Please don’t be a season

Please don’t be a season.

Don’t be a fallen leaf in Autumn that slowly dies as it hits the pavement.

Don’t be the touch of snow on skin that quickly melts away in Winter.

Don’t be the rainbow after rain, hiding behind clouds of grey in Spring.

Don’t be warm beach days, fresh green grass and bright sunny rays that pass by as quickly as time does in the Summer.

You’re not allowed to come in and out of my life like the weather.

I want you for years to come.

I want you like the comfort of sitting down after every long day, knowing it’s a luxury whether on the floor or a coushioned chair.

I want you like the tattoo on the bottom of my neck, wearing out from too much sun exposure, but always holding meaning within my skin.

I want you like the memories written in books passed down for generations– causing stories to be diluted, but still partaking in history.

I want you like all of my body, maybe growing weaker as I get older, but always remaining, always trying, still working after so much vulnerability.

You are not just a season to me, you are a year. A year full of life, memories, sunshine, rainy days, snow fall and golden brown leaves on the ground.

Please don’t just be another season.

Only human

I realized what he meant, by feeling as if you’re a ghost in that environment. The music was blaring, the heat heavy and the crowd growing. You become so consumed by the addicting noise streaming through your ears and the weightless atmosphere brought on by multiple drinks that you become completely unrecognizable–not only to others, but to yourself. At least, that’s how it seemed when I glanced over at him that night. His head banging to the bass of the music and feet sliding back and forth to the rhythm. I smiled slightly, only because he looked so content at his ability to escape.

A group of girls stood next to him looking at him in curiosity, but he had no recognition of them at all. His eyes were completely empty, his face expressionless. He had become a ghost. And then he even disappeared like one, running off into the crowd. I stood on my toes, trying to catch sight of his hat in the sea of people, but couldn’t find him.

“What the fuck?” I looked over at my friend, who simply shrugged, unamused with the disappearing act. He focused his attention back to the stage and continued dancing. I tried. I tried hard to just focus on the music, to fucking disappear myself, but I felt everything. I felt my heart dropping and shoulders shrinking. I felt any movement of dancing that I attempted was useless and utterly vacant. A paranormal figure wouldn’t feel as much as I did in that moment. I sure as hell knew he wasn’t feeling the way I did.

He disappeared, and I stayed so clearly visible. Both my friends and the crowd sensing every movement, every turn of my head as I looked around for him. The mood between us collapsed completely, unable to be rebuilt by the vodka running through my veins or the music pouring out of the speakers surrounding us. This was one thing that music couldn’t possibly fix, because I knew it wasn’t going to be a good night and once you get that into your head it’s impossible to escape it. Once that feeling becomes conscious, there’s no way of preparing some sort of Houdini act to get rid of it.

So, we left early without a trace of him and headed towards the hotel room. My heart was thumping so loud it could’ve burst out of my chest at any moment. The thing was, I knew something bad was going to happen. I felt it deep down in the pit of my stomach that remained uneasy ever since getting in the front seat of his car the first time he took me out. I had this hideous feeling that he was going to end up hurting me. Yet, I still sat next to him in that seat comfortably. I laid in his bed willingly, opened up to him hesitantly and handed over my heart reluctantly. I thought that even though he may hurt me, I was strong enough to take on whatever he could throw at me. But, when I saw him laying down next to another girl, his arms wrapped around her tightly in the hotel bed, I knew I was wrong to ever feel that comfortable. I knew I was wrong to ever get into that fucking car of his.

You may feel like a ghost–like you are untouchable, empty, hollow and unseen, but you’re not. You’re human and you are seen. You’re false words are heard, brief touch is felt and guilty acts are watched. The loud music, chaotic crowd and double shots of whiskey don’t cover up shit.

 

Like the seasons

Like the seasons, people leave.

Sometimes they are as harsh as a winter breeze,

Or as soft as a fallen leaf.

Either way they make their mark–

Causing scars all over your heart.

Just know you’ll survive when they part.

To really live we need both rain and shine.

Realize this and you’ll be fine.

People will keep passing as fast as time–

Taking your breath away like blooming spring flowers,

Lasting for months or only a few hours.

Bringing upon unexpected beauty and pain like May showers.

When they leave, they’ll take their weather–

The storm that you had created together.

But after a storm comes the sun and you won’t be missing them forever.

Me, Myself and I

I looked at myself in the mirror, my eyeliner fading from the 8 hour work day. I pull out the black pencil from my purse and use it the darken the lines. They shape perfectly around the course of my eye lid and flip up on each side to create a wing. The darker, the better. It distracted from how tired my eyes looked and if I had makeup on, it gave me yet another reason not to cry as I got through the night.

“You going out tonight?” My co worker looks me up and down as I continue fixing my face.

“Yea,” I sigh, finally putting down the eyeliner to take a good look at my attempt.

“Where to?” She continues to pry and I try not to scowl.

“I don’t know,” I lie through my teeth, throwing all the makeup I had spread about on the bathroom’s counter back into my purse. We’d both just got off of our shift and she tended to follow me out every time. I think she liked me, but I couldn’t tell you why. Every time she asked me a question I’d try my hardest to brush her off. I didn’t need friends. That’s not what I came to work for. I need money and answering her annoying questions isn’t going to get me any.

“Oh,” She stalls, grabbing onto the purse that’s hanging by her side, “Well, you’re working tomorrow aren’t you?”

