Tag Archives: intimacy

A Few Good Men


The Marines and I have both been looking for a few good men for some time now.  (Well, actually, they need a few while I honestly only need one.)  When I first began online dating I assumed I would meet a lot of good men and that, among all those good men, there would be one who wasn’t perfect but who suited me perfectly.  What I found instead were droves of men who had attained middle-age with little knowledge of themselves.  Among them were those who seemed completely unaware of their needs, their neurosis, their selfishness, their general lack of social skills, and any part they themselves had played in creating their current circumstances.  Then there were those who I’m sure were not necessarily bad men but who were simply, as my sister would say, “odd”.

You can only go on so many failed coffee dates and then most of us, men and women alike, have to take a break from online dating and focus our energy in other ways in order to maintain our optimism about love, life and the pursuit of happiness.  I took just such a break in the last few months.  Then over the holidays, having a lot of time off work and feeling ready to dance again, I updated my profile and threw it out to the universe with a hopeful sigh.

To my great surprise and joy the outcome was emails and subsequent meetings with several good men.  They are each and every one of them, intelligent, respectful, interesting and self-aware and I am completely enjoying my time getting to know them better.  We’ve shared drinks, meals, movies, and conversations about our life’s journey and our hopes for the future and I imagine we will remain friends regardless of the outcome.  It’s been like a breath of fresh air to someone who’s been dating for way too long.

I suspect that part of the reason it’s working out better for me this time is because I’ve been determined to broaden my own horizons.  I tend to be attracted to and to fall for the tall, dark and handsome types.  The problem with this is that judging a book by its cover has gotten me into repeatedly bad relationships over the years.  This time I promised myself I would place more credence on what each match had to say, how he presented himself, and how he approached me, than in his looks.  Not that any of these men are unattractive, they are simply not my usual 6’2” tall charmers.  So, just as the Marines have adjusted their definition of what it means to be “one of the few” over the years in order to enhance recruitment I’ve found that adjusting my perspective has worked as well.

Since I’ve written enough pieces about my bad dating experiences that they have their own category in the archives (https://freethetwins.wordpress.com/category/mckenzie-james/bad-dates/) I thought it only fair that I report here that I’ve found there are still good, single men out there who are looking for relationships with strong, confident, intelligent women.  It’s way too early to tell if one of these men is the match I’ve been looking for but, whether or not one of these new friends turns out to be perfect for me, they have already renewed my faith in men.  What a wonderful way to begin a new year!


Everyone Loves Me!


I have been told I have a charming personality.  I suspect it’s partly just the personality I was born with and partly from being a middle child in a large family.  I’m basically a happy person. I get a kick out of life and find my fellow inmates on this planet fascinating.  I have made friends easily through my adult life.  I also tend to be very loyal so a lot of my closest friends I’ve known for over twenty years, some since childhood.

I remember sharing my angst over moving to New York City for a job a few years ago with my sister.  “What am I doing? I don’t know a soul in New York?  How will I meet people?”  My sister laughed and said, “You’ll make friends everywhere you go the way you always have.”

And, of course, she was right.  If I go to a new hairdresser, within a few visits we’re best of friends and meeting for drinks and dinner.  When I change jobs my new staff is usually happy I’m there and I make friends among my colleagues without difficulty.  In fact, at a recent job, my boss actually told me one of my fellow directors was jealous because staff liked me so well so quickly.  I just seem to be able to sense the type of support that each person needs to flourish and am somehow able to bring out their best.  I can prompt people to try and succeed at things they didn’t think they could do previously.

I put others at ease.  I laugh at all the everyday occurrences that make some people angry and frustrated and I get others to laugh along with me.  I’m the one that gets the party going.  I coax those who wouldn’t normally dance out on to the dance floor.  I laugh at myself. I use humor as an ice breaker and I’m often the one who helps others to relax and begin to enjoy each other’s company.

I’ve been told I’m adorable, fun, funny, charming, even enchanting.  (Okay, that last one may have been my Mom!)   Everybody loves me: my neighbors love me, the plumber loves me, babies love me, the cable guy loves me, my friends’ husbands and boyfriends love me, my friends’ kids love me, my nieces and nephews love me.

