Don't Ask

I would just like to preface this post by saying that I very rarely write poetry...it's not a form I can breathe in. However, the first few lines of this were stuck in my head, so I let it write itself. Love it or hate it, it's up to you. I'm not even sure how I feel about it yet; I'm oscillating between extremes. ~A
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Don’t ask
Because I don’t know
And if I did
I probably wouldn’t tell you

Honesty isn’t a fair trade
When all I hear are lies

You look at me
And I feel myself
Falling once again
As much as I say I’m fine

Facets

I wrote the following passage at a time where I was struggling to understand what I wanted and how I felt. I’ve come a long way from the mental state I was in when I wrote it, and a lot of the progress came from physically listing everything I was feeling – sorting it out in a physical way is infinitely easier than attempting to muddle through it all in my brain. If nothing else, I feel like it is a fascinating way to visualize how my brain processes difficult concepts. After writing, and talking through everything with a few close friends, I reached a place where I was no longer pulled in 100 different directions. And now I’m slowly approaching my own internal resolution. So here I document how I felt, as a reminder of who I was, who I want to be, and how I thought through a disheartening situation.

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It has become increasingly clear to me in the past few days just how many facets of me I am balancing. My ability to compartmentalize has always been there, and I think it’s helped me significantly in the past, but sometimes I think it just bites me in the ass. This is me, trying to elucidate how the hell my brain works. And while I may be writing here about my various reactions on one specific topic, I actually do this for pretty much anything that causes me to stress out. Let’s see how many facets we can find. Shall we?

Anticipation

They sat, side by side, on the couch. His feet were planted on the floor, hands resting by his sides. She had her legs folded underneath her. She was leaning slightly toward him due to her chosen position, hands in her lap. They both stared at the TV, but to be honest, she hadn't the faintest idea what she was watching. Her back was stiff, but she couldn't come up with a way to shift her weight that wouldn't seem awkward or fidgety. She settled for moving her hands out of her lap and letting them land on the couch.

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He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. So still. Prim even. Was she really that enthralled with what was on the TV? He'd been looking toward it, