The truth.

The truth is … I feel I was lost. Like she lost me.  Like I’m a thing to be lost. Like I’m an object. One of her bought things. Like I belonged to her and she … just lost me. And didn’t go looking. Or try. Or want to. Like I– I am nothing.

I felt like this before, similarly. With ex. And when I tried to kill myself. Every time. I felt like this. Like there was a big space inside my body which was me, a lost thing. Empty. Empty of all the full things we put there. Reamed. Excavated. Carved. Shelled. I remain empty right now.

It’s not a matter of fear, or hate. It’s not a matter of wrong doing. It’s not a matter of spirituality to save me. Enlightenment won’t. I am bro—I am borrowed by myself from her possession and I won’t be returned, because she won’t ask for me back, and I won’t go to her. I won’t be some unwanted thing put upon her. It’s bad enough I take care of me, this unwanted thing. It’s bad enough, I feel so put upon myself.

I did it for love. Love of her. Love of self. To prove to her something. To prove I can be happy without her. I .. succeeded. At a detriment to myself. I hurt me, by trying to hurt her. Karma. I’m paying my wrong action towards her. Just because she wronged me, just because she couldn’t be what I wanted, doesn’t mean I have any right to … harm her. Sent her ill thought. Feel such animosity. I don’t, mostly, but deep down…

I hate her. She left. She lied. She cheated. She said she’d be there and wasn’t later. She promised and broke it. And I was… so pathetic. Scared the entire time. So hopeful. So begging. I gave all of myself except.. trust. That one thing I withheld. And it was..

The hardest to give.  The hardest to receive. Even harder to receive.

I wanted. So many things. With her I don’t think I wanted so much ever before. I would have done anything to be with her. Anything she asked. I still would. Except.. I know that’s wrong because if she asked me to be happy right now, if she asked me to let it go, to forgive myself, right now I couldn’t. I don’t know how. I don’t want to. I don’t want to let it go. Be happy. Forgive. Because then, its truly over. It’s gone. She is gone. And still she is the most important thing in my universe. Even now.

And I’m not hers.

And I know this is right. I’m supposed to be the most… I could be the most important thing In my universe. In my life. I could love myself more. But… And she’s fallible. Why would I love that? A personality. She will die one day. I’d lose her anyway one day. It doesn’t matter. I’d love her everyday for the rest of my life,  given the option. And then even my love is wrong. Possessive. I call myself and her a thing. Because I know this is how I relate. I’m not hard on myself for that anymore.

I really miss her. Like really. Like my soul, or something, got ripped out and away. And I can’t, fill it back in. why would I continue this if it hurts so bad? If it makes me feel all this.

Because I would do anything for her. Even suffer. For the rest of my life. The loss of her. It doesn’t matter what she’d want me to be doing right now. It doesn’t matter what she wants. This is what I want. I want to … it makes me happy to be miserable over her. It makes me happy to ruin my life out of that misery. It makes me happy to be like this. This contracted thing in a hole, separate. It makes me happy. Why? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know how I can love so much in this state. I don’t know how I can love so much, live inside this loss of her. I’m really tired of trying. To let her go. Of not being able to. Of..I don’t know. Of not getting what I want. Of getting what I want?

Do I want her more than I want to suffer? No. I think I love the misery. Of suffering. More than the actuality of having. I think I like this pain. I think I feel more secure here, in the darkness, than I do in the freedom of light. Like being in a hole, like this, in the moist dampness darkness of earth, is preferable to the vast expanse of a lite sky. I don’t know why I prefer this spot to the other but I know this is why I haven’t moved on yet. Allowed happiness yet. It’s because I need to be here. I long to be here. I need to hide. I create my own pain to do so

I waited my whole life to suffer this much. Maybe this was my intended goal. Pain is good. It’s not because I’m depressed right now I’m saying this. It is good. It is honest and true. It’s not a .. an evil thing. It is just converse. The other side of the coin. Great love. Great pain. Apart they are … too extreme, but together, say in the middle, you get them both. Its romantic, the relationship of opposites, the twist of them meeting magnetically and then twining together, like lovers do. I love her greatly, and I fear/hate/hurt greatly. I actually can’t hate her. Just her actions. Just the personality pieces which led to my pain. And I don’t … underneath, I don’t even hate them. All this, is scratching away at the surface of what I feel, unmasking the depths below.

