Raise of hands.

If you are reading this, tell me how you got here to this madness. There’s a little place to leave a comment and you can either do so publicly or if you know me personally, just drop me a text/DM that you read this post.

I’m curious as someone has been reading this blog Tarantino style backwards and I just want to know their thoughts… what’s kept your attention or curiosity about my life? What do you want to see more of? What parts do you skip?

I’m sincerely flattered that you’re here, but Google statistics only tells me so much.

Idioteque.

I can’t listen to Radiohead anymore without being 21 again and having my heart ripped out at the hand of the person who was home to me.

But honestly, it would be nice to ugly cry. It takes something truly earth shattering to bring on the water works thanks to my SSNRI. I can feel the seasonal sadness creeping up with a slow grip on my throat.

I want hot eager hands on my waist, the biggest fluffiest coziest bed to fall into and get lost in, a horizon view with sand between my toes, a second glass of wine and an ugly face swelling cry. Raw, cathartic and soul baring sob fest.

My soul is numb. It’s indifferent. It’s not happy, but it’s not sad either. I feel like I’m dancing a choreographed little ditty all day, every day is the same.

I want to sneak off and text him. I want to bare my soul in the shadows of this dance and hear his voice from hundreds of miles away. I promised I wouldn’t. That promise is breaking me. I want to throw a fit. I want to yell into the sky how unfair this is. He walked away, broke his promise. He came back and made right while I was in the depths of a path I chose to take without him. 15 years later I found him, we reconnected, the chemistry and love was there. It. Was. There. And the distance tore him apart and tortured him while I saw silver linings and my heart filled with a tiny mustard seed of hope. And then… he begged that we stop. I want to respect that, logical brain wants to respect that. 17 year old me buried deep down is appalled we didn’t catch the first flight out of this town for some magical movie moment.

My heart keeps taking me back to great falls. His training tee clutched tight to my chest. Alligator tears burned my cheeks and I couldn’t bare to turn away from him because the minute I did I knew I was headed back to a life that didn’t even seem significant anymore. 

For over 15 years I’ve just wanted to come home. Getting to talk to him was like being handed the keys and finding myself standing outside the door.

Shadow Stories.

Come lay with me and our hands will sing praises and the heat of our mouth a chorus of hallelujahs.

Speak to me with your body and our wordless exclamations will speak volumes to the ghosts whispering in the shadows.

I want to be a novel read aloud by you, spine broken, my hair dog-eared beneath my head.

My brain doesn’t translate the ongoing monologue to my mouth as it does for my hands. 

In order to hear me you’ll need to read this great adventure in the crinkle of my laugh lines, the sneaky dimple on my left cheek, the backroads of stretch marks tracing across my hips and stomach telling tales of more than two dozen months of building my children brick by brick inside of my body.

With the flesh of your chest pressed against mine, our hearts will pass sob stories between them of our near undoings and confess their sins to one another.

Speak to me with your body as it’s the most fluent language I can understand beyond the written word.

Wipe my tears with your thumbs and lips before they pool hot into my ears; reassuring me of your inability to just walk away.

Take my hands and run them down your body like Braille.

Speak softly, slowly, directly and use these words to tell me what you want, need.

I’ll lay beside you until the words come like a slow dance between us and we can move together in sync to music only we know the lyrics to.

Everything and Nothing at all.

I don’t necessarily need someone to tend to my wounded heart, but I want someone to baby me and make me feel precious to them if just for a little while.

I like the idea of someone pulling me close to their heart and smoothing my hair.

I feel like my heart is bruised in bed with the covers up over it’s head.

The bruise radiates out to my fingertips and everything I touch burns.

The words left unsaid are stones in my pockets pulling me down into this current of grief deeper than the distance between us.

We both saw what could be and what lit me from within tormented you.

Your brain wouldn’t allow space for the possibility of anything other than the plans you’d made before me.

My brain wanted the comfort and familiarity of your arms.

If only we’d thought with our hearts.