when the sheets
crumble
beneath your sweating body
damp
ugh—
how gross is that word?
but that's all it—
you're cut off—
it's just a bit of moisture
sick, i said stop.
what?
...moisture?
moisture. moisture. moisture.
pushed to the ground
crumble
why don't you just buy a fan
you dumb motherfucker?
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Friday, August 15, 2014
On Writing When You're Not Sad.
It's a frustrating thing to be happy — and it seems to infect most people. There's this inkling feeling that it won't last. It's painted best in Robert Frost's poem, "Nothing Gold Can Stay."
But, why, why can't the same be said when I'm happy? Why is it harder for me to express my joy creatively? Is it the distraction of how happy I am, I don't want to reflect on it for fear that it will dissipate before me? There are too many questions.
Periodically I look back on this blog so I can see who I am or was throughout the years. I have often noticed the amount of writing I did or didn't do during years of hardship and during times of happiness. I can so directly see the correlation between my writing and my relationships. At the start of 2010 I wrote a lot. Not coincidentally, my longest relationship ended. And, then the Fall of 2010 happened, my writing slowed to a trickle — I was in a new relationship. Flash to 2012, I wrote a ton again. That was a hugely difficult year full of car accidents, breakups, job transitioning — the gambit. And then again my writing picked up as I picked up and moved to LA. Spring of 2014 happened and again, a flood. It's frustrating to know how much my writing is a reflection of my emotional state. I love what I write when I am sad. I don't love being sad, though; and I don't want to manufacture emotion. I can't anyway. I've tried.
But even right now, as my life is on an upswing, I am all smiles, yet full of lackluster uninspired stories. I have people in my life I'm excited to see, and that are excited to see me. I have parents that love me, that call me unexpectedly, that fly across the country to spend time with me. I have siblings that are kind, that go out of their way. And while it's not as if we don't carry our baggage or throw one another under the bus on occasion, those moments pale in comparison to how my throat chokes up when I think of what my life would be like if they didn't love me like they do.
So, here I am, waiting for it all to fall apart so I can write a heartfelt blog post, script, poem, song, etc.
NO!
That Frost poem always left me feeling so negative. Now though, I'm attempting to grasp how, yes, things fade, but other things take their place. When a flower blooms and dies, in a few weeks or days, or whatever, time happens, and a new bloom takes its place. Life will always be up and down.
That's comforting.
But God, is it tiring to have all those feelings and be writing and emitting so much. It has to stop. There has to be respite from it. So many writers (comedians, screenwriters, novelists, etc) get their material from things they're pissed about, things that have hurt them, or how they have been wronged. It can soften the blow, or cause you to relive it. You just have to know from where it's coming and to where it's leading you. And sometimes, just sometimes it's better to look at the world without a critical eye.
It's too taxing on your soul otherwise.
Nature’s first green is gold,My best writing, or at least, the writing that I connect to most emotionally I write when I'm so sad. That's an interesting concept, too, that in my mind, best equals emotional. When I have too many feelings welling up inside me I can't help but emit them through writing, through performing, through singing. I cannot help myself. Perhaps it's the notion of something good must come from this pain; I have to create something beautiful, something real, something heartfelt to make this moment have more meaning than just wallowing alone in my: "I am hurt. It hurts. It will pass."
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
But, why, why can't the same be said when I'm happy? Why is it harder for me to express my joy creatively? Is it the distraction of how happy I am, I don't want to reflect on it for fear that it will dissipate before me? There are too many questions.
Periodically I look back on this blog so I can see who I am or was throughout the years. I have often noticed the amount of writing I did or didn't do during years of hardship and during times of happiness. I can so directly see the correlation between my writing and my relationships. At the start of 2010 I wrote a lot. Not coincidentally, my longest relationship ended. And, then the Fall of 2010 happened, my writing slowed to a trickle — I was in a new relationship. Flash to 2012, I wrote a ton again. That was a hugely difficult year full of car accidents, breakups, job transitioning — the gambit. And then again my writing picked up as I picked up and moved to LA. Spring of 2014 happened and again, a flood. It's frustrating to know how much my writing is a reflection of my emotional state. I love what I write when I am sad. I don't love being sad, though; and I don't want to manufacture emotion. I can't anyway. I've tried.
