Black.
The sky,
but it's not a good day.
The sun is shining without a cloud,
but my soul is dark and rainy and an amorphous mess of in-betweens.
Ruts.
In between "yes" and "no,"
Indecisive -
Not quite knowing where I am,
Who I am,
What I am,
or where the fuck I am going.
Hopelessly lost but with an eager, blubbering, overflowing-to-the-point-of-discomfort intensity to move past ambiguity to Clarity.
Oh, Clarity. Ungraspable clarity. Just out of reach. Always.
I only possessing nebulous ideas of right and wrong.
Who is God, even?
What does He want from me truly?
I can't know.
Doubt. Doubt is the color of the sky. But in a darker shade. Deeper. Between navy and indigo.
Almost black.
My doubt is my greatest enemy but my ultimate Protector.
It keeps me from venturing out of my comfort zone.
My bubble of doubt is safe and I can use my doubt as an excuse for my lack of faith.
I can use it as a crutch. A crutch preventing me from spiritual growth that I SAY I so desperately need and want but am not willing to do the work for.
Ha! Funny that people consider faith a crutch. But no, doubt is mine.
Doubt keeps me from movement.
Doubt keeps me still.
But not a type of stillness synonymous with peace. Please, do not misunderstand THAT.
There is NO peace for me.
I am rather in a rut of anxiety. A stillness like a cage.
Trapped.
Wanting help, but from who? A God I don't believe in enough?
Well, shit.
"Be still and know I am God?" More like, "be anxious and doubt God exists."
"Lord, I believe; help me with my unbelief?" But what if it's more like, "Lord, I DON'T believe. Help me with THAT."
Faith as small as a mustard seed supposedly moves mountains.
Well, holy Almighty One, what if my faith is smaller even than THAT?
Borderline nonexistent.
That sinister, perverse color of the sky - masking as something beautiful.
It is manipulative. It does not accurately portray the color of my heart.
Maybe a darker shade, sure.
But even that is not doing my misery justice.
We'll call "that color" black, instead.
Obsession
"I love you."
Oops.
I meant to say, "I think your cool new Jordans are nice," or, "You making me breakfast was the highlight of my week," or "Goddamn the sex is good."
But instead my waterfall of words tumbled slow motion-like over my mouth, salty like the ocean's waves...salty like your plumpy-pinkish purple lips kissing mine in the too-dark-room where I could hardly see your deep brown eyes, burning a hole into my bright blue ones.
"I love you" means "I'm scared and you got a new job and I don't want you to leave without considering me first even though we've only known each other 2 months."
But you still looked at me with fear in your eyes. Feeling in your heart. And sorrow in your seemingly unreciprocated words, "Feelings?" you stumbled, "I mean I have them. Just not like yours."
Just...not...like...YOURS.
But you told me you feared heartbreak.
You told me you hide your emotions in fear of getting hurt.
You told me you run from feelings.
Does that equal "I love you too" somewhere in the deep recesses of your heart?
But at this point, after disappearing and not reaching out for days on end...
I realize your ghosting means you meant it.
You don't love me, too.
My "I love you" came at the "worst possible time" (your words, not mine, verbatim).
Goddamnit.
And now you're in Colorado again, leaving me to pick up the pieces of my quirky, awkward, broken heart.
In fucking Virginia.
How many miles.
HOW MANY.
1,668.
Can I drive there? Fly? Fucking run?
Maybe if I ran I could run the feelings out and they'd be gone by the time I arrived on your doorstep.
So I could tell you to your beautifully chiseled face, "I don't love you anymore"
And you could feel MY pain for goddamn once.
The Waiting
Its branches sway back and forth
Singing to me slowly
Singing a song of resilience
Of pain reprocessed
The tree is an old soul with a weary smile
It speaks silently of pain, then struggle, and finally patience
The waiting
The excruciating in-between
The god-awful accepting of non-acceptance
Then the branches stop swaying briefly
Enough of a pause to remind me
To be a brilliantly illuminating metaphor
That I am in a period of waiting too.
A Madwoman.
I figure I don't paint anything. And that it is either white and blank to symbolize my craziness and need to possibly be locked up in a straightjacket due to my "crazy love" for this guy I still love madly, my first love, at 18, who I haven't seen since 2003 during that fateful long ass ride on a filthy Greyhound bus 33 hours back to Virginia from Kansas. We both knew it was over. Our last kiss was a pitiful representation of a love story over. One of such hope, destroyed by distance and mental illness (mine).
Or it could be red. Just red. Painted over the entire thing. A bright, crimson, blood red. Red for love, or red for blood. Because love that intense, love that would die for the person, love that bleeds over into life 14 years later, is nothing short of mad.
I am a pathetic madwoman who may truly never, ever, ever love like that again.
But if I never love again, I consider it joy to have had my first and only love be this man. A ruggedly handsome, broody and brilliant Hispanic poet. One that would turn my life upside own in the best way.
White or red. Crazy or excessive/obsessive. That is what my love means. And as unhealthy as it is...
I wouldn't change it for the world. It is a part of my story. And I will honor it.
The Door to Fear.
Brown.
Not black.
A little red.
Glow from the candlelight.
Spotty.
Sparkly dots.
That, all of that...
And fear.
When I close my eyes, free reign.
Intrusive thoughts.
Obsessions.
Darkness and vulgarity.
Ugliness and cruelty.
I'm so afraid to close my eyes.
I hate who I become when I close my eyes.
If it weren't for reflexes...
I'd not even blink.
@RubyPond
Motherly Love.
My mom doesn't like my new boyfriend because he is black.
My mom thinks I am "misled" because I am no longer a Christian.
My boyfriend is not a Christian, either.
That's strike 2.
My mom is racist and self-righteous.
My mom believes I am still a virgin at 31.
She just found out I am on birth control.
Sixteen partners?
Strike 3.
