Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m in your bed. But there are no succulents, broad-leafed and thirsting, on the windowsill, no peppermint candle warm and deep as midwinter sunshine, no sheepskins soft as dreams. There are books that whisper about other worlds. There is rain drumming on the windowpanes, ushering me to make coffee, but there is no reason, dear heart, to fill the second mug.
Wild grasses dotted the scrublands. A petrified tree stood sentry to the Double O Arch. Pinyon jays flitted between branches on a cool wind that tasted like old memories. Memories of the days when you cried for songs you'd never learn the words to, while I ached for women I could never love.
In a cloudless summer, your body stretched
Like a golden kiss across breadcrumb-fine sand.
Seagulls spun in lazy rounds, their squawks lost beneath the steady rhythm of tide breaking against salt-bleached cliffs.
Strawberry juice stained our fingers, stained our lips and I tried in vain to write something about your hypothermia blue eyes. The way they sent my teeth to chattering. Or the croissant-flake birthmark on your collarbone that always stuck in my mind long after our goodbyes.
Instead, compliments and kisses tripped from our sangria-loosened tongues.
The breeze lifted golden strands of your hair and I wanted top-down cliffside drives, moonlight dancing in your starshine silver hair while we screamed songs like only teenagers can.
Looking out to sea, you dug your toes into the sand and I watched the delicate curve of your calves, the gentle swell of your thighs.
I want to hear your laugh beside the murmuring ocean, to know you in tidal pool stillness. Knocked over with wave-crush whispers, I’ll wipe away the footprints of any man before me with touches soft and kind as sun-soaked beach towel on wet skin
We’ll pretend our bed is lost at sea and cling to one another with last-night-on-earth abandon while your fingernails tattoo your name beneath my skin like seashell graffiti...
1 269 December, 2019
ALWAYS check the destination of the train you get on...ffs I DIDNT look....lolololol
Picture referenced from Chris Ryniak.
It’s taken me a lifetime to write the phrase: I forgive you-especially to my parents. When I began writing I had included the greeting, “Dear Mom and Dad” and immediately scratched it out. The word “dear” was too generous, and Mom & Dad are titles that I never got to embrace in our family. My birth mother is alive but very absent. The woman who truly embodies the term Mom or mother for me is my grandmother, who passed away when I was in high school. My father, while also alive, lives in such a permanent state of denial and lack of self awareness that we don’t speak. He’s unable to be his true self and he chooses to stay married to an abusive, alcoholic woman who has terrorized and traumatized my sister & I indefinitely. ⛔️ Now that I’m a parent I can see so clearly how they tried to do their best. I forgive them for the decades of hurt and pain I have carried around. I forgive them for their inability to love me and to value me & my sister. I forgive them even if they will not change. ⛔️ This letter is to my “parents” -two people, who are sort of in my life -even if that’s still something they cannot even remotely acknowledge. 🍂 I’m not entirely sure if I’ll send this letter. Perhaps the act of writing out the phrase, “I forgive you” is enough for now. Only time will tell. #forgiveness#parents#family#healing#sf#letter#handwritten#legalpad #🏳️🌈 #queerselflove#forgive