But even right now, as my life is on an upswing, I am all smiles, yet full of lackluster uninspired stories. I have people in my life I'm excited to see, and that are excited to see me. I have parents that love me, that call me unexpectedly, that fly across the country to spend time with me. I have siblings that are kind, that go out of their way. And while it's not as if we don't carry our baggage or throw one another under the bus on occasion, those moments pale in comparison to how my throat chokes up when I think of what my life would be like if they didn't love me like they do.
So, here I am, waiting for it all to fall apart so I can write a heartfelt blog post, script, poem, song, etc.
NO!
That Frost poem always left me feeling so negative. Now though, I'm attempting to grasp how, yes, things fade, but other things take their place. When a flower blooms and dies, in a few weeks or days, or whatever, time happens, and a new bloom takes its place. Life will always be up and down.
That's comforting.
But God, is it tiring to have all those feelings and be writing and emitting so much. It has to stop. There has to be respite from it. So many writers (comedians, screenwriters, novelists, etc) get their material from things they're pissed about, things that have hurt them, or how they have been wronged. It can soften the blow, or cause you to relive it. You just have to know from where it's coming and to where it's leading you. And sometimes, just sometimes it's better to look at the world without a critical eye.
It's too taxing on your soul otherwise.
Friday, July 11, 2014
I carry them with me.
head first
drenched in it
soaked
every inch
sticky clothes stick to a sticky body
in the water
it all feels the same everywhere, and it feels — how it feels...it feels so much, so much all at once, and it is so nice. so nice. so nice —
but it's heavier
heavier not knowing how to navigate
completely and utterly
taken in
taken down
fully clothed
sinking further from the weight
water pressuring every cavity
the air bubbles disappearing
a flight of fancy
fancy
how fancy?
out
out out
the chill of the cool wind
icing from the outside in
the outside in
cool
how cool?
like ice it stabs
you can only jump in head first once,
because you know how it feels to come out
you know the cool
how cool?
not cool at all — cold. like ice. stabbing ice.
wading in.
it's the same thing but different
the water is different
holding your breath from the cold of the water anyway
it feels good, but bad. does the good outweigh the bad?
weight
the weight of the water
clothes drenched
saturated
enveloped
you know the density, the pressure, the weight of the water, and you can't handle it more than once. it feels like drowning, because it's drowning. and you need a life preserver — something to help you preserve your life, someone.
but preserving life as it is,
would you really like to preserve it?
cold. ice.
it stabs.
wind.
water.
drowning.
the weight. the weight.
the waters weight.
it weighs so much.
the pressure.
drenched in it
soaked
every inch
sticky clothes stick to a sticky body
in the water
it all feels the same everywhere, and it feels — how it feels...it feels so much, so much all at once, and it is so nice. so nice. so nice —
but it's heavier
heavier not knowing how to navigate
completely and utterly
taken in
taken down
fully clothed
sinking further from the weight
water pressuring every cavity
the air bubbles disappearing
a flight of fancy
fancy
how fancy?
out
out out
the chill of the cool wind
icing from the outside in
the outside in
cool
how cool?
like ice it stabs
you can only jump in head first once,
because you know how it feels to come out
you know the cool
how cool?
not cool at all — cold. like ice. stabbing ice.
wading in.
it's the same thing but different
the water is different
holding your breath from the cold of the water anyway
it feels good, but bad. does the good outweigh the bad?
weight
the weight of the water
clothes drenched
saturated
enveloped
you know the density, the pressure, the weight of the water, and you can't handle it more than once. it feels like drowning, because it's drowning. and you need a life preserver — something to help you preserve your life, someone.
but preserving life as it is,
would you really like to preserve it?
cold. ice.
it stabs.
wind.
water.
drowning.
the weight. the weight.
the waters weight.
it weighs so much.
the pressure.
Wednesday, July 09, 2014
Preludes and Post Scripts
"I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing."
