I like the way a pen looks on paper,
but it’s far too slow to keep up with the words that I think.
It’s kind of like the way I like to walk around a bookshop,
even though I hardly ever stop to read.
I’m much too busy absorbing the beauty of the way the stacks look all lined up.
Maybe that’s why I pick things out of convenience,
like typing on a computer.
Maybe that’s why I like things that are pretty on the outside,
Except when you find out that they don’t have the same quality
as a word that’s been written in black ink.
This is what it’s like to be a writer.
Not wanting to leave my computer
because every thought that’s racing through my brain
needs to be typed,
and if it doesn’t,
my head might explode.
Nobody as self-indulgent as me
could ever let that happen.
I’m too absorbed in my own mind.
So here is a half-assed apology
for all of the things I have missed
and to all of the people I have bailed on.
I just can’t control myself when my words take over.
I’m not sure I’ll ever want a “normal” relationship.
I might be one of those women
who likes to be with people
who are as non-traditional as me.
This usually means that one of us ends up leaving
for the same reasons even “normal” couples leave.
Because we’re just too dysfunctional to stay.
Opening my heart
has taught me a lot about people,
a lot about myself,
a lot about how tortured we all are
by feeling too connected.
We are all just fragile humans
who universally desire
the one thing we are most afraid of.
I wear an anchor on my neck
just like I wear my heart on my sleeve.
They say it symbolizes strength and stability,
that it marks the end of a long journey.
It reminds me
that only I can hold myself steady
when the ocean waves tirelessly rock the ship
that carries the experiences of my life.
Back and forth it sways,
but it does not sail away
because of me.
I am the anchor.
Some days I brave the expanse of the ocean,
with the knowledge that I can drop to the bottom of the sea
whenever I please
and make friends with the fish.
When I was a little girl,
I used to wear purple, silk dresses on Easter
to go to church with my slightly religious parents.
We took pictures in front of the Japanese Maple tree.
Year after year,
it was always the same.
But now that I am grown up,
I spend Easter mornings thinking about things
that are much more shallow
than anything biblical
and committing sins
that I was told I should “wash away.”
You tell me all the things I need to hear,
like how much like you my face,
the words that come out of my mouth,
how you like my hips and stomach,
the two things I used to hate about myself.
I wish I could warn you
not to get yourself in trouble
by saying the right things to me,
when we both know that this is going to turn out wrong.
But I don’t want you to go,
because I’m so helplessly in lust with you,
so I’ll use my lips for others things instead.