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Posts Tagged ‘insecurity’

at my best:

i am peaceful, wide-eyed, finding myself in the right place at the right time, playing outdoors, encouraging and excited about others’ achievements, dancing and writing and free to create

at my worst:

i am insecure, constantly seeking reassurance, comparing myself to everyone and always ending up at the bottom, bored and stagnant, stuck in other people’s rules and expectations, paralyzed by fear

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If I am a deer, like you say I am,
I am the kind accustomed
to being fed by humans.
They find me amusing
before they ruin my bed and leave.
When tourist season is over,
I pick at my own skin in their place
and wait for the cycle to repeat itself.

If you are a lion like you say you are,
you are the kind accustomed to lazing in the shade, unaware of the way you frighten others.
I have never been close
to your kind before.
It is easy to bound through my forests
even in the dark, but the savanna is another story.
There I don’t know where to place my feet.

How would a lion and a deer meet anyway?
We teeter together near the line
of too much and not enough.
Loss holds me
back behind the white pines and hemlocks.
Something I can’t name
keeps you under the acacia trees.

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Our house is full of the things of an old woman. We went exploring today – this time under the bed. Not just her things but also some of ours start to creep underneath.

“Our stuff is deep in the crevices.  We’ve been sleeping on a good foundation.”

His face is beautiful when he’s serious or sad.

It’s deep and yet he’s rummaging through even deeper crevices, acting like he’s fallen into them.  They were there before me. There’s a tug in the chest – the tug of reading old notebooks, feeling old loves join you in bed after so many years, as many what-ifs as you can fit into the tiny, cluttered bedroom that acts as a living and dining and loving room, too.

He might not be able to put it down. He falls in love with writing women. Their words ensnare him, and I become afraid to ever show mine. Mine are strewn across the bed I made, in the room I cleaned, in the house that feels lighter, if that’s possible, because I put on an apron and scrubbed and piled and washed and organized.

So he’s over there, entranced by Rachel Corrie, probably wishing and thinking in ways I could never inspire. I only get half of this attention when I’m naked. Blame the puckering on my thighs and the stretch marks spreading across my hips and ass. Blame too infrequent blowjobs and newness worn off, and even I don’t recognize what I wrote about last summer. Gazes that don’t ask for anything, being constantly reminded he thinks I’m beautiful, so much more than I’ve ever felt.

And it’s gone. Fell into crevices. The old lore is back, the too-fond memories creeping up when real life threatens to take away the pleasure.  When tall women ruled and he could seduce anyone, when he sought out he adventures of artists and carefully composed words to woo them.

There’s enough space between us for a grown person to be comfortable. I’m wrapped up in his grandmother’s quilts – 2, yellow and white both – and we have our pants on.  The rule that we’re breaking is no pants in bed. We’re breaking it because we’re finally breaking, seeing the hairline cracks, letting reality and incompatible personality types wedge in between and pry it apart.

He can have all my books and write in them. He has felt all my affection and seen the completeness of my rage. It’s only a matter of time now. Shared meals and memories of them only keep things together so long and now that we’ve stopped talking, it’s all about to go.

I never finished writing about Jeff, and it colors all of these spaces with Z.  I wanted to for a year, but I think I’m abandoning the ending. The keys are gone, the constant reminders are packed away. One panicked moment when I thought I could reclaim my coffee shop. But I walked up to the door, looked in, and turned right around. So it’s there. I don’t know what to write about now. It was in 2008 and 2009 and too much of 2010. It was almost two years of holding myself back for a faint outline of love and maybe just a hint of something real.

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