I regularly find myself remembering snippets of poetry that I had memorized due to my high school pastime, Forensics (also known as Speech Team). If you've read back to old entries I talk of my love of T.S. Eliot often, specifically The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which to me, sums up the tone of loneliness absolutely.-T.S. Eliot, Preludes
People say that those who surround themselves with people the most are typically the loneliest. They're trying to fill that void. I feel as if I am that way. It's easy to get lost in others as an escape from ourselves. I've been trying to get away from doing this — but instead of feeling like I know myself better, I find that it's daunting to realize I may not know myself as well as I assumed. It's strange to spend all day every day being myself without thinking about it, and then with others I am someone else, a hologram. I am there, but not present.
To be in the latter half of my 20s and finding these findings seems so old. I know, I know, "You're not old!" But I'm not young, either. I'm not like a spritely young graduate. I'm not a bourgeoning teenager. I'm not a child. I'm not a young adult. I'm not an old adult.
We call people in their twenties, 20-somethings. We can't even come up with a real name for it. I'm a 20-something. What that something is, no idea.
I am a person chasing after it — what is "it?" There is no label. I could say I'm chasing after a career in the arts. I'm chasing after a dream to be a creator. I could say—. I could say it all — but what is it that we want in the end? When people die are they shouting from their insides, "I wish I had written just one more play!" "I wish I had just finished putting the shutters on the house I wanted to flip." "I wish this," and "I wanted that."
Doubtful that it is things or a to-do list accomplished. A bucket list, sure, yes, we want to do things, but to what end, who for or who with?
What turned out to be the preview to when my grandpa Harry died, when he thought it was the moment to go, that is, his 10 children and numerous grandchildren, his wife, were all surrounding him. Father Trout was there to anoint him with last rights. He asked my grandma Celeste to sing Danny Boy for him. It was very climactic, truthfully told. And we kept waiting for him to close his eyes the last time, breathe his last breath, say one last thing. But it didn't happen that way. The doctor came in after what seemed like only a few minutes, but was in actuality much longer, and said Harry was not yet going anywhere.
It was the strangest thing. We all had collectively decided this was the time, and then it wasn't. But, I got to see what my grandpa Harry wanted to be like in his last moments. He was lucid until the very end. And in some ways, he got to be there for his last moments twice, instead of just wasting away sedated. That seemed like such a gift to me.
Surrounded by the people who make us who we are — I suppose that's what I want.
"Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death
Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in a place"
-T.S. Eliot, Marina
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
And I love that.
There's a cat in the alley.
And I hate it.
But she belongs to someone.
Some little girl.
A neighbor perhaps.
And that's nice.
I can recognize how very nice that is.
And I love that.
There's a smile on the face of the man.
The old man in the stairwell.
I see his crooked teeth.
And his inviting face.
He is one of those people.
Those people who smile just because.
Because they can't not.
And I love that.
There's a girl on top of her roof.
She's alone there.
Taking it all in.
And there is so much.
She can't possibly soak it up.
But she's there.
She's not going anywhere.
And I love that.
And I hate it.
But she belongs to someone.
Some little girl.
A neighbor perhaps.
And that's nice.
I can recognize how very nice that is.
And I love that.
There's a smile on the face of the man.
The old man in the stairwell.
I see his crooked teeth.
And his inviting face.
He is one of those people.
Those people who smile just because.
Because they can't not.
And I love that.
There's a girl on top of her roof.
She's alone there.
Taking it all in.
And there is so much.
She can't possibly soak it up.
But she's there.
She's not going anywhere.
And I love that.
Hello, My Name is.
I'm forgetting
what it's like
to be a human being
to breathe breath
to talk words
there are beads spread out
all over the floor
of this small apartment
you always said it was so little
with your big house
and your big bigness
how very big of you
when the sapphire
fires
there will be a blue haze
overcoming me
and i will be there
but not
because i forgot
that's what happens
when you can't breathe breath
you lose yourself
bits and parts of that little brain
how very little
how little of me is left
circular circles
with holes cut out
strung strings
the stuff of paupers
this is the stuff
stuff's made of
atoms and bombs and car phones
and hearts and bloody bloody bloods
don't forget about me!
