Show Your Blue

She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid,
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by–
And never knew.
💙Shel Silverstein💙

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Show your blue.
The sad, the strange,
the unbroken unchained,
the playful, the wild,
that zealous inner place.

It’s not a blue made only for you, so love it and share it in all that you do.

They won’t like it, you see.
Most of the others.
Too much blue makes you strange.
Amidst the beige covers.
You’re thinking too much to stay still like the rest,
And loving too deeply
All this blue in your chest.

And for every day embracing your blue,
The others uncertain and wary of you,
You only grow stranger and more like yourself.
Blue bounces off cupboards and ceilings and shelfs.

There’s too much blue to hide anymore,
So you scramble for shards of masks on the floor,
But another soul that’s been there all the while,
Shows his blue too and two blue just smile.

..disfunction..

20141018-150805.jpgSitting in bed, beer in hand, wishing away the time.

The beer would be better out of the bed,

And the bed would be better with a boy.

Sitting in bed, guitar in hand, wanting a little more time.

The song would be better on a stage instead,

And the bed would be better at night.

 

Boys in Laundry Rooms and Freckles on Faces

~October 2014~

“I don’t like my freckles. They make it too hard to memorize my face,” said the boy next to me in a lecture hall filled with obnoxious college students texting and snap chatting.

First thought, “I’ll memorize your freckles…”
Second thought (which only occasionally comes along to save the day before I speak), “Kira, you were far too intrigued by that sentence than you should have been. You know what happens when you over-think and your brain reaches a weird combination of poesy and cheekiness… Don’t. Say. A word!”
I listened to the second thought… Sort of. I think I either giggled or said something unmemorable or both.
I did however write his words down in my notes. That probably didn’t seem weird at all if he happened to see….

Now comes the part where I over-analyze a statement that was probably not intended to mean anything. Welcome to my mind. This is how it works. For the life of me, I can’t help it.
Here I am, next to a confident, practical guy. Former marine. Studious. Logical. Brown eyes, which is only relevant because… well, brown eyes.

Why would he say something as silly as, “I don’t like my freckles. They make it too hard to memorize my face.”?
I even inquired to clarify and he seemed entirely uninterested in memorizing his own face. Naturally it follows that what frustrates him is that someone else can’t memorize his face.
Why would that matter??
What relevance is there to someone knowing every aspect of another’s face? Every freckle!?
But it does matter. Maybe to Mr.Military next to me it only matters an off-handed sentence’s worth. Probably more. Either way it matters.
It matters to everyone. We all want to be known. We want to be recognized for exactly who we are. We want to be admired down to the freckle.


~January 2014~

A cot shoved in the corner of a laundry room. Warm, at least the warmest place to be found that January. Yellow post-it notes with disjointed ponderings on the walls. No door.

Scene set for the bedroom(?) of one of my favorite people I’ve met along the way.

Never one to say everything he was thinking (or much at all of what he was thinking). Witty. Personable. Blue eyes, which is only relevant because… well, blue eyes.

Repeat standard: person says something I like… I write it down.
A few days later he saw what I had written, and unlike with Charmer McFreckle-Face on campus, it didn’t make me uncomfortable. After all I was a frequent peruser of his sticky notes. Thought for thought I suppose.
What surprised me was that he cared that his words were written there amongst all the other doodles and thoughts. Left to my own I would have assumed it didn’t mean much to him at all. I can think of few things in the world that are as unimportant as my tattered pocket-sized notebook. No one reads it except for me, and apparently strange boys who sleep on cots. But he told me it mattered…

The only reason I can gather as to why a scribble in my notebook would matter is that it was a scribble that made him feel noticed, appreciated… known. If only just for a single thought, known.

If I imagine a world where something about me were to show up on one of his sticky notes, then suddenly I understand.


~August 2014~

Laundry room again. Different laundry room.
Boy again. Different boy.
He wants me because to him I am convenient. I am fun. If I never speak to him again it won’t bother him. I know this. And so I tell him nothing truly meaningful about myself. Only surface things. Only laughter from the throat and not from the belly.
He shows me his books and tells me about his hopes and ambitions.
He’s cute. I like him. Yet I do not want him to know my heart, my thoughts, things I write down in my little notebook when my mind gets too crowded to lock everything inside.

He will know me on a shallow level. A skin to skin and no deeper level. I will think that I am safe because he did not get to see my heart. I will be wrong.
To be unknown by those who are closest is lonely. It highlights an emptiness.
But my sense of self is too worn down to put in the effort. Too tired to place things in the selfless and careful order in which they ought to go.

