiastic, because i have all of this charred ness.

because i've seen people crushed under your selfishness.  without a thought.

i do not share your enthusiasm, because i've seen all of this play out many times.  i've seen the hurt faces, i've heard your own indignation.

i don't see it.  i don't see it.  i just don't see it.

he won't see it, until it's too late.

flowery words over charred lands.


indignant, like a badge.  grudge, like i'm proud of it.  i have this list here, you see.  this bag full of wrongs.

it's here in this pile of rubble, in this dark, charred, abandoned forest.

and i'm done with it.  our friendship has been burned.  too much has been said, done, left alone, picked apart.

untangling.  unwrapping.  unenthusiastic.

un.  un.  none.  done.

you are not mine.  this is not ours.

i'm leaving this burned place to let the new growth sprout.

in this charred forest, i leave blessings.  i leave hope.  i leave seedlings of friendship, love, and acceptance.

and this pile of grudges, to be given over to the blooming forest.


Sunday, July 27, 2014


i made a mess.  i reached into my guts, into my chest, and i pulled them out.  those memories long tucked away.

they puddle in my cupped hands.  they float and dip, like ice cubes in a punch bowl, like the moon in a cloudy sky.  they're on me, in my hair, on my face, they run down my arms, they're on my couch, in my car, they're in my bed, on my pillows.  

they're scattered across this city.

they're spilled in notebooks on the floor in my closet.

i hadn't allowed myself to delve so deeply into them for so long, to hold each memory in my hand and let the sunlight flow through.  

i forgot how sweet and horrible it was.

i can't help reading it.  i tinkered with the words, even after i hit publish.  i remember everything.  quoting movies, talking in an empty parking lot until 3am, falling asleep on the couch, all those whispers in the dark.  coffee. dinners. so many laughs.  you carried a watermelon.

climbing in and out of that canyon in the middle of the night.

rainy nights wrapped under blankets.

it hurts, it aches.

i miss you.
i hate you.

and i'm SO annoyed this blog is about you so far.

Monday, July 21, 2014


the way you watched out for me, drove like an asshole, knew my drink, laughed, grabbed my hand to run to the car.  the way you looked at me when i was telling a story.  the way you pulled me to you and kissed me, perfectly.  fiercely.  sweetly.

took my breath away.

you crunched numbers while i sorted through piles.  i made you laugh and i liked your hands.
i don't remember how it started.  it just always was.

it was a surprise. i wasn't looking.  and there you were.  gentle and strong every time.  like we always knew each other.

that night you looked at me in the dark, your face lit by the moon.  you watched me, my hand on the side of your face, fingers woven in your hair, my other hand splayed across your back.  

both of us stretched and wrapped and tangled around each other. 

i watched you, your weight on me, in me.  my head rested on your forearm.  you stopped and looked at me, your face serious and inches from mine.  your hand moved to my face.  you whispered "i hate you."  i immediately smiled as i kissed you back, my heart full.  i moved both hands to your face and felt you smiling.  i laughed into your kiss.  i looked back at you.  "i hate you, too," i murmured, knowing the opposite was true.

i mean, i really hate you.
i know.  i really hate you, too.

we looked at each other, smiling. laughed.

i hate you, like, a lot.

[i love you]
[i love you]

we signed emails that way.

hate you.
hate you back. 

we whispered to each other in the dark, legs tangled, arms wrapped around each other, when we were sure the other was asleep.

always tangled. 

you whispered it into the back of my neck, big spoon wrapped around little spoon.

i whispered it into your chest, our bodies facing each other, spent, your arms wrapped around me.

i love you. 

i heard you, and i know you heard me.

Friday, July 18, 2014


i see your face. posed. posted. your eyes jump at me. so open and familiar.

and we're back in high school. english tests. essays. lunches and after school practices.

your arms are wrapped around a bicycle tire. fixing or wrapping tuning something.

your eyes. that crooked smile. 

and we're back in high school.

you look the same. quiet strength. self possessed.

and i'm reminded of my love for you.

you might have been my first love. the kind that ached and whispered truths. notes scribbled.

free and young and true.

the scary kind of jump off the edge of the world kind.

the kind that broke into my heart and left a permanent scar.

that kind.

it makes my chest ache, my throat heavy. i'm brought back to sweaty summer afternoons. wind whipping our hair riding bikes down quiet streets. standing with our arms raised. coasting into and out of the unknown.

you taught me how to write. to feel. to be vulnerable. to want more and expect more.
you bared your soul and fears. you folded your heart into pieces of paper and gave them to me.

i'm reminded of this. brought back to those narrow grass lined streets, with a picture. with your eyes.