i forgot me at home
i forgot to pick me up at school
i forgot that today's my birthday
any day is a day
every day feels the same
erase it restart it get over it forget it
what it's like
to be a human being
to breathe breath
to talk words
there are beads spread out
all over the floor
of this small apartment
you always said it was so little
with your big house
and your big bigness
how very big of you
when the sapphire
fires
there will be a blue haze
overcoming me
and i will be there
but not
because i forgot
that's what happens
when you can't breathe breath
you lose yourself
bits and parts of that little brain
how very little
how little of me is left
circular circles
with holes cut out
strung strings
the stuff of paupers
this is the stuff
stuff's made of
atoms and bombs and car phones
and hearts and bloody bloody bloods
don't forget about me!
i forgot me at home
i forgot to pick me up at school
i forgot that today's my birthday
any day is a day
every day feels the same
erase it restart it get over it forget it
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
make believe 3
as we sleep
we imagine all of each other
as we really are.
we imagine the people there
the ones whose bodies lie, that
we see inside each other.
our quiet forms
quiet from dreaming
our quiet dreams.
we trace our hands
across each others faces
we do it, and we don’t know.
as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we’re someone else.
we pretend we're not who we are
that we are unaffected
we're not.
our quiet forms
quiet from not sharing
our quiet selves.
we imagine all of each other
as we really are.
we imagine the people there
the ones whose bodies lie, that
we see inside each other.
our quiet forms
quiet from dreaming
our quiet dreams.
we trace our hands
across each others faces
we do it, and we don’t know.
as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we’re someone else.
we pretend we're not who we are
that we are unaffected
we're not.
our quiet forms
quiet from not sharing
our quiet selves.
make believe 2
he imagines all of me
as i really am.
he imagines the person there
the one whose body lies, that
he sees inside me.
my quiet form
quiet from dreaming
my quiet dreams.
he traces his hands
across my face
he does it, and i don’t know.
as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we’re someone else.
he pretends he’s not who he is
that he is unaffected
he’s not.
my quiet form
quiet from not sharing
my quiet self.
make believe 1
as you sleep
i imagine all of you
as you really are.
i imagine the person there
the one whose body lies, that
i see inside you.
your quiet form
quiet from dreaming
your quiet dreams.
i trace my hands
across your face
i do it, and you don't know.
as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we're someone else.
i pretend i'm not who i am
that i am unaffected
i'm not.
your quiet form
quiet from not sharing
your quiet self.
as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we're someone else.
i pretend i'm not who i am
that i am unaffected
i'm not.
your quiet form
quiet from not sharing
your quiet self.
Monday, June 23, 2014
the shape of your mouth.
a whisper takes you in.
come here.
hot, damp breath beckons.
come here.
air breezes by.
no suffocation and no hesitation.
come here.
as subtle as an arms graze.
gentle and inviting.
there is no waiting.
"come here."
She said.
She said I loved the kind hearted man.
The one with a soft soul
The old tree without leaves
Hugged by the earth as it dies a slow death
She said I wanted the one who didn't know what want was.
The one with an empty unfillable hole
The grass matted down
Crushed from the weight of the sun
She said I hoped to find that which cannot be found.
The one whose existence is a myth
*For Colleen.
The one with a soft soul
The old tree without leaves
Hugged by the earth as it dies a slow death
She said I wanted the one who didn't know what want was.
The one with an empty unfillable hole
The grass matted down
Crushed from the weight of the sun
She said I hoped to find that which cannot be found.
The one whose existence is a myth
*For Colleen.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Saturday, June 21, 2014
it can't.
When there's a flower in bloom it's so small.
It's so incredibly small.
It's incredibly small.
Small.
But remember all the other flowers?
They used to be there too.
They were so small too.
So small.
Small.
But the blooms can't stay.
None of it can stay.
None of it stays.
Stay.
When the bloom is gone the stem is there.
It's hearty and full of promise to stay.
It's full of promise to stay.
Promise to stay.
Stay.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
no exception to the rule.
The air is arid.
Get rid of the air.
There is no breathing here.
Escape from your life.
Breathe in that breath
And take a moment as your chest
ascends and descends.