I would do anything for her. And I would not because I am selfish. I want to feel these things for her. Because I do love her.  And I am aware, she is a reflection of me, and so I love myself, but this humanness in me just sees her and I think that’s okay right now. This is what is meant by human interaction. This is what is meant by sharing heartspace. Heartspace. The heart is neutral you know? It doesn’t see good or evil, as the mind does. It just feels, everything. And perhaps, on some higher plane, the thing we call heart is just loves, everything. I think that might be true.



Simply a thank you.

It has come to this. I see it. Recognize it. Taste it. Dream it. Anticipate it. And acknowledge it could never be, or it could. But a part of me has begun the wanting of it. Enough so my dreams woke me not once but twice within a 30 minute period to just check and see it if could be possibility.

I dreamed of her. Or perhaps it wasn’t her. Perhaps it was another, but just acknowledging she and the idea had been in my thoughts. I was at Disneyland, and there was a woman, and she was famous, and actress, and it was inside a cheesy romantic comedy, where the girl gets the girl, and me, or the white woman, in an excited way asked the black woman, to face the media and “tell them.” And the black woman was scared, surprised, but a part of her wanted to. She was beautiful I recall.

Then not even 30 minutes later, she walked by me in a dream. I don’t recall the dream except it was her. And then I woke up and went to breakfast. And she walked by me, sat at one table adjacent, then moved to another, then moved to mine. Claiming too many people when I called her out on musical tables.

I’m not sure why but I like her. There is this liking growing inside me. I’ve had it for a little while now. The past two times we’ve talked I’ve felt it. The time before last I blatantly flirted. It was fun. But. I dismissed it due to circumstance. I don’t think being with someone in this time in my life is thing I want anymore, so I left her out as option from the get go. Then, the last time we talked, she made me like her. She’s … God I love black girls. The way they … their mannerisms. Their turns of phrase. Their lips. Their skin. Their bodies. God. It really didn’t help she is my fucking type. And she has the qualities I’d seek in a partner. Vibrant. A bit crazy. Possessive. Sweet. Loyal. Monogamous. And gay. Very gay. Thank god.

Today she comes out with more to like. She used  date a Goth girl. She used to like that scene. She writes poetry. Oh, this made my heart fall out my chest. She spoke one to me, at the table, from memory, and sounded so ..black poet jazz club chic. So colorfully colored. Like a part of a movie you’d watch about Ella Fitzgerald. Or, perhaps I put it in that context because she is so beautifully personified. I want that. Her. Covet. Mine. Yes, in my head words become brief and succinct. And I just feel. And I feel I want that. Her.

And no, not just sexually. But, in the context of wanting a beautiful painting. Or an artist’s collection of work. I want to say, this one I have claim on. And be proud to be so honored.

God I didn’t want to admit it before and make it bigger. When I cease the writing of this I will try and forget. I am set on allowing the universe to give me what I asked for in patience and open mindedness.

I might feel a bit of fear, but it is small at this early date. I don’t even acknowledge her girlfriend. Girlfriends can be gotten rid of. I also know I will not accept anything if she’s got one. So points are moot either way.

But she said she likes the way I talk. I felt the impression she liked my precise educated turns of phrase and way of speaking “like a white girl.” Yes, my ex and Koi had been much amused by that. That made me squeeze with happiness, for I recalled my ex in that moment, and the love of her flushed through me with the remembering, coloring the moment that much sweeter.

And she …

I loved her poetry. It grabbed something inside and yanked on it. Or more like reached into my chest and put a gentle grip on something there and just held on. I feel it even now. My whole chest aches like the tombstone lodged there is being disturbed..

I am glad. I need this thing preventing me from feeling gone. I feel like a shallow version of myself. The heartbreak has made me … Cold. Even if this thing with her becomes nothing, I honor this. And her. For bringing me to hope and realization and wonder.

This is a thank you to the universal entity from a place of pure gratitude. This is a thank you to her for being beautiful.  This is a thank you to myself, my higher self, for showing manifestation of improvement.

This is simply a thank you.