So what I don’t understand is this:  How is it that if everyone I meet loves me I can’t find just one, single man who loves me too?  I only need one man to find me enchanting — not an entire world.  Just one, single, stable, honest man who thinks I’m as special as everyone else does.  I only need one man to share my everyday life, my joys and sorrows, my laughter and tears.

Even at my ripe old age I’m still hopeful that this man exists somewhere and one day we’ll meet.  We’ll connect and he’ll see in me all the good that others do and eventually he’ll look across the room at me the way my girlfriend’s husband still looks at her after 35 years of marriage and say, “I’m a damn lucky man.”  And I’ll be across the room smiling back knowing I’m the one who’s truly lucky.


Happy Holidays!


 

I got a” Happy Holiday” greeting the other night

from a man I used to date.

He’d dumped me hard more than one time.

So why be nice now?   Isn’t it a bit too late?

I thought I wasn’t angry any more.

I thought I’d moved on and could feel no more pain.

But his holiday wishes put an edge on me

and they seemed particularly lame.

I wish for him several things

but none of them have to do with holidays or joy.

I wish he’d suffer at least as much as me.

I wish someone would treat him like he’s their toy.

I hope someday he realizes the mistake he’s made.

But it’s too late to change his fate.

I hope he forever wants what he can’t have.

I hope he tries but never has another date.

I hope his clothes never fit right again.

I hope his face breaks out in hives.

I hope he grows hair where men never should.

I hope he learns to hate being alive.

I hope his car breaks down every day.

I hope his bank account gets emptied out.

I hope his penis remains forever limp.

I hope his ankles swell up with gout.

I hope no one will be his friend;

that men walk away and women run.

I hope his misery never ends.

I hope he never again has any fun.

I hope his balls swell up and fall right off.

I hope the doctor can’t stop his cough.

I hope dogs and cats chase him wherever he goes.

I hope he grows numerous warts upon his nose.

I hope every day for him is worse than the last.

Meanwhile I hope I’m having a blast!

I hope he learns from his mistakes

no matter how long on earth it takes.

More than all this I wish for me

that I had never really cared.

I wish I hadn’t let him get into my heart.

I wish my pain had all been spared.


Comfort & Joy


by McKenzie James

 

I always long to touch you;

you’re more than I expected.

You wrap me in your warmth each night and

I never feel neglected.

 

I see you lying on my bed;

a luxurious, peaceful presence.

I know another night with you

can only bring contentment.

 

I can count on you always being here.

It’s hard to believe you’re new.

I’m already used to the gentle comfort

as I snuggle up to you.

 

You bring me satisfaction

each and every day.

We share rest and relaxation;

you’re worth any price I had to pay.

 

You make me feel warm and comforted

from my head down to my feet.

I love you more than I can say

my beautiful Land’s End flannel sheets.


Does He Know?


by McKenzie James

 

Didn’t he know I’d always love him?

That I’d always put him first?

I would have always stood beside him;

stuck by him through better or worse.

 

I would have helped him reach his goals.

I would have kept him from the cold.

I would have picked him up when he fell.

I would have loved that man through heaven and hell.

 

We could have shared passion, laughter and life.

We could have held each other close every night.

We could have built something that others would envy.

We could have, we should have, but it simply ended.

 

Does he know what he is missing?

Does he know what we might have had?

How many people wander forever searching

and are never offered such a chance?


Friends for Life by McKenzie James Part III


Meredith sat back down at her desk and picked up her pen.

I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve sat alone in this apartment with only the television to keep me company.  Tonight, I came home believing it would be another one of those too quiet evenings but I’ve already had several interruptions.  Sometimes I feel as though I’ve read everything there is to read, traveled everywhere there is to travel, seen everything there is to see, and yet something is missing. 

Listen, when it comes to the obituary…just list Marina as my surviving sister….leave the rest of them out of it completely.  If they couldn’t be close to me in life…they don’t need to be recognized in death.  Do whatever you want about a memorial service.  You know I have never understood why people care what happens after their death.  It is truly the height of self centeredness to try and control things after you’re dead.

