more to come
They wouldn’t cross me, and they’re true.
I’m not friends with the wishy-washy people.
I’m friends with the weirdos.
And I don’t think you understand exactly what that means.
I’m the most traditionally stable of the bunch. We get stared at when we go out.
I won’t make the easy friend.
My people contemplate suicide on a daily basis, and wax rhapsodic about why they stay alive.
They get tattoos of little hearts that say – “always keep fighting,”
They tell me they stay alive because they don’t want their families sad.
I’ve set up google alerts for their names, deceased.
My red-haired Paul Bunyan, I’ve been watching his twin sister’s facebook, waiting.
I’m friends with the people who will tell me how they’re really feeling, because they’re braver than I am.
Who tell me about their visits to the restaurant brothels of Thailand, who tell me more and more outrageous things, poke me with a stick, see how long it takes me to freak.
But they never judge me. They’ll tell me I’m stupid, that I’m not living up to what I could be, that I should try relaxing.
Thinking about it, the thing they have in common is that they’ve never given me that – you’re crazy look, the one that says – I don’t understand you, you’re weird to me.
I figured it out,
You asked about my favorite book, and said I was just like your teacher because I fell in love with things. Now I remember being that age, and not loving anything, and being worried I’d never have hopes or dreams. But I do now.
It’s a book written by the same woman who wrote 101 Dalmatians
About these two sisters before the second war in England.
It was the first time I remember reading something I had experienced. It was so wonderful to see, to read, someone else explain exactly why I felt the way I felt.
She couldn’t bring herself to love the man her sister had her hands on before her.
And these were the silly problems, the problems you got to think about before all the men started dying again.
I couldn’t bring myself to love the man who loved my sister. I had that problem. Just like her.
I remember being just like her.
Just like someone for the first time.
I think I have a dreams now,
I want my cabin in the middle of nowhere that’s within driving distance of a coke slushie machine, it’ll have a wrap-around porch and a rocking chair, and those thick, tapestry like throw blankets. And tea. Lots of tea.
And warm lights, none of these white, fluorescent things.
And I’ll do hospice work, and maybe take in foster kids. And I’ll have books piled everywhere. I’ll be able to make mistakes there. That’s what will be great.
I think that’s true. I think people you can make mistakes in front of, are the best creative partners.
Who you know won’t mock you.
Or who will go along with you on your journeys. Those are the best.
Together, we do good stuff.
I cried when I got the check my father sent me,
And cried harder when the post office lost the next one.
I get frustrated that I can’t qualify for benefits because I have savings.
Then I give up. And say I’ll just live in debt. It’s easier.
I want to say to her, no,
I won’t be jerked around.
You want to be my friend, then be my friend,
Don’t waver in the wind like a pussy.
I’m tired of this.
I’ll give you allowances, here and there, and wiggle room for not knowing me, and feeling uncomfortable, but I have to be around people who are stronger than me, because I need the strength they give.
So, either be here when I need you or get out of my way.
I do so many things poorly, and nothing well.
But if I spent all my time, and had one great accomplishment,
Someone would still do it better.
They gave me a cedar rose and now my jacket smells like campfire smoke and cedar.
My house smells like campfire smoke and cedar.
He used to smell like gasoline.
My couch used to smell like vinegar and yellow Clorox wipes.
If my cold weren’t here I’d smell charred chorizo.
My mother called on my birthday.
She did the thing I love, but have always been to scared to tell her I love,
In case she’ll stop.
She tells me stories about when I was a baby.
And it was just me and her.
About when I was born,
And how pretty I was, and how loved.
Every year it makes me cry, because I like to think of my mother as a person who only causes harm,
But she loves us so much. And sometimes she lets it show through.
And it makes me miss my mom.