We carry on

and the tribulations become so futile

we hate ourselves for even caring

while the memories lay dormant

like sediment behind a dam

but all dams fail without upkeep

and everything we’ve pent up

comes cascading out of ourselves

pouring out like a river of emotion

And I thought the walls were steady

I thought I was ready

But it’s a funny thing

to open yourself up to another

when even the most trivial of moments

seemed so real at the time

consequences of avoiding it for so long

connection, openness, vulnerability

And with each attempt

your heart is ripped a bit more

So we build our walls

and we lay the dams

and we keep our pride untouched

hoping they will appreciate such a blank slate

But having no scars from failed attempts

does not make you any less vulnerable

no, it will only make it that much easier

for your heart to succumb to the simplest of affections

and when they pull back their veil

and you realize you’ve been fooled

you will have wished your heart had some experience

you would have wished your dam had failed

at least just once before

because with each trial and each tribulation

comes an opportunity to learn

and while it may never be indubitable

you can learn to love, unrepentantly

through each experience, comes strength

and a deeper, introspective look

because maybe loving another

is really just a lesson

in learning to love yourself.



Just a Series of Nights?

Hadn’t seen you

in ages

didn’t think I might

Glad it didn’t work

with my roommate

now to see you here, tonight

Realized it’s you

from afar, we said hi

danced all night

In your bed now

We read Naomi Klein

so tight

Just another night?

You built my couch

I bought you dinner

confessed our plights

I had your record

never listened, but said

it’s alright

Unsure about it

you stayed removed

Am I alright?

We saw that one film

danced in Detroit

amongst blight

Then we came together

Simultaneous feeling

Deff not trite

Then you said those two words,

Just friends

I’m not alright.

Thinking back to this weekend

First time I actually thought

I just might

Feelings developing, ones I tried to suppress

Was it love?

Not quite

Just a series of nights.

Is That the Way You Want to be Loved?

Always thinking of the right thing to say

Rephrase, edit, spell it out another way

Cut and dry, direct, and to the bone

Kill the surprise; enlighten the unknown

Do you like the mystery?

How about the suspense?

I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with the contents

Perfectionism, applied to relationships

Neurotic expectations, inspired by

What’s Up With That?

They asked me how many people I had been in love with.

It was an honest question, and one with a presumed answer larger than zero. Yet, that was my exact answer. Zero.

In my head I cued the pity-party and braced for that confused look and muffled expression. I wasn’t completely disappointed.

It was honest, though. I was speaking my truth, all the while knowing that this truth was not what I should say.

What should I even say? That word, should. What’s up with that?

Not having loved another person, to me, was not a lack of something but rather an abundance. It was an abundance of expectation, presumption, and an uncanny knack for knowing exactly which Jenga piece to pull from the stack to make it all fall down.

There’s definitely something about equating your success with your state of perceived independence to the point that you’ve convinced yourself that your achievements are all contingent upon that state of solitude.

Maybe it was this expectation of success, built on the presumption of independence, that had distanced me from love this whole time. Yet, this idea seemed incomplete. Why did I value success so much. If this success and independence was the goal, then what was this new feeling of yearning?