I think of his sweetness. His perfectly nerdy descriptions of novels and engineering and reptiles. His hazel eyes which are only relevant because… well, I guess to me they are not relevant at all. So I let him slip away without a word, and I’ve put in far too little to care that he is gone.


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Flattery

flat·ter·y

ˈflatərē/

noun

  1. excessive and insincere praise, especially that given to further one’s own interests.

 


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Flattery is poison. But some poisons are more lethal than others.

My mother once told me the most dangerous kind of flatterer, is the one who flatters who he wants you to be, not who you are.

“He’ll take one little piece of you and pinpoint it,” she said, “He’s not lying. It is there. It is a part of you, but it’s not all of you. It’s a tiny part that serves him best. Then he’ll flatter it and glorify it and remind you of it as often as possible, because he wants you to think that is all that you are.”

From what little I know, I know my mother knows more than I do. And from what little I’ve seen, I’ve seen that she is correct.

The man who desperately wants to run away with a girl, to have an affair with her, to do anything that only a man who wishes for a girl to rebel against her own heart and home would do, he will flatter her free spirit. He will praise her boldness. Anything she does that is pushing the limits of convention, that is creative or progressive, he will respond to these things with kisses that taste like honey and words that warm her insides. But her softer thoughts, her love of safety, her want to place discernment over frivolity, he never praises that.

The man who wants nothing but her submission, nothing but a passive girl who will let him rule in a rigid home, he will praise only her sweetness, the way she sits quietly when she reads a good book, the way she smiles politely when other girls get angry or frustrated. When she does these things he will make her feel wanted. He will make her feel “good enough”. But he never encourages her passion, the fight in her eyes, the sharp resilience of her backbone.

Well to the flatterer, don’t bother with me. Don’t act as though my wilder nights define me simply because that is the definition that suits you best. I may forget tomorrow by moonlight and chase after stars, but I will still have ambition beyond the thrill of a moment. I will still have discipline beyond my desires.

And don’t glorify me in my best Sunday dress when it is rigid and still untouched by windy afternoons. My heart is steadfast but the rest of me is always in motion. So don’t act as though I am best when I follow every rule and it is an unfortunate fluke when I go against the grain. If you don’t like me barefoot, you don’t like me at all. If you prefer I never let my hair down, I prefer you go away.

You may flatter my eyes

my mouth

the freckles on my nose

anything superficial enough that I might have enough silliness or vanity or insecurities to listen for awhile,

But flatter any fragment of my soul and you’ve already lost.

I watched the grownups play that game as a child.

I learned the rules before you even asked me to play.

 

~ w e a k n e s s ~

 

I would rather be kind to you at your worst, than think it is my place to judge when you deserve my kindness.

I would rather care for you when you do not care for me, than think for a moment that your worth is determined by your thoughts towards me.

I would rather give to you when you have already taken from me, than only give when I am given something in return.

I would rather look like a fool for helping those who hurt me, than look strong for refusing their needs.

I would rather lose every battle and come in last in every race, than surrender to the thought that I must love less to gain more.

The indifferent are filled with power of self.
I am too weak for indifference.
And so I will rejoice in my weakness.

Rain of blessings

 

 

Muse (1)

Be my muse so I can write a story about the way you burn toast and leave your socks on the floor. I don’t know if anyone else will think the story is any good, but it will be my favorite. I will write a chapter on how you can’t hold a pitch but I still love to hear you sing, a chapter on your blue car with a rip in the back seat, a chapter about your once red hoodie now fading to pink. You still wear it anyway because you like the way my nose crinkles when you take it off and throw it onto me.

Two chapters will tell about staying up ‘til dawn, laughing at all we’ve left behind. A chapter and a half to show that I was wrong when I ran away, wasting my time.

A page to retell how I knew you unequivocally, but only as a child when we went frog hunting in the pond.

A paragraph for your favorite book, which you read five times in the seventh grade.

A sentence for the tattoo you regret.

A word for when you close your eyes.

The story isn’t being paced quite right. Authors cringe and editors turn me away but I just keep writing because it reminds me of you and I never want you to go away.

So another chapter about when we debate never-ending subjects in the sunshine.

Two more about fist fights with your cousins in the snow.

Another about baking Angel Food Cake just so you could throw flour in my hair.

Then another for the laughter that sang from the ground up as I watched you get stuck in our favorite tree.

One more about scotch by the riverside.

Be my muse and I’ll write it all down.