Valentine

Valentine

I have forgotten what its like to love.

Scared of relinquishing control,

The darkness that lingers on the very precipice of light

Just tonight, as I was browsing through the supermarket,

I thought about how my life is so full of new friends, full to the brim of experiences I did not have with you,

That my ache is dulling.

Then I came home to my house (What used to be ours)

And there was an absence. Not you, necessarily, but a witness to my life.

The dog wagged its tail.

I slid down the wall.

And then, looking at it on Facebook, it being everywhere, that bastard love.

Images of tenderness, togetherness.

I died a little more inside.

Wishing for what we had so many years ago

Before disappointment, lies and absence arrived on our doorstep.

The lady at the checkout counter remarked, “I hope you get spoilt tomorrow.”

Tomorrow being Valentines Day and all.

Talk about salt in a wound,

Even though that wound has a scar covering the gaping mess.

An impeccable bandage.

I’m on the hook of someone else’s life today.

Spoilt by love,

The premise of love,

The absence of it when I once knew it.

Like an amputated limb, apparently you still feel it.

Happy Birthday

Today is your birthday

It is raining outside,

A loose melancholic rain, persistent like a dripping tap.

I woke up this morning, turned to hold you,

Reached for you, because

It’s your birthday today.

No gifts today.

Just memories of unwrapping you

Year after year.

Early on it was a day of spoiling,

A fine restaurant, my best dress, underwear to surprise you

as I lay you down on our bed and loved you seamlessly.

The later years ended in tears, tyres screeching, shouting at midnight,

Loss.

Your gifts unopened, unwanted, like I was.

It’s your birthday today.

The thin veil of deceit lies there, pushed to the side.

After all, it’s your birthday today. 

Upon closer Inspection

I like the age that has settled in my body

The new lines around my eyes that catch faint light

(the ones by my mouth too, imprinted from laughs and more)

The veins that surface sudden and unexpected

on bruised heavy thighs

The slow sag of my ample bum and the rise of my breasts

and the deepness of the cavity that was my youthful heart

I like my hands which have learnt to be wise

and are jewelled expensively.

I turn them upside down examining palms,

An inspector looking for clues

The heart love life line

Many many creases breaking flow

a beautiful imprint of grand life to come

And much sorrow

I look forward to the perverse

of that same sadness which is

extraordinary light

The freedom of spirit, courage

and inaccessible joy

I will accept and love

I will not dread or distance

(Red tape cages the nubile mind)

I like my original marks

but I look forward to the ones life warrants me too.

xoxo

S

Pocket Sized Life Advice

A friend sent this to me today.

Might be a little heavy for a Monday. But I guess Monday is as good a day as any.
It's not revolutionary stuff, sure you've heard it all before at some point. It's just so nice and succinctly put - pocket size guide to life if you will. Use it, don't use it?

The Four Agreements are: 

1. Be Impeccable with your Word: Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the Word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your Word in the direction of truth and love.

2. Don’t Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.

3. Don’t Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.

4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.


Source: http://www.toltecspirit.com/

Stuff in the air

I found this on an old hard drive. Made sense to me then. Makes sense now...

Stuff in the air at 1 am

Met a girl I used to know. Have a drink. Stuff in the air. Ask about her current fortune. She shakes her head. I light a cigarette and remember the past. Passionate. Car crash. Hanging on for both our lives. How about you, she asks. I shake my head. Lonely, she sighs, licking her pink glistening lips with the tip of her tongue. I nod. Stuff in the air.

I know what she's thinking. But it wouldn't work. She likes bastards. I wouldn't stand a chance. Broken in two. Torn to pieces. Sip my drink. Contemplate sleeping around. Ignoring her needs. Treat em mean. Pretend I don't give a fuck. Spend the day impressing mates. Ignore the phone calls. I know how to do it. I just don't like the rules. She licks her lips once more. I smile. She smiles. Stuff in the air.

I watch her reminisce. I gave her stuff. Stuff the bastards could never give. I made her feel. Really feel. I noticed the tiniest things about her. I made her question the reason she sleeps with six-foot shaven headed ice blocks that leave her crying on the floor. She smiles at me. I smile at her. Stuff in the air. Fucking hell.

Time to go. Just one more, she asks. Still playing with the possible maybes. I nod. Life. Politics. Teenage nightmares laying naked on the table. She is amazing. Fucking amazing. If only she knew. But she doesn't know. That's why she likes bastards. Treat em mean. Torn to pieces. Playing with fire. Stuff in the air. She smiles at me. I hold back the tears. Time to go. Time to go.

Love yourself Ladies!

We really liked the sentiment of these ads in this months Marie Claire Body Issues issue. Time to love ourselves again girls. xxx

A love letter

To my dear exboyfriend (yes, I know your name, Dipshit – but the anonymity is for your protection)

Oh who am I kidding, You are no longer dear.

So we begin again.

Hello dipshit.  (That’s the fond version of your name)

I was deeply pissed off with you tonight, when I realized how I have been avoiding things I love that remind me of you. Why oh why are you lurking in every obscure thing and place?

Oh don’t get me wrong, I’ve totally gotten over the fear of seeing your car on the road, or bumping into you in the supermarket. Although, if I saw your mother, not only would that scare me, but I would live the  fantasy about calling her a cow to her face, for the very first, rewarding time.

Tonight, I was particularly in the mood for a thai green curry. Oh you took such pride in making it, and ate it like you’d never see it again. God help me if I even took a morsel off your plate.

But I loved that fucking curry before you were born (yes, being older had some advantages). So I am claiming it, and every restaurant we ate it at, back. That okay with you, Dipshit? (You don’t deserve a capital letter.)

Yes, I wrote this after a bottle chardonnay, taking obscure pics on photobooth with my dear friend. Yes. I thought also about your boiled egg surprise – how utterly charming to smear your egg over a melee of strawberry jam and mayonnaise – one would swear you were pregnant sometimes.

I do not miss your bromance and your lies. I do not miss your silence and your fury. I do not miss your apathetic approach to my orgasm. (I hear an audible shameful gasp from all female folk.)

(I don’t even miss your tufty bum…)

So. Dipshit. I hope life is treating you well, that your bromance continues to blossom, that Thai green curry burns an acrid (sam-shaped) hole in your heart.

Please piss off to another country, or city even. And take your tufty bum with you.