“Yeap,” I finally close my bag and throw it onto my shoulder, “See you in the morning.”

I closed my eyes before grabbing onto the bathroom door handle and pushing onto it, freeing me from the confinement of her awkward imposition. Letting the door shut behind me, I rushed out to make my way to the parking lot. Without looking back, I hear the door slowly open again from behind me. I felt bad, but wasn’t I making it obvious that I didn’t want her hanging around me?

I can’t understand people like that, fucking needy. I was needy once and wanting of what I couldn’t have. Maybe I do understand. It’s an instinctual feeling, because of our social upbringings. We were once just animals trying to survive by finding our pack. Hunting in groups and forming families to avoid isolation. It was for safety.

I’ve felt like I needed someone before, until I realized that this feeling was just that. It was just a feeling. In modern society, shit has changed. People aren’t all looking for packs or friends or even a romantic partner. We have to manage to look out for ourselves and ourselves only. I could spend my whole life finding other people who could potentially be there for me, only to have them leave me stranded in a field surrounded by tigers hungry to chew on my flesh.

Today, we can’t be listening to our outdated biological triggers. You want a friend? You feel lonely, isolated, sad? Find something that’s constant, because people aren’t. I’ve decided my efforts are going towards a pursuit that wouldn’t abandon me. Money is constant. It doesn’t abandon me unless I choose to spend it on some new shoes.

Stop looking for people. Stop chasing people. They get swept away by life events as easy as paper does in the wind. The only person rooted down into the ground in your life is you. So, start investing time in growing trees to make your own paper instead of assuming your roommate will have some extra for you in her printer.

 

Cravings

I crave you. Around me, inside me, all over me. If I were to see you, it’d be all over for me. All over like the clothes we would tear off of one another and throw onto the floor.

You can take me. I’d gladly let you. It feels good to lose control to someone like you. Dark, reckless, angry and insensitive. Because I don’t need someone to care about me. I don’t need to be caressed and held dearly like a small kitten.

I’m not small or weak or fragile. I admire those who tip toe around me as if I am. I see pity in their eyes. I see constant worry as if my bones will shatter with the slightest flick on the wrist. They somehow see innocence, as if fawning over a newborn before being introduced to sin.

Maybe I like the darkness I see in you, because I feel it thriving inside myself and it’s desperate to take over. Then those other eyes watch me. Don’t lose your kindness. Don’t lose your soft, gentle touch— when all I want to do is tightly grip the strands of hair on your head to pull you closer.

Right now I’m not thinking about love. Love is innocent. Love is beautiful. Love is balanced. It’s a mutual feeling between two individuals that develops to comfort, respect and loyalty. I don’t want that.

What I feel so desperate for is passion. The most passion I’ve felt was during times of darkness. Maybe that’s my problem. My greatest, most heavy weighted feelings have been initiated by moments of running from cops, kissing taken men, tasting blood as it dropped down from a broken nose and sneaking back into my bedroom’s window only to spot my mother standing at the door way.

I was reckless and I loved it. I see that in others and it’s as if I can feel my own pupils dilate. The blackness of them expanding greater to spread over the light blue in my eyes.

I see it in you. That’s why I crave your lips on mine. I want to remember what that feels like. I want to remember what it feels like to not give a shit. I want to remember what it feels like to be seen as raw, brutal, bad and threatening. The same way I saw you when looking into those empty eyes.

Why is it that the bad is so damn inticing? Maybe some of us just have a more difficult time escaping it than others. All I know is this–people like you make it hard for me.

 

Freckles

I hardly remember what you look like anymore.

Isn’t that strange? How you can be around someone, be in love with them, be their best friend for six years and after only a few months you can’t seem to remember where your favorite freckle was on their face.

Shit, I see something now. Your fair skinned back, the broad width of your shoulders covered in them. Freckles. That’s all I see. You hated them, remember? I loved them. Every spot on you. Even your blemishes looked like tiny little masterpieces to me, or just components of the masterpiece that was you. Built with freckles, stubbornness, honesty and a huge heart. If someone needed the tools to create you, those would be them. I can’t forget that smile either and that one darkened tooth. The one that almost got knocked out by your best friend after he mistakenly hit you in a fight. The one I always stared at and laughed to myself about, thinking how stupid your friends were– thinking how stupid we all were.

Me and you both. We were pretty stupid huh? I say that as I think about your name tattooed on the lower part of my stomach, now covered with flowers. You can still see your name though. I don’t try to hide it any more. I tell people. “It’s my ex-boyfriend’s name” and for some reason I’m not ashamed anymore.

It is a part of me, just as you were. Just as you still are. Although it’s a part that only remains in my memories, in my heart, my soul and not in my physical reality– you still exist. You always will. The name on my stomach doesn’t mean shit compared to the scars you had left on my insides. The heart breaks you put me through and the ones that I put you through. Those will last longer than my skin. I will be buried, decomposing into the dirt. My flesh, blood and skin decaying into nothingness and still the memory of you will be lifted with my spirit, flowing in the wind.

I won’t remember your face. I may not remember how your hands feel against my skin anymore or the smell of your cologne. I do remember, however, the feelings you gave me. I remember how your presence felt. If I see you in another lifetime, with a different face and hair and attitude and clothes and gender and reality, I will still feel you. Just as I had the first time I saw you in this life.

Your freckles may fade baby, but you never will.