The house phone? Carlos must have forgotten something.

—————–

“Thanks for letting me use the house phone, Carlos” Eleanor said.  Eleanor knew Meredith wouldn’t ignore the house phone.   She needed to get through to her and she was fairly certain tomorrow might be too late.

She noticed that Meredith had become more and more withdrawn and quiet lately.  She knew Meredith was saddened that her love life had never gelled but she was such a fabulous friend to so many.  Meredith had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember.  She had changed Eleanor’s life for the better the first day they met.  It was freshman year and Eleanor blushed just thinking about what a techie dork she’d been back then.  Lost and confused on her first day of classes Meredith had helped her find English Lit and then later helped her understand English Lit.

Since then they’d been through everything together from childbirth to planning Eleanor’s mother’s funeral.  She couldn’t imagine her life without Meredith in it.

“Carlos, did you forget something?” Meredith asked as she picked up the phone.

“It’s me, Mer.”

“El, what are you doing?”

“I’m downstairs, can I come up?”

“Well…um…yeah… of course…come on up.”

As Eleanor got in the elevator she found herself thinking back to that day at the campus coffee shop when Meredith decided she’d had enough of Eleanor and Jimmy smiling shyly across the room at each other and got up and invited him to their table.   After that day, it was the three of them against the world.  They got through everything together: finals, Jimmy’s parents’ divorce, graduation and the search for what to do next.  They’d been through a lot and Meredith was still the only one who could make Jimmy smile when he was in his lowest funk.

Eleanor knocked on Meredith’s door.

—————–

“Hey, Meredith, sorry to just pop in but it’s an emergency.  They just hung Jimmy’s last painting at the new gallery and he’s a wreck.  I got him settled down and left him at Louis’ with a drink.  Can you please come out and work your magic on him?”

“’Well El, I had planned to get a lot of writing done tonight.”

“Come on, Meredith, you know you’re the only one he’ll listen to.”

“Okay, okay, let me get my wrap”

As they stepped out on to West 86th Street Meredith took a deep breath and took in the streets of New York in early fall.  She’d always loved this neighborhood with its wonderful, bustling, busy, streets.

As they walked toward Columbus Avenue to make their way to Louis’, Eleanor linked her arm through Meredith’s and spoke.  “Do you want to tell me what’s got you so down lately.”

“I’m fine, Eleanor, really.”

“No, you’re not fine.  I’ve known you for 30 years and loved you for every day of it.  Do you really think I don’t know you well enough to know when the world has you down?  You’re an amazing woman, Meredith, and a woman I can’t imagine not having in my life.  You give so many people so much of yourself.   You normally take on the world with an energy that’s frightening to behold.  You’ve been withdrawn and quiet for weeks.   You haven’t stopped in to see us at home or at Louis’.  Something is terribly wrong.  If you don’t want to tell me about it, that’s fine,  but I’m not letting you out of my site until you can ensure me everything’s okay.“

She looked over at Meredith and saw the tears quietly streaming down her face.  She stopped and wiped them off and hugged Meredith close to her for several long seconds before opening the door to Louis’.  They stepped into Louis’ Place and he greeted them with open arms, planting a kiss of each of Meredith’s cheeks as was his custom.

“My favorite customer returns!  I haven’t seen you for weeks and Jimmy tells me you haven’t been yourself.  I am fixing you something very special tonight of my own creation.  It will make your taste buds burst with joy and make you happy to be alive.  Sit…sit…   Marie!  Bring my guests some fresh, hot bread.”

Jimmy smiled up at her.  “It’s an intervention.  What did you expect?  We love you Babe.  Sit and sink your teeth into these delicious crusty calories.  If my gorgeous face and Louis’ food and hospitality can’t make you feel better then there really is no hope.”

Meredith smiled in spite of herself and sat down between Jimmy and Eleanor.

“Pass the butter,” she said as she grabbed a hot crusty roll out of the bread basket.   “This is no evening to worry about saturated fats.  I love you two, do you know that?  Thank you so much for watching out for me.  Quite a few of my friends have checked in this evening.  It’s hard to believe with so many who obviously love me I was feeling isolated and alone. ”

“You never have to be alone as long as El and I are still kicking, you know that Mer.”  Louis chose that moment to sit a platter featuring a scrumptious, roasted Poulet de Bresse on the table.  There was a group “Mmmmmm……” as they began to dig in and share one of the simplest joys in life.