The air is hot entering your mouth
Through your lips,
past your teeth,
down your gullet,
and through your lungs,
it pumps your heart.
You're insides are insides,
and then it's all out.
Hot.
The air is the same as before. but —
It's properties are different
And you are as well.
Different.
Yeah?
Yeah.
Yeah.
Breathe in that breath
And take another moment.
Let it escape you.
The thought. whatever. the life before you.
And after? Sure.
There is no breathing when it's all done.
Because it's done.
All of it.
Goodnight. or bye. or whatever. It's all the same. And none of us are different.
Get rid of the air.
There is no breathing here.
Escape from your life.
Breathe in that breath
And take a moment as your chest
ascends and descends.
The air is hot entering your mouth
Through your lips,
past your teeth,
down your gullet,
and through your lungs,
it pumps your heart.
You're insides are insides,
and then it's all out.
Hot.
The air is the same as before. but —
It's properties are different
And you are as well.
Different.
Yeah?
Yeah.
Yeah.
Breathe in that breath
And take another moment.
Let it escape you.
The thought. whatever. the life before you.
And after? Sure.
There is no breathing when it's all done.
Because it's done.
All of it.
Goodnight. or bye. or whatever. It's all the same. And none of us are different.
Friday, April 18, 2014
onomatopoeia.
click
ching ching
cling
they register
the register
it's registered.
click
ching ching
cling
bing bing bing
order up.
tingaling
the door
swing swing
click
ching ching
cling
receive a receipt
order up.
burger king.
ching ching
cling
they register
the register
it's registered.
click
ching ching
cling
bing bing bing
order up.
tingaling
the door
swing swing
click
ching ching
cling
receive a receipt
order up.
burger king.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
living.
squeek
her voice squeeks
it's like a dagger
but it doesnt hurt
it's too quick
she's incredibly quick
with her words
i never thought about
it.
about poems
and music
and how they are the same
squeek
the oil
the oil is necessary
squeek
with a sharp wit
bit by bit
i never thought about it
i never knew it was there.
squeek.
i should have.
because one day
it hit me. it hit me like a dagger.
sharp.
squeek.
mouse.
in a house
it shouldn't be a surprise.
but it is.
squeek.
her voice squeeks
it's like a dagger
but it doesnt hurt
it's too quick
she's incredibly quick
with her words
i never thought about
it.
about poems
and music
and how they are the same
squeek
the oil
the oil is necessary
squeek
with a sharp wit
bit by bit
i never thought about it
i never knew it was there.
squeek.
i should have.
because one day
it hit me. it hit me like a dagger.
sharp.
squeek.
mouse.
in a house
it shouldn't be a surprise.
but it is.
squeek.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Un-unique
Elaine Terre, Ellie to her friends, leaned gracefully over her egg white porcelain sink. Her eye make-up smudged all over her upper and lower lids. Trapped in the corners of her hazel eyes were the remnants of tears she was attempting to wipe away.
"I'm just done." She thought it out loud. "I'm just," a pregnant pause, an exasperated sigh, "done."
She'd been fired. It felt like a glorified dumping. Broken up with by the career that didn't want her anymore. Left alone on the skirts of Unemploymentville Co. Population: her. She felt like a cliché, and all of her thoughts backed that feeling up.
It happens to everyone. The phrase echoed in her head from a conversation she'd finished earlier that evening with her sister. Her sister, Carolyn, was an attractive young woman, aged 29, single, with a semi-high-powered career on the way to an actual high-powered career in fashion merchandising. She had little empathy for anyone when it came to relationships, jobs or general livelihood, likely due to her lack there of.
Carolyn and Elaine had a tumultuous relationship growing up, not unlike most sisterly relationships. Elaine, being the younger, found talking to Carolyn exacerbating, and would dodge opportunities to do so regularly —that is she until Carolyn would figure out a way to corner Elaine into conversation, often by trapping her in actual corners.
During the summers the pair would play a game in their country club swimming pool called, Spider. Essentially, one of the girls would hold onto the sides of the pool, often in a corner, with their legs spread while the other would have to attempt passage through the triangulated legs and arms of her sister without touching. If one indeed touched, even a hair, a strike would be marked. Three strikes and you would have to run around the perimeter of the pool. It doesn't sound as bad in retrospect, but summers in the midwest still brought about a cool air that made the pool a warm sanctuary once you were in, as the outside world remained an icy fortress.
