Fuck You & Your Fucking Crushes

How many times have I gotten upset about this? How many times have I asked you not to talk about this?

Well if you want to get jealous, watch out for such-and-such.
Ummmm Audrey Plaza.
Oh that cashier is so hot.
Oh my ex was sexy.

Fuck you. Just fuck you. I don’t give a shit anymore.

Fear Getting In The Way

We both get upset about things because we are worried about losing each other in some way. I love you more than I ever even imagined was possible and the thought of losing you is terrifying. It doesn’t make sense to push you away because I’m afraid of losing you but that’s what we, I, seem to be doing.  

Holding on to that fear is getting in the way. Fear, the root of everything negative, prevents me, us, from being truly honest, which I have come to understand as the heart of intimacy. If we are afraid of losing each other, our words are filtered through that fear and our actions are coated in it. If we act through fear, we will be laying a false framework between us, distancing us instead of building a true understanding.  

The solution isn’t to cling on tighter. It’s not to try to control everything and know what’s going to happen. Instead it’s to loosen our grip. It’s to stand in front of each other and say “this is all of me. I’m not sure if you’ll still love me, but these are my fears, these are my secrets, these are the dark corners of my soul, and I need you to know me, all of me.” There is no guarantee that feelings won’t change, but they will be true.  

I know that I don’t always react with empathy to your fears. I respond to them as judgements or a pointing out of my soildedness. And maybe on some level that’s what they are. But I don’t mean to hurt you and I don’t like pushing you away because of them. I can understand and accept them both ways: as judgments and as a fear. My task is to not let them scare me and make me recoil and to be more understanding of the fear behind them. 

A Fuck Toy’s Life

Low-cut tops, tight pants, dark makeup, long hair, butt out, bikini posted, giggle, smile, and act like you don’t know they’re looking at the play you put on for them. And for what? For some dick? For attention? Don’t they know that standing pretty, being desired, might make you feel important… but making yourself an object of desire gets you no respect, no stability. Not now, not later, not ever.

Just enough to get by, then find a man to fill the gaps. You have no other value, so you better give him children. Now you’ve lost it and he’s looking for other pretty things. Feeling used? No, you made this yourself.

A dramatized reflection on how I see my life going… how my mother sees her life… how too many girls live. 


When You Say I Love You

If I think logically, this won’t last. It’s not meant to at our age. So when you say “I love you”, I look at you and see a man. A man on the other side of the country with a good job, a beautiful wife, and happy children. He’s the best father in the world: silly and kind and loving. And his wife is giving and secure in herself. They love each other in a way I never could love you. In a way I don’t even think is real.

But that’s what I see. Even though I love you more than I knew was possible- heck, I didn’t even believe in love -I pull myself back when you say those words. Because I know that woman is out there and she isn’t, and I don’t desire her to be, me. It may not be intentional, but I am a placeholder. And a hollow placeholder I will be. Clinging onto you until you scrape me off.

I don’t think I can handle this

I don’t think I can handle this. You’re making me feel like I’m crazy. I know there’s nothing there. And given this situation, her being gay, I’m not concerned about anything happening. I actually do trust you though. Something I never thought I’d believe. But still my stomach twists up. Even if nothing happens, you probably like her hips; even if- you probably like her sharp humor; even if- you probably like her confidence & talent; even if- you probably like her listening ear. And the way you look at her sometimes when you talk, it makes me feel something I can’t explain. Not anger, not jealousy, but something unsettling. Something that makes me want to up and hide. Shuts me down and sobers me.  


I can text you. I can call you. But it’s not the same.  

It’s not the same as laughing with you  

It’s not the same as being near you 

Feeling your hands squeeze mine 

Stretching the webbing of my fingers. 

Feeling your voice vibrate your chest 

Petting your bear hair. Arm hair. Chest hair. 

It’s not the same as kissing your lips.  

Feeling your sizable hands on my leg 

My stomach. My chest. Wrapped all around me. 

Feeling like I can melt into you 

Into certainty and tenderness.