—————–

Meredith let herself in to her apartment and dropped her wrap on the chair by the door.   She looked over at the clock on the mantel to see it was close to 2am.  They had sat at Louis’ for hours, just like the old days, talking, laughing and simply enjoying the closeness the three of them shared.

She walked over to her desk and looked down at the letter she’d been working on when El had called.  She sighed, picked it up and ripped it in half once and then again and tossed it into her waste basket followed by the pill bottle.

Tomorrow was another day.  Who knew what changes would come with it or what difference the next 24 hours might make?  As long as there are people who love you, and there are tomorrows, the exploration never ends.

THE END


Friends for Life by McKenzie James Part II


(Letter to Eleanor continued)

Well, you’ll know by now that Laura got the part.  Was there ever any question?  How that enormous voice comes out of that tiny girl I’ll never know.  No one hearing her on stage would ever believe there once was a question about whether or not the child would have a normal lung capacity.  That’s one of the things I did right with my life is help out Dottie when she needed help with those babies.  She always thought I was doing her a favor, but you and I know it was the other way around.  I loved mothering those kids.  But they’re all older now and they’ll b e fine on their own.  My work there is done and I rarely see or hear from them now that they’ve been launched into lives of their own.

I know you can’t imagine what it’s even like to be alone every day.  You have Jim and the kids and your house is always bursting at the seams with visitors from all over the world taking advantage of your wonderful hospitality. 

You’ve been a good friend, Eleanor; a lasting friend who has always been there for me.  I thank you for that. I feel badly leaving you this last difficult task to handle for me.

Meredith heard someone knocking on her apartment door.  It must be Carlos, her doorman, because no one else could have gotten by him and up to her floor without being announced.  He knew she was in her apartment so she’d better answer.  She didn’t want him worrying what was wrong and using his key.

Carlos knocked on Ms. Meredith’s door.  He wouldn’t do this for the other tenants, he thought to himself, but Ms. Meredith wasn’t just any tenant.  She treated all of the staff like real people, always asking him about his wife and family, remembering him on holidays and special occasions, not acting as if he was less because of his job.   He had just signed for an international special delivery for her.  The protocol would be to phone and let her know it was there and then leave it on the desk for her to sign for it when she had time to pick it up.  That’s exactly how he’d handle it for anyone else in the building but he thought international special delivery might be really important and Ms. Meredith looked like she needed something to cheer her up when she came in tonight.

“Hello Carlos.  What are you doing up here?”

“Hi Ms. Meredith.  This came in for you just moments ago.  I thought it might be important and I wanted to get it to you.”

“Thanks Carlos.  You know you didn’t have to do that.  I would have gotten it next time I was down.”

“I wanted to.  You’re always good to all of us and I thought you deserved special treatment for a special delivery.”

“Thanks Carlos.  You have a good evening.  Tell Maria I left her some bulbs for the roof garden in the back office.

“Okay, Ms. Meredith.  I’ll let her know.  You have a blessed evening.”

Meredith opened the Express envelope and immediately knew who it was from simply by the beautiful handwriting on the interior envelope.  It was obviously an invitation from Martina and Joaquin.  Martina’s hand writing was exquisite, always had been, even though she’d had no formal education.

Please join us to celebrate the publication

 of Joaquin Aguirre’s first novel:

Evenings in the Vineyard

Saturday, November 13, 2010, 7pm

Aguirre Vineyard

San Rafael, Mendoza, Argentina

Inside the invitation was a hand written letter.

Dear Meredith,

You know how upset I was when Joaquin decided to turn over management of the vineyard to Benjamin to spend his time entirely on his creative pursuits.  I was angry at you for a long time for advising him to follow his heart.  I was worried that Benjamin would fail, that Joaquin would fail, and that we’d end up with nothing. Now here it is two years later and both have been successful in their pursuits and none of us have ever been happier.