Ellie thought about all those memories as she starred past her own reflection, wiping away her history and whatever Revlon still clung to her cheeks. Still, more tears clouded her vision.
Was I wrong? She questioned for the nth time. But she knew the answer. No, she wasn't wrong. And, she shouldn't have been as upset as she was.
It happens to everyone, El.
"I'm just done." She thought it out loud. "I'm just," a pregnant pause, an exasperated sigh, "done."
She'd been fired. It felt like a glorified dumping. Broken up with by the career that didn't want her anymore. Left alone on the skirts of Unemploymentville Co. Population: her. She felt like a cliché, and all of her thoughts backed that feeling up.
It happens to everyone. The phrase echoed in her head from a conversation she'd finished earlier that evening with her sister. Her sister, Carolyn, was an attractive young woman, aged 29, single, with a semi-high-powered career on the way to an actual high-powered career in fashion merchandising. She had little empathy for anyone when it came to relationships, jobs or general livelihood, likely due to her lack there of.
Carolyn and Elaine had a tumultuous relationship growing up, not unlike most sisterly relationships. Elaine, being the younger, found talking to Carolyn exacerbating, and would dodge opportunities to do so regularly —that is she until Carolyn would figure out a way to corner Elaine into conversation, often by trapping her in actual corners.
During the summers the pair would play a game in their country club swimming pool called, Spider. Essentially, one of the girls would hold onto the sides of the pool, often in a corner, with their legs spread while the other would have to attempt passage through the triangulated legs and arms of her sister without touching. If one indeed touched, even a hair, a strike would be marked. Three strikes and you would have to run around the perimeter of the pool. It doesn't sound as bad in retrospect, but summers in the midwest still brought about a cool air that made the pool a warm sanctuary once you were in, as the outside world remained an icy fortress.
Ellie thought about all those memories as she starred past her own reflection, wiping away her history and whatever Revlon still clung to her cheeks. Still, more tears clouded her vision.
Was I wrong? She questioned for the nth time. But she knew the answer. No, she wasn't wrong. And, she shouldn't have been as upset as she was.
It happens to everyone, El.
Monday, January 06, 2014
Celebrity Gravitas.
Whipper fast treads
You go fast in those Keds
You’re Mischa Barton
Skinny and Spartan
Quick as a bunny
Take it and run honey
Don’t be a hero
Natasha Leggero
Apologize if you want
Or take the Twitter taunt
Our society is the worst
And that’s my last verse
Just kidding I circled
Unforgettable, when one Urkeled
And the recent past
Just know it won’t last
Because today is tomorrow
You had to Google Mia Farrow
And you can’t even pronounce her name
Who’s to blame?
Society, it’s a crazy thing
Play the kick drum, bum bum, ting ting
Nothing is real or that big of a deal
So, Howie Mandel, Deal or No…Eh.
*Really liked Natasha Leggero's non-apology, and wish more people would have the candor she has. Read it on her website HERE.
So, Howie Mandel, Deal or No…Eh.
*Really liked Natasha Leggero's non-apology, and wish more people would have the candor she has. Read it on her website HERE.
Friday, January 03, 2014
done
Where no one lives inside, it’s just an empty hollow hide
The snow falls briskly, leaving you thin, so prickly
Where short, short skirts tend to silken shirts
and we are all so low.
There’s a place I’ve been where you would only hear that pin
Where no one says hello, how dare you consider your friend
your fellow
The sky turns purple, orange, red, you might as well rip
yourself to shreds
Where wavy hair meets a woman’s stare
and she whispers hello, goodbye.
There’s a place I’ve been where all you want is out
Where children fear
and I tear
Where there is no air
and I tear
Rip it. Deface it. Call it Nothing.
There is a place I have been.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
a love letter to snacks
Dearest Snacks,
You know who you are, and this is why I admire you so. It's not your sweet melt-in-mouth goodness, or the crunch that's come (oh!) unexpectedly — it's that's mellow feeling you hollow out inside me that magnetizes me to you without a fight.
