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Love stories

I fall in love with love stories.

I find this ironic, because I have never been in love.

I’ve thought about love, but never known it in the romantic sense that I crave and long to know like the stories that stand behind the lyrics of songs. When ballads are written they are not mere nothingness willed into the idea of a story. There’s a muse. There’s a story behind the carefully choreographed melodies that dance harmoniously on locks of hair flowing lovingly between hands.

Or a gentle tug in the midst of a misguided moment that sparks the chemistry between two means that may have an end. Where this chemistry branches is a forest I’ve not been to yet, but have been told of time and time again in whispered confessions of love stories askew. I’m addicted to the idea of love true, and I get my fix when I ask how they met. Sometimes they’re temporary, and sometimes to the contrary, but I wish to know the latter because I can’t help questioning the matter, the strength, in something that has stood strong for 49 years and counting.

So I’ve waited. Partly from lack of incoming inquiries and mostly from just settling on a song to sing. But I know a little of what I want, like when my friends talk about what they want in a ring. They ask me, not to exclude, but I know they’d never want to be rude.

So I give them my answer.

“It’s complicated, because I don’t see any type of diamond,” I say.

I want a ring that will represent how many years they want to stay. I don’t care how much it costs, I want it to represent the time that we’ve spent but don’t consider lost. Something sturdy enough to make it through the years of wear and tear and struggle that are bound to happen because that’s just life.

Something that’s strong, like his arms that won’t cave through any petty little fight. Yet something that’s still elegant, because I know he’ll treat me right.

That we’ll make something beautiful out of not much, and dig through mud to find clay, building a work of art with each kiss at the beginning and end of every day.

But our sculpture won’t be fragile, our stone will be made of steel, and we won’t be afraid that we’ll bring each other to heel, because that’s not what trust is and we will have it. Feeling empowered and never anything of a coward. We’ll speak each others minds because we’ll know them in and out, without a doubt we will call eachother out on our many misdemeanors, but forgive, and be open to a new frame of thought. Because it ought to be true if it’s coming from you. Him.

We haven’t met yet, but honestly I’m not worried, because dreams like these are made in a hurry. They take time. And I’ll know when it’s right because love isn’t supposed to feel like a crime. There is no fallacy in meant to be.

[oopsiconqueredall]

The straw that broke the camel’s back…

The straw that broke the camel’s back is a saying that many know, but few choose to elaborate on. The weight of a single straw doesn’t break a camel’s back. The weight of the 99,999 straws before were a struggle, but the camel could handle them. The last straw is what makes it unbearable. Everyone saw the 99,999 straws and stared in awe. “How many straws can the camel handle?” They would say. They saw the camel started buckling slightly at the weight of the first 99,000. “Will this be it?” They said. They waited and watched in agony. They couldn’t do anything to help the camel. The camel gripped on to the 99,100 straws as if they were necessary for survival. The camel thought that it’s purpose was to hold those straws as tight as possible and one day those straws would also ablige and help hold it up as well. 99,500 straws came quickly. The camel kept moving. They all watched. They all saw. The camel tried to pretend that the weight of the straws was normal, and light as a single feather. “There are heavier loads on weaker camels”, the Camel would respond. The camel grew weaker over time. The camel wanted to convince them that the straws were necessary, inevitable even. The camel would say, clinging to those straws, “These are just the straws I’ve been given. What else am I to do but carry them? They are on MY back, after all. If I’m not to carry them, who will?”. They watched. They saw. At 99,900 straws, the camel started to feel the weight of the straws that it had been denying. At 99,950 straws, it started questioning the straws. Were the straws the camel’s fault, as it had thought? Were the straws the camel’s identity, as it had sworn? At 99,980 straws, the camel cries out. “Can it take much more?” They said, watching now, having believed that the camel should have been long broken by now. They had come to accept the loss of the camel that was healthy. They had believed there was nothing left for that camel to do. They just wanted the camel to finally break, so they wouldn’t have to worry. So they wouldn’t have to know how much that camel was hurting. They love the camel, but the camel loved the straws. At 99,990 straws on the camel’s back, it looked behind itself and saw the hand that kept adding the straws. The hand of it’s owner, picking the straws off her own clothes and placing them onto the camel. At first that camel felt betrayed. The camel was angry, but scared to confront the owner. At 99,995 straws, the camel realized that the owner had its own straws to be free of, and it held on to the straws one last time. At 99,999 straws, the camel couldn’t handle it anymore. It came down to a choice: take the last straw and crumble, or take no more straws at all. For once in the camel’s life, it chose itself. It stumbled, barely able to move, away from the owner and shook as many straws as it could off of itself. The camel still had 5,000 straws on it’s back, but the weight was manageable. It still had back pain, and the weight will still linger, but it’s back never broke, and it never will.

[oopsiconqueredall]

My Brown Eyed Boys

Everyone has their kryptonite, their “okay FINEs”, their soft spot. You may not know it, but I have two, or technically four, because they’re two pairs of big brown eyes.

One pair 24 years old, the other 13 years young.

They are the kind of eyes that bat and suddenly I’m doing things that I didn’t initially want to do, like making a two AM drive to a local bar, or tucking blankets in a new way for the sixth time because it “wasn’t right” or “it’s not comfy enough” but in reality, he’s “too grown up” to admit that he just wanted me in the room for another ten minutes.

It may be hard for them to know the strings they can pull, because the cranky comes out when it’s past midnight and I still have work clothes on. Sometimes it’s because I’ve scolded or told them no.

But they know.

Sometimes it’s hard that they know, because they can maneuver their way into making me stay up too late, or helping them write essays so they can get a decent grade, or having me give them and there friend a ride when I left my own friends behind two hours earlier than planned.

