Do Butterflies have any idea how beautiful they are? I’m certain they don’t, just as I am certain that I do not know how beautiful I am. I try to apply this logic in my brain, force myself to reason and understand. To come to some sort of realization of who I am and what I have to offer and I promise this isn’t some sort of cry for approval. I’d like to believe it is all much more philosophical than that. No, I notice these things because I am constantly aware of the fact that there has to be an enormous disconnect between how I see myself and how others see me. I believe this applies to everyone, no one knows themselves in the same way that others do, as if we are two people in one and subsequently I believe we are the only things in nature to have this sort of all around and influential concept of beauty. This is why I bring butterflies into it, and yes I hate myself for using this cliche and no I am not stoned right now. Think about it. Sunsets, the ocean, flowers, all these things in nature are only perceived as beautiful by humans. This to me all comes down to the beauty of nature’s daily processes and, even more basically, science. The leaves change colors in the fall, grass is green and lush, flowers bloom, birds sing, the sun sets and none of these things happen with beauty in mind. I try to view people this way. People are so beautiful fundamentally because they are human and the processes of being human are so amazing. Its hard to find anyone ugly when you think this way, and in turn it’s hard to find yourself ugly. Now, I am not saying that I have all this down pat, far from it, but It’s the trying that matters.
Fat drops of water threw themselves against the thick glass with a repetitive tap. when the rain met the glass, which all the while remained unmovable, they collapsed into streams, rolling their way to bottom of the window and then pooling up again at the seam where the metal door met the window. It all seemed so cruel to me, as I lie in the back of my car with my hands folded over my stomach and legs crossed at the ankles, the glass never embraces the rain and I’m certain it couldn’t even if it wanted to. Who did this hurt more? The glass wanting so badly to grab its lover in its arms and take it as part of itself? or maybe the rain who threw itself so mercilessly, hoping that someday the glass would open its arms and beg for the rain to come closer, to sit down, wrap up and maybe stay a while. Maybe, and more likely, the glass never intended on giving the rain a second thought. A rough hand spreads itself open on my stomach, pulling me away from the rain and the window and their hopeless love affair but it isn’t until he tells me he has to leave that I remember I am not the only one here.
It is the oldest cliché in the book,
for me to say that I’m not quite sure who I am.
I think I used to know
and then you happened. that isn’t fair.
I know, to blame you for such a loss.
But that’s the way the timeline has been stitched.
there is before you
and there is after you
and that’s enough evidence for me.
It was all so staged and hopeful.
We would breathe out fake love for each other in the back seat of my car.
In the dark it was easy to pretend that your eyes were looking
for mine and not what existed below my chin.
It was easy to pretend that every time you touched me,
it was because you couldn’t stand not to.
It was easy to pretend that as soon as you left you’d miss me
all the way home.
I am living in my head.
Time passed me by so quickly,
And I have nearly nothing to show for it.
I could blame you of course, for giving me
Reason to believe that my waiting would be rewarded
Or that you even wanted me to hold onto you in the first place.
but the only one I blame is myself, and maybe that’s what makes this so bad.
If you want to know if I’m okay,
notice my nails. It’s unlikely you care,
but that night in the park my nails were beautiful,
and grown, and a seductive shade of pink. My pride and joy,
a literal representation of the growth that can happen when I’m
permitted to breath.
Now, oh god, now they are bitten, and crooked, and cracked, and
bleeding. The nails of a girl who spends the night sick with the fear that love won’t find
her. The nails of a girl who lives without you.
Love is not hickies marking paths down your body,
Love is not a blanket on the grass in the middle of a park.
Love is not mistaken kisses with his best friend.
Love is not lace underwear slipping to your ankles,
or lips at the edge of your bra and down your stomach, or hands in your hair.
Love isn’t even hands finding their way beneath denim and lace,
and Love definitely isn’t the silence I’m met with after giving myself to you.