you are the sun warming my face while i sit precariously on the edge of some far away tall place. and you are the smell of rain in summer musky and sweet and calm. you are a house - built with strong bones and a kitchen that smells inevitably like coffee and warmth. you are blue and green and gray like the sea. soothing and beautiful, filled with mystery, still. you are laughter and safety, a joke poised on pursed lips and light so bright the sun is only a dark smudge. you are are music and dancing spinning in time with mother earth; melodies that i hope i hear forever.
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books.
people are books.
some leave you gasping in your seat,
teary eyed, broken up about it.
folded pages, dusty left behinds
in bins we shove in the attic,
ship away to the goodwill
somewhere after saturday morning coffee
they are ripped pages burned to ash
framed, cut into shapes by someone
who thought it was a good idea,
even though it’s just a cliche on a bookshelf.
teach you things, tell you things.
blank pages, fresh paper
reminders of better times, good times,
bad times, lost times, future times.
people are books.
they smell like hope and calm
and sometimes they are soggy and burnt
with ruin from something no fault of their own.
they have coffee stains, and food prints
and sometimes they fall apart
when you pick them up
because they have lived a life
that was never meant for something so fragile
people are books,
they are beautiful bound leather
and tattered paperbacks loved
a little too much,
lifetimes, lifetimes
of fierce love and hope and lessons.
people are books.
kitchen talks.
its 1 am and some change, and you're dancing with me, round and round and round, we're spinning in slow motion drunk on red wine and jager and whatever the fuck this is - this thing with you that has me so high, i can see the ocean from the sky and its the blue in your eyes and i could drown, happily suffocated by a sea of blue and gray. i am interested. you are very pretty. you say. youre so gorgeous. i say. this will always be ours, this laughter in the earliest parts of a new day and even if this is all there is. the things that have lived inside my head tumble out in spirals and you just let it flow over you this waterfall of words and you take it so easily like this wave is not too much.
pause.
sometimes it’s hard to hear the future
because the past speaks too loudly.
no title.
every birthday.
every shooting star.
every 11:11.
everytime,
i wish for the same thing.
peace.
just peace.
silence.
everyone is so busy shouting.
so much noise – from so many
people, caught up in their own
rage and pain and hate and things.
everyone is so loud –
but no one is listening.
peace out.
I guess I must have dumbass
tattooed across my forehead.
I asked you 1,242 times if you loved me
and 1,242 times you swore you did.
I said I’d never beg to be loved again,
but I guess instead I chose to settle
for 3 hours of laughter
and a 3 hour drive.
I chose someone who wouldn’t chose me.
How the fuck does that feel?
Like shit.
We circled the drain,
fuck if it wasn’t clogged the fuck up,
but we slipped down anyway.
I slipped into madness,
and you slipped into forgetfulness.
Forgot you loved me.
Forgot you missed me.
Forgot I was your fucking girlfriend.
I asked for what I needed,
and in the end what I needed,
was just a peace out, see you later,
except later was just bullshit,
just like our relationship.
why.
I should preface this with, I just poured my 3rd glass of wine. And it’s more than the recommended serving size.
So, today.
Let me tell you about today.
It wasn’t awful. All in all, it was a pretty good day. There’s a good chance I’ll be flexed on Friday, so I’ll be off work with pandemic pay or scrubbing toilets if they reassign me. Not my favorite past time, but hell you know what – toilets are just toilets and it won’t be the first time I scrubbed one. Might be nice to be able to not feel a fucking thing all day.
Anyway, today I went to see this person who needed to do a thing for health reasons and I was told this person didn’t want to do the thing and it was really not in this persons best interest to not do the thing. I’m being purposely vague here (it’s not the wine, I swear). So, they call me in because sometimes I’m lovely and convincing (and sometimes I’m a bitch, let’s be real). Before I go in, they have me completely convinced that this person doesn’t give a fuck about their health, is a complete asshat and all around dunce.
So, I go in an expect a fight. I expect to be yelled out. Maybe told off. Maybe bitched out or at. A million negative things. So I see some other folks before I see this person so that I can kind of get in the swing of things and not have my adrenaline pumping a thousand miles an hour and then I go in.
And I was reminded why I do what I do.
Why I chose social work.
Why I love what I do.
Why even on the shittiest fucking day, I pick back up and do it again.
It is a privilege to share space with folks.
I went in with some background information – mostly negative, some helpful. The most important thing was that this person didn’t feel heard.
So I went in and I gave this person space to share their story. Their perceptions, their version of things, what they wanted and needed.
And it turns out, this person wasn’t as asshat.
This person was lovely. This person didn’t feel like they understood what was happening to them. This person felt like people didn’t give a fuck. This person felt like they were lied to. This person was overwhelmed with life changes that they didn’t have a lot of control over. This person was lonely due to Covid restrictions. This person missed their family.
Literally the only thing I did was provide space for this person to say that what they needed and felt and wanted.
And it might work.
At the end of the day, I left them with – it’s up to you, if you have questions let me know and I will answer them tomorrow.
They were so, so fucking grateful. It’s amazing. It’s absolutely fucking amazing that people are so, so grateful for someone to share space with them without judgement. With empathy. I’m not a fucking saint. This isn’t tooting my own horn. There are a thousand people that I haven’t shared that space with – unintentionally mostly, I think.
It just makes me sad, and a little angry, to think that people think this person was so many things that they weren’t.
Tomorrow, they may not make the healthiest choices…but for today, they are my why.
Just shit.
I just want to stare at the wall until the sun comes up and these feelings fade. Funny how history repeats itself. Sometimes, the end of this feels like it’s right around the corner. But just when I think I’ve had all I can take, I’ll stand there groveling, begging for more. I realized the other day that it just took a few weeks for me to fall into survival mode. Hour by hour, day by day. I thought I was in the clear – that maybe I was getting my shit together and I could just roll on through the days high on happiness.
What a fucking crock of shit.
I could feel it coming. It starts like a shadow. Did I see that? Did I really feel that? Shake it off. But then it comes, like it always does. It starts as irritation. Annoyance. Then it escalates to shame and rage and fury. It’s like there’s me – and then It. And It takes hold and it won’t let go. I can hear myself in the background, trying to rationalize while It throws things and curses and shouts. It likes to destroy things. Destruction and then shame and exhaustion. Sometimes, I can be stronger than It. I can drown It. I can choke It down. I can walk It off. But not lately.
I just want to stare into space until I wake up.
I was married for 5 years. Technically 6.
And it feels like a fucking dream.
I just want to be loved. Unconditionally. I want flowers and to be thought of. I want to know that I’m important and that someone gives a shit. I want someone who notices my absence. I want someone who says “good morning, beautiful” and the fucking cliche things. I want someone who wants to marry me and never live a day without me and fucking means it. I don’t want a lot. I don’t need material things. I can get that shit for myself. I want pictures that I didn’t take. I want letters I didn’t write. I want someone who keeps It from coming back again and again. I want to be a priority.
Fuuuuccck.
I am almost 29 years old.
And I am still amazed at how things that happened 15 years ago, 19 years ago, fucking childhoods ago, still bring up feelings.
Like, what the fuck. WHY DO I STILL FEEL THIS SHIT.
FUCK YOU. And you. And you.
But not you Kat, bc you’re the only one who reads this shit and I love you.
