"The first night we were together, I came home wearing battle scars. There had been so much passion, so much frustration that we had been fighting against, that your fingers left marks against my skin. All other brushstrokes were gone from memory, and I walked into your bed a blank canvass. You painted thin red lines across my back. They made me bizarrely happy. I wore them like a badge. I wanted them to stay forever. I took off all my clothes and stared at myself in the mirror. I was happy in a way I hadn’t been in so long. You were apologetic, yet it only made me want more scratches.
The night we broke my headboard, I was ecstatic. We were both broken ourselves, but together, I felt like we were picking up the pieces. I showed you poetry and you were the first man to ever hold me that didn’t make my skin itchy. I used to joke that my future husband would have to understand I’d sleep in my own bed. It would be nothing personal, we could fuck and love, cuddle for a bit, but I needed my own space. I wanted to give you all my space. The spaces in between my fingers, my legs, my mind, my heart. I felt so much. I didn’t quite feel love yet, but it was on the horizon, and whatever was already there was irrationally unconditional. The first night you left me crying, I told my roommates I would still go see you perform a few nights later. I felt nauseous the entire evening. I was waiting for you in the audience, so sick from anxiety, not because I was afraid of seeing you, but because I was afraid for you. I wanted it to be exactly what you envisioned. I sat a few rows behind you, but I could feel your nerves. I could feel your chaotic energy. I wanted you to know you were beautiful and brilliant and perfectly human. I wanted you to see what I could see. I had to step outside while the other poets went. I stereotypically splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom. And then you went up on stage. And my stomach settled. I could have watched you all night.
I do not pray. I do not even know what I believe, but tonight, I said something to whatever powers there may be for you. Not to have you, butfor you. I asked that you go to bed with such love and serenity. I asked that tomorrow your family is at peace, happy, laughing, wonderfully silly, and joyful. You once told me you wanted understanding. I asked for that too. And I realize I will do the same thing on the 4th of July. I’m sure she knows the dates and what they represent, but does she know the depth? Does she know the emptiness and hollow pain you hide behind that strong jaw? God, I don’t even truly know who she is. She might not be the girl I’ve decided in my mind must be her. The girl who called you crying while you were in my bed. But with my trusting heart, I watched you untangle yourself from my sheets and even smiled, “go help your friend in need. I’ll be here.” I hope she writes poems for you. I still do. I don’t know for how much longer, but tonight, on Christmas Eve, I am hiding from peppermint candles, lovable family arguments, and instead, am crying wishing I was with you. I just want everything you promised a few weeks ago. I wish you wanted that too. And part of me still believes we can let go of everything holding us back, and both fall together. But I guess for now, bah humbug. “
Me and a friend are talking about making a Tron inspired electronic music group for a convention. Not sure if it’ll ever get off the ground but it would be interesting.
You don’t need to bash skinny people to say that bigger people are beautiful.
You don’t need to bash men to promote women’s rights.
You don’t need to bash white people to promote racial equality.
You don’t need to bash a certain genre of music to promote another.
You don’t need to bash straight people to promote gay rights.
You don’t need to bash anyone to advocate your opinion.