you can’t wait to wash the curls out.
they don’t feel like you. you’ve always been more of a wave, slowly rolling, over and over, pushing some things out, pulling some things in. you like your hair to match your spirit – wild, messy, not too perfect.
you thought the curls would lift your spirits, but they just made you feel less like you. it was the perfect cold weather occasion, but you couldn’t shake the thought that you weren’t where you were meant to be.
so you’ll rinse the curls out, stand under the scalding hot water, let it strip away all the secrets you tried to hide in your hair, and start fresh. isn’t that the way it’s meant to be this time of year, anyway?
there are no tears left for you.
she cried them out so many months ago, so there’s nothing left to fight the hate-fires in her heart. they just have to slowly burn out, like the love she used to have.
you lost her long before she cut you out. you lost her long before the night she said things she couldn’t take back. you lost her in the moments you chose not to be present, in the moments you chose dishonesty and secrecy, in the moments that you chose not to be public with your relationship. she wondered if it was even real at all, or had she only just imagined it?
it was the little things that set her in motion, that rolled her closer and closer to a cliff she had no choice but to throw herself over in self-preservation.
and words were said, and regret was planted, and then she tried to make herself smaller to fit back into your closed off heart. but you had already cracked it open for someone else, so she never was going to fit.
it’s done now. she no longer misses you on sunday mornings. she no longer holds her breath when she sees a truck that looks like yours. she no longer hears a song and thinks of you. your name isn’t the one she’s hoping for when her phone dings. there’s no pebble-sized hole in her carefully guarded heart shaped especially for you. there are only smoldering cinders, from pain gone up in flames.
home is not where you live.
home is where you decompress. home is a safe haven. home is four sturdy walls that protect you from the things that go bump in the night while you dream, dreams.
you live outside of your home. you live on the trails you hike, in the coffee shops where you stop to read or write the next great novel. you live on family vacations or road trips with your best friend. you live in beer gardens, or museums, or on bodies of water.
what are you afraid of? they asked.
i answered, that i’d fall for a man who makes me feel whole again, tames my wild, and i crumble in on the words that get left unwritten.
because my muse is my chaos; i need it to breathe.
they say if you are feeling blocked, you should free-write for thirty minutes a day. i know if i did that i’d fill up notebook after notebook with you. your words, your eyes, the way you’d kiss the top of my head when you hugged me tight, and i can’t. i can’t write that – it’s like sleeping with the ghost of you.
will i lose my voice, because i can’t stop hearing yours?
i want to tell him that i think he’s handsome and a handful and that i’m probably already half-drunk in love with him, but i don’t.
and in this one thing, the fear wins and it consumes me. because to do so, to lay all my feelings bare, would be to drop a million walls, and wage a losing war, already knowing that he cannot feel the same.