Sofas

Man I really MISS being able to write.  I really just don’t anymore and that is so sad.  Anyways I read through all my journals from college (except the last year) and dang.  I miss writing.

Here is something 3 years old.  So glad I finally found someone worth being a happy lovestruck idiot for.

Dedications

For some people love means never being alone on Valentines day, maiming hearts into trees with pocketknives. For me love is this unattainable gold pot at the end of a rainbow tangled with hints of particularly putrid shades of browns and greens, you know, like a couch from the seventies… this is for all the ugly sofas in my life, you know who you are.  This is for the the end I’m still waiting for even though I’m pretty sure it’s probably a myth or at least guarded by a heavily armored leprechaun named commitment-phobia

This is for everyone who taught me what love isn’t.

For every misstep on the ladder to happiness that left me with skinned knees and metaphorically knocked out teeth and for every time I doggedly struggled my way back up. I’ve lived my life like a romantic sitcom, dining on cliche-ridden late nights and so many cheesy pickup lines I give thanks to Cupid every day that I’m not lactose intolerant.

This is for all the men I can’t have, won’t have, have had, or taste bad. This is for all the Indians who won’t date me because I’m not what an arranged marriage looks like, and this is for when I told you I didn’t want to marry you anyways and I think that was probably the clearest definition of sour grapes that I’ve ever smashed into wine. This is for your mistaken notion that you are allowed to friendzone me two days after I cook for you.

This is for the oh-em-gee preteen-style butterflies that grew legs and feet and began to brutally kick at my heart instead of flutter. Every over-dramatic, he’s-so-bad-for-me and all the good advice I ignored. I still can’t stomach bitterness, I front like I’m a jaded skeptic but I can never quite pass as one, I will always be the happy lovestruck idiot in the room.

I’ve pretended I’m not being manipulated for so long that it’s started to not matter either way.  I still refuse to believe those compliments were scripted even with his teleprompter smiles still echoing through my brain like the first time I realized that all my grandmother’s decorative fruit was really just plastic. My veins pulse to the tune of every lie I can’t let go of, starting with when you told me you’d always be around, waiting, like your heart was just gonna lie around on a shelf with the Christmas decorations until I felt like picking it up again.

This is for hearts that refuse to give up, catch up, or shut up. This is for the delirious crash and burn I’ve been chasing since before you met me. This is for the one who stuck around even when I wouldn’t sleep with him and just kept saying “BAM, pregnant” whenever he mentioned it.

This is for love, real and imagined. Well in my case pretty much always imagined. This is for those of us too stupid to tell the difference, rocking enough poor judgment to fill a hallmark card store. This is for mistakes and refusing to acknowledge or learn from them.

This is for the the hook line and sinker crowd.

This is for living, life, flammability, and the pursuit.

Stumble on.

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lifeboat

trying desperately to make my apartment look put-together.  Stumbling through all my boxes and various treasures that I packed up over two months ago..

—-
You: the room I run to during
tornado warnings,

highest point during
flood season,

the bloodbank
I frequent after

stabbings.

I am a  river slow-winding its way to the
ocean

home.
your lips taste of

salt.