Long Distance

We are tied together by the modern teenage phenomenon of texting. Hide your head, cover your face, deny it all you want, but we are undeniably and inexcusably
dependent upon it.

We smile at each other through emoticons and laugh together with LOLs. We give up romantic weekends out for late night video chats. You can't kiss me goodnight at my doorstep, so you call me, instead. For what we believed to be the most integral parts of a relationship,we have managed to find substitutes.

I hesitate to tell you, but I do wonder. I wonder what it would be like to not feel this way. To not wonder how much longer I can hold my heart together as it s t r e t c h e s the hundred miles to you.To go on double dates and show you off with more than just a picture. To know you're here when I need you. To see you without busses and trains and planning. To have you.

I am afraid, because I forget. I forget the way your neck smells when I burry my head into you. I forget the scratchy, tickley feeling of your beard when you rub your chin on my cheek. I forget the roughness of your palms when you take my hand. I forget the softness of your lips and how they fit over mineand the slight sigh
you make when we kiss.

But as much as I wonder and as afraid as I may be there is no other way, there is no other choice, there is no other life for us, anymore. My heart has wandered blindly, somehow making its way to you, and I don't think that it can ever find it's way back, without you.

I will smile with emoticons, if you will be the one smiling back. I will lower myself to LOLs, as long as it means that you are laughing. I will skip romantic weekends out, if you will be on the other side of the video. I will give up goodnight kisses, if you will be the one to call, because I know that at some point, no matter how long it may be, these things will come, and I will have you for more than a weekend, for more than a phone call, for more than a text. I will have you.

This Is Me.

          I get it, okay? I’m not meant to be in photographs or on TV, and, honestly, the idea of it freaks me out so I have no problem with this. I get it. I do. I’m tall and freckly and have thick, dark, tangled, curly hair. I’m big boned with big muscles, a narrow waist but flaring hips, thick stubby fingers and inflexible joints that crack when I move. I’m no delicate beauty. I’m no model or prom queen. I’m the too-tall 5^th grade girl in the back row forced to stand with all the boys in the class picture. I’m the only white third grader with an afro, because Mom didn't know what to do with the curly mess. I’m the first to start her period, and the last to start shaving her legs. I’m the nonathletic, uncoordinated, nerd. And I love it.

I love my wild mane of hair. I love that I freckle in the sun. I love that while other girls whine about getting boob jobs, I struggle to find a bikini top that covers. I love that I look like a woman. I’m curvy and sexy, and I’m not ashamed to say that, but having some hips mean having stretch marks from the growth spurt that caused them. Full, thick legs come with dimply, ripples of cellulite. Delicate looking porcelain skin means a sickly complexion, when summer starts, and does about as much good as plastic wrap when it comes to hiding spider veins.

I know that I’m healthy. I know that I push my body. I know that I’m strong. I know that being curvy doesn't mean being fat. I know what I can do. I know, that to have this beautiful shape that I love, I have to be willing to take the whole package, but you don’t. You assume I just don’t run quite fast enough, that I put the weights down too early, that I’m too stubborn to take your advice and change my ways, that one indulgence means I’m a quitter, and that the reason I'm not an Olympian, is because I'm lazy… like it’s actually possible for one person to be flawless, to be idolized in every way, by everyone. I could work myself to death to lose every inch of fat and have smooth, straight legs and an impossibly thin belly, which would more than likely also entitle me to a flat chest, no ass, and the overall shape of a twelve-year-old boy. No thanks.

Everything I do, the decisions I make, how I chose to look, I do it for me. I don’t do it to look like you or your idea of who I’m supposed to be. I don’t do it to win anything or anyone. I do it because I want to. So continue to tell me what I should be doing differently to look more like you, and I’ll tell you that I’m not you, I never will be you, and I have no interest in being you. For every flaw you see in me, I can show you five more things that you wish you had. Criticize all you want, but this is me... every crease, dimple, and bump, and I’d rather be stuck with those last five pounds forever, than to look like anyone but me.

collection of thoughts

Absolutely no rhyme or reason to this. Just a jumbling of lines that came, while I was listening to the radio. Make of it what you will-- this is not supposed to be a finished, coherent, piece.

I hope, tonight, that you will reach
to touch my hand
and forget, forget, forget.

I pray that you are well, that someone
will touch your heart again
Not to be the one you never speak about
Not to be forgotten
since true love wasn't enough
But you couldn't even save yourself
You couldn't even-
Hush now, don't cry.

Only in our memories, now, and in the empty spaces
but we can forget, forget.
When love isn't enough.

When happiness risks more pain than you can bear.
Forget.