But mostly, I’m glad that they know. I’m glad that they know that I’m a phone call away, and that I’d walk to them if I needed to, and that I’d drop anything and everything to make sure they got home safe. That’s all that it takes, is a phone call and I’m happy to be their safe space if it means that they feel that they have a place in this world because without them and their big brown eyes my I would have mine. I love that they know that with one call or text I would be happy to take them for a drive, anywhere from just down the street to the edge of the planet if it takes them out of their minds.

Their big, beautiful, brilliant minds. They’re both so smart, too smart for their own good, that they dig themselves into holes in their heads and I pray to God that they reach out, and thank Him when they finally see the light again. I’m happy so reach in. I’ll muscle them out as many times as it takes for them both to survive.

Survive and be happy. That’s all that I’m asking. You see, their eyes aren’t just brown, because one pair is the color of meltd salted caramel, which is just too perfect for how sweet he can be when he wants to be. When he isn’t who he wants to be perceived as, but is just him. The sweetness that comes off in layers of warmth as he absentmindedly holds my hand when we’re watching tv like he’s done since he was three. Like the caramel, I look at our entangled fingers and my heart melts too and I hope he never gets too old for this, but at the same time I hope he grows to hold his own and choose to want to be happy.

The other pair is another color completely. Not the warm color of the candy, but the color of soil in spring. They’re so dark, and nutrient-filled. They tell a story of ground that was once frozen, but never dead, and was capable of upholding forests through all the seasons in small town Minnesota. They held the roots tight of those forests, regardless of the weight of the snow, or the huge gust of winds that threatened to make them fall and a few did, or the scorching heat that promised it would stay but didn’t, and the fall, that painted the idea of death among them, where there was actually just shedding of pieces that needed to fall off. His eyes tell a story of hope. His eyes hold a foundation of growth. The beauty in them, like they’re waiting for a single seed, and the world will be green.

These are the eyes that are the apple of mine, odd that they see the world so differently, but keep mine in rotation.

[oopsiconqueredall]

I gave you my body.

When I met you, I knew that you would hurt me. I told you right off the bat that my body was a sacred thing, my worst enemy, my greatest weapon against myself. I told you how it had been used and broken and how I was trying to learn how to worship it myself. I told you how it would be work to get access to the key to open the door through my walls that I’d built up for years. You knew it would take work to build my trust. You knew it would take time. You knew. You are one of the few people who I let past that wall, and I will regret that for the rest of my life, because the other two idiots didn’t know what they were doing. You did. You knew how I felt about sharing my body with you like it was a heavenly secret that I kept from everyone. My own personal holy grail. You earned my respect and trust just enough to get past the walls and then you stole. You pillaged. You picked it apart. You got access to it, and you shared my secret with everyone so nonchalantly. As if it didn’t matter how much you had torn me apart. As if it didn’t crush me to know that you had seen every part of me that I’ve been scared to show everyone, and you decided it was okay to tell everyone it wasn’t worth it. You act like it never happened but I think about it every time I look in the mirror. You say you love me. In passing. As a way of saying goodbye when I give you my all constantly. You get the reward of my forgiveness, but I will never forget the pain you put me through. I will never forget the way you shattered my rose colored glasses. It needed to happen eventually, but you didn’t need to be so cruel. I hate that I love you so much bc it will always hurt to know that you had me where I was vulnerable and you took advantage of it.

[oopsiconqueredall]

Do not reopen closed doors. You may miss them, but the past version of yourself closed those doors for a reason. You may not remember all the reasons. You may not feel the hurt anymore, but she does. She lived it. She ugly-cried the tears. She feels it. You owe it to her to leave closed doors closed.

[oopsiconqueredall]

[oopsiconqueredall]

I no longer wish to go on adventures with you.

Not because they’ve stopped setting

My soul on fire,

But because in a few months,

When you’ve changed your mind and I wake up

Alone,

They will no longer be happy memories,

But hauntings.

-K

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hey baby are you into 

broke unstable losers

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My body is an Old Testament temple. You don’t get in unless you’re ready to worship.

-K

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Send me a song, let me hear your feelings.

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Sir please that's my emotional support stack of books that i haven't read

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x

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Update: my new bone is actually a heel spur and I’m not thrilled that I reblogged this.

every person who reblogs this will grow a new bone. Ha ha have fun!

[oopsiconqueredall]

“You sometimes think you want to disappear, but all you really want is to be found.”

— Kid Cudi

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To the Children of Alcoholics

I’m going to tell you something you’ve either never heard before, or have heard so many times that the words no longer makes sense in the same sequence:

I’m sorry. 

Not because I did anything wrong, but because neither did you. 

I’m not going to tell you the things you’ve heard over and over, like “hurt people hurt people” and “12-step programs only work for those who want them to”, because I know that you wanted them to. 

So, here’s to the kid. 

Here’s to the kid that spent a lot of time in the library, partly because spending more time at school meant spending less time at home, and partly because maybe if you study hard enough, you’ll be smart enough to read the room right next time. 

Here’s to the kid who was constantly in the gym, searching for strength. Every bench press designed to push away the pain. 

Here’s to the kid that has never toughed a drop of alcohol, but still has been through relapse and relapse and relapse and RELAPSE. 

Here’s to the kid in the bathroom covering up bruises with makeup, and the other kid that had fist wrapped around their mind, so there’s nothing to cover. 

To the kid who was burned so bad that they never loved again, and the kid continued to love too much. 

To the kid who replaced words like toxic and healthy with the phrase “family is family”, and the kid who decided it was better to have no family at all. 

To the kid who stayed, and to the kid who broke away. 

We’re all different, even if part of our narrative is the same. 

Love, show no shame.

Here’s to the kids that built a legacy through the pain. 

[oopsiconqueredall]