You must join us for the celebration.  Joaquin listened to you when you told him to do what would feed his soul and the rest would take care of itself.  It’s because of you that he gave himself the time to write the most beautiful and provocative work I have ever read.  (Okay, I admit to being a bit prejudiced.)  It’s a wonderful book.  I know you will love it.  I will let you in on a little secret.  It’s dedicated to you!

So come visit us, my friend.  We love you and can’t wait to celebrate with you.

          Love always,

                   Martina

Meredith had met Martina and Joaquin over ten years ago on a trip to Argentina and they had hit it off immediately.  Two years ago during a visit Joaquin had admitted to her how unhappy he had become.  He told her that the Vineyard, although a part of his family for generations, was not really what made him happy.  They had sat up long after Martina had gone to bed and talked about art and writing and the things that made their hearts swell.  She had told him to feed his soul and the rest would work out.  Thinking about it now, where did she get off telling anyone that?  Had her life worked itself out?

To be continued…


Adventures in home making


I never intended to be a homemaker, not because of disdain but rather because I am rarely impressed with my organizational or cleaning skills. Yet in this in between year of life that I also never intended to have I find myself enjoying the process entirely too much. A job is going to be an extreme hindrance in my propensity for cleaning the kitchen and catching up on my shows, not to mention my coffee dates with girlfriends and the new hobbies of sewing and pencil sketching that I have picked up. I’ve come to enjoy my leisurely mornings of juice, coffee and a run followed by clean up and then writing. When one of my mentors suggested we meet for coffee at 9 AM I gasped audibly.

“Does it have to be that early?”

One morning I was feeling particularly inspired after several days of half heartedly keeping up with everything and decided to tackle the Everest of dishes in my sink. Cleaning and scrubbing and loading the dishwasher ensued, and satisfied with myself and feeling productive enough to ride out the next two hours without lifting a finger I opened the cabinet and pulled out the empty container of dishwasher soap. A litany of curses flowed out of my mouth and, completely put out, I closed the cabinet door with a flourish and petulantly put my hands on my hips. After all, True Blood was not going to watch itself but somehow these dishes had to be cleaned. I glared at the offending culprit but the snide little green bottle did not magically fill up.

“So clean your dishes will sparkle!” it cruelly teased me with.

I opened every cupboard I could think of wondering if we had any more soap when all of a sudden, like an angel parting to show the holy way, a stream of light fell across my sink and illuminated the deep blue bottle of Dawn that I had been using to clean my non conforming dishes with.

“Soap is soap!” I sang to myself and joyfully filled the entire container in the dishwasher with the magical blue liquid. I shut the door, hit the right cycle and off I went to occupy myself with whatever was next on my list.

Fifteen minutes later my house smelled incredibly clean and I felt an enormous pang of self love at my own brilliant genius. The dishwasher never smelled this clean when we used the boring old dishwasher soap! I practically pranced down the stairs to get a glass of water and then screamed with a combination of anxiety and panic when I saw what awaited me.

The dishwasher was spewing out bubbles like an angry white monster and my counter tops and floor looked like someone had gutted them with a knife and they were oozing soap instead of blood. It was everywhere, small specks of it flying around the air and the dishwasher just kept spilling more and more out as if to punctuate the stupidity of my decision with each passing bubble.

Immediately I thought to myself  “This is all Asher’s fault” followed with an ever increasing sense of dread of what he was going to do when he came home and his house was just a giant bubble, consumed with soap and water. I briefly considered running away and claiming that I had no idea what he was talking about but thought better of it. After all, who was going to believe that the next crime wave was an intruder who was putting the wrong kind of soap in dishwashers? If I was going to make a run for it I needed a believable alibi.

“This is why we need a dog” I muttered to no one in particular.

Finally I faced the fact that the dishwasher was still running, there were still bubbles everywhere and that something had to be done. Standing in my underwear in the kitchen while it was being continuously bombarded with soap bubbles was clearly not a viable option. Using my hands as machetes I cut through the attacking forces until I could see the front of the machine and found the customer service number. Spitting soap out of my mouth I frantically dialed the number and waited.