But, Snacks, it's clear to me that perhaps our love affair is lopsided. Perhaps I need you more than you need me. Perhaps you can just as easily find another unassuming girl who could get swept up in all you have to offer — and maybe she'd have no guilt in indulging you. I think you actually said this to me once, that I liked you more than you liked me, and then you swiftly exited through the backdoor. I found it rude at the time, and I honestly can say that I don't know why I'm even bringing that up to you now.
I apologize. This is a love letter for Christ's sake. I was going to say for Hershey's sake or Crunch's sake, but I decided to go for sincerity and got the Lord involved. Even just then I would have substituted Lord for Truffle or something insanely perfect, akin to Christ. Or a something like a Whatchamacallit.
This, my darling Snacks, is a love letter. And I love you, Snacks. I love you so much.
Dammit. I feel like a fool for how long I've loved you, stood beside you as you taunted the chubby kids with your soft exterior, and smooth as butter (and sometimes butter) center. Loved you as you made me feel bad about myself. Loved you even when you stood on the top shelf, just out of my reach, but not my sight. You're cruel, but I love you anyway.
I do, Snacks. Please, please — I beg you. Don't leave me ever. The sun couldn't set without the moon there to step in, just as I couldn't live without you. Don't ever say I can't have you. Don't try to make me enjoy you in moderation. I will have all of you or none of you. Anything else would be too painful. You agree, don't you, Snacks?
All or nothing when it comes to you, Snacks. I won't have it any other way.
You understand, don't you? I'm sorry it has to be this way. I love you too much, and maybe, just maybe, that's my problem. But, I won't talk to anyone about it, Snacks. I can only console this imminent grief with more of you. Treat my disease with that which will make me worse.
Let me know how you feel after reading these prose, and if you feel the same as I, either leave me alone forever, or meet me at the Jewel. Aisle 5. You know where to find me.
Love forever, or never,
Brigid E Marshall
You know who you are, and this is why I admire you so. It's not your sweet melt-in-mouth goodness, or the crunch that's come (oh!) unexpectedly — it's that's mellow feeling you hollow out inside me that magnetizes me to you without a fight.
But, Snacks, it's clear to me that perhaps our love affair is lopsided. Perhaps I need you more than you need me. Perhaps you can just as easily find another unassuming girl who could get swept up in all you have to offer — and maybe she'd have no guilt in indulging you. I think you actually said this to me once, that I liked you more than you liked me, and then you swiftly exited through the backdoor. I found it rude at the time, and I honestly can say that I don't know why I'm even bringing that up to you now.
I apologize. This is a love letter for Christ's sake. I was going to say for Hershey's sake or Crunch's sake, but I decided to go for sincerity and got the Lord involved. Even just then I would have substituted Lord for Truffle or something insanely perfect, akin to Christ. Or a something like a Whatchamacallit.
This, my darling Snacks, is a love letter. And I love you, Snacks. I love you so much.
Dammit. I feel like a fool for how long I've loved you, stood beside you as you taunted the chubby kids with your soft exterior, and smooth as butter (and sometimes butter) center. Loved you as you made me feel bad about myself. Loved you even when you stood on the top shelf, just out of my reach, but not my sight. You're cruel, but I love you anyway.
I do, Snacks. Please, please — I beg you. Don't leave me ever. The sun couldn't set without the moon there to step in, just as I couldn't live without you. Don't ever say I can't have you. Don't try to make me enjoy you in moderation. I will have all of you or none of you. Anything else would be too painful. You agree, don't you, Snacks?
All or nothing when it comes to you, Snacks. I won't have it any other way.
You understand, don't you? I'm sorry it has to be this way. I love you too much, and maybe, just maybe, that's my problem. But, I won't talk to anyone about it, Snacks. I can only console this imminent grief with more of you. Treat my disease with that which will make me worse.
Let me know how you feel after reading these prose, and if you feel the same as I, either leave me alone forever, or meet me at the Jewel. Aisle 5. You know where to find me.
Love forever, or never,
Brigid E Marshall
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