“Thank you for calling customer service! Your call is important to us and will be answered in the order in which it was received”

“MY KITCHEN IS FLOODING WITH SOAP BUBBLES. IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY AND GOOD SOMEONE ANSWER THE..”

“Hi this is Matthew… ma’am is everything okay?”

“NO. Um. Hi Matthew. I was wondering if say, someone had hypothetically put dish soap in the dishwasher instead of the right detergent, just hypothetically, what would one have to do to fix that?”

There was a quiet silence in which I imagined Matthew covering the phone while laughing and then high fiving his buddies at the customer service line. I hate Matthew. Then his voice came back on the line with an almost unbelieving strain of restraint came forward over the line.

“Miss, please do not put dish soap in your dishwasher. And if you did then run the rinse cycle until there aren’t any more bubbles, it should only take a few cycles”

I stared at the mountain of bubbles cascading out of the dishwasher and wondered if the angry sounds emitting from the machine were normal or if the soap had worked its way into the inner pipes of the house. I imagined lying in bed that night reading to Asher and having the pipes groan and burst, the soap bubbles frothing in revenge until finally the walls and ceilings exploded in an ecstatic display of clean white lace. He was not going to be pleased.

Arming myself with three towels and disposable gloves that I imagine psychopaths also keep stock of I took to battling the soap with ferocity. I cleaned, swept and chopped at the bubbles until finally I could see the controls of the dishwasher.

16 rinse cycles and three hours later, the bubbles had subsided and my floors were spotless. It is exhausting business, channeling Lucille Ball.

That evening the door opened and in walked Asher. I was attempting to play off the whole incident as non-chalantly as possible which as I came skidding down the stairs to greet him was instantly betrayed by the look on my face.

“Baby why does it smell like a Laundromat in here?”

I sighed inwardly and related the events as calmly as I could. He ducked his head down and pursed his lips, attempting in vain to keep the smile to himself but it burbled out of him and shook his shoulders. He does the only thing he can which is wrap me in a hug and wonder how on earth this tornado of a girl hasn’t burned his house down yet, and worse yet how it is that even if she did the story would surely be worth the ashes.


The Long Good-Byes


In my experience breaking up isn’t as hard to do as the song suggests.  The actual break-up is usually short and sweet.  The hard part is the much longer good-bye that takes place inside your own head for months, sometimes years, after the relationship ends.  The things you were too polite to say; the things you wish you’d said but you know they couldn’t hear, and; the questions you wish you’d asked but knew they wouldn’t answer honestly.

NOTE:  Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Dear Garei (pronounced Gary),

                I know you think spelling your name strangely makes you unique and interesting but really it just makes people think your parents were stupid.  No, I don’t think smoking pot and drinking daily is a normal pastime for a middle-aged male unless he’s a total loser.   It’s called addiction.  Did you really think a woman would continue to respect a man who couldn’t make it home from the bar without stopping for more beer at the grocery store and then had to ask her to come in with him because he didn’t have any money to pay for it himself?

 Dear Geoffrey,

I told you the first day we met that I had no problems dating a recovering alcoholic but that if you ever took another drink the only word you’d hear from me again was good-bye.  Did you think I was kidding?

Dear Frank,

                You have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to such an extent that you can’t fit anything, or anyone, new into your daily routine.   Astronauts go to the moon with less planning than it takes you to go to Hawaii for a week.   Just for the record, having sex between 3 and 6 in the afternoon won’t fit most working women’s schedules even if that is the only time of the day when your “mojo” is working.  Plus, it was just plain stingy of you not to share your blueberries with a woman you were willing to share your bed with.

 Dear Paul,

I can’t believe you didn’t even call to apologize after the woman you failed to mention you were living with chased me across the yard and tried to pummel me.  I was pleased to note as I drove away that she had redirected her aim toward the true villain of the affair.

Dear Samuel,    

               Exactly how long had you been sleeping with the woman you told me you’d “just met”?

 Dear Bruce,

I vacillated for months between wondering if you were the cruelest man I ever dated, or simply the craziest, until one day a good friend reminded me that the two are not mutually exclusive.

Dear Larry,

               Please stop calling me.  No, I’m not mad.  Sadly I never cared enough to get mad.  The truth is you simply bore me.

 Dear Steven,

You’d pull me towards you and as soon as I got close you’d push me away.  I still can’t decide if it amused your ego or if you really were that confused.  Regardless, it was suppose to be a relationship – not a swing set.

Dear Geezzz,

                We haven’t broken up yet.  We’ve barely begun to see each other.  But you did say you’d like to see your name on my BLOG. 

               When you do break up with me I suspect you’ll do it using very few words in the same strong, responsible, calm way you take care of everything else.

 

McKenzie James

October 6, 2011


Original Sin


What a common scene, two people on a park bench in the middle of the night demanding perfection and facing the inevitable truth that it does not exist. I am broken from your knife in my back and you are screaming for me to let you in. One more fight, another head bent in despair. How many other couples reach into unlit caverns to try and make sense of this pain. Humanity is comprised of masses desperate to be unique, mortals looking for eternity in someone else’s arms.

You sit there alternately asking and demanding forgiveness, bringing up my lighter crimes that I have allowed you to own as perspective to what you have done. I have never seen you desperate before, but I still cannot breathe from this. I expected this cruelty from everyone else and it is shattering me to realize you are common. I want to tell you, shake you so you feel me; I am no one to ask forgiveness from. I am not holy. I am not perfect. A reel of my transgressions against you plays in my mind and I wonder if silent lies are all that holds us together. I wish I could be on a cross with the high-minded claim that my blood will save you but it won’t. It is not a blessing and mixed with dirt creates nothing but mud. A snake in our Garden of Eden has exposed us.

Listen to me; listen closely so that you understand. I am afraid of what you can do, of what you are doing to me. I am on fire with what you have done. How desperately I want to cling to my vision of martyrdom, isolate this event so that you are culpable and I am the gracefully wounded. But I cannot. How many nights have you already betrayed me? How many more nights I have already betrayed you.

This is dirty business, falling in love, and it’s going to eat me alive. I do not own a single hair on you and on days like today, I hate you for it. You have mistaken apathy for freedom and I have granted you permission to bear my silence. What if this is doomed? I have spent hours agonizing over the potential of losing you and my solitude is causing you to lose me. What if this is the mistake that erodes and one day you come home to your house being exactly as you left it with one room missing? Will you miss me? Swear your house is haunted because my footsteps will remain on your carpet? Hang figures of me on the wall as protection? My fear is not that I am made up of skin and bones and that you can indeed penetrate me, my fear is that you will overtake and then forget me.

That I cannot speak these words aloud to you seems a sin you will not bear.  But what would you have me do? This is not an anonymous cloister that I can simply regurgitate all the demons swirling in my head. I cannot look at your face while I spout venom and confession is a simplistic art form at best. We are simply two people who have done the ordinary and fallen in love. Nothing unique, we are daily. If we crucify ourselves it will not matter, and men in dresses will not quote these letters I write to you. These letters are sin not scripture. I am forgiving you, not for your transgression but for your humanity. Consider my confession, then- tonight when you fall next to me remember I can leave you too.

I want to cling to my grief, to the ‘how could you’ and the accusations of not loving me enough. But in the face of this I realize I am tiny, of little importance. Days go by from the fifteen seconds it took for you wound me. Slowly hours crawl through me and I am steps closer to being in the ground. I do not have time for grief and I can no longer wait to be saved. At this moment I realize that my imperfection is mine to own and I will grow, from grief to grace. You will not make me afraid and in return I will give you opportunity to face your weakness and slay it. We are both criminals aghast at being robbed. So you have hurt me, done what I have been so afraid of and I am still living. I made you a god and am now charged with forgiving you, and I will. Night after night I will peel this off of me and hand you the blood until I am new again. Finally I realize that love is a filthy verb and requires more blood, spit and tears than it does pink bows and champagne glasses. It is an action not a faith. You will hurt me again and I need from you the courage to admit you are flawed and broken. I will give you my dark corners and come down from this holy altar I built for myself. Be careful with this, with me. We are just two people in the end, just like all the other except that I love you and you, I must believe, love me.

I will breathe this onto you, I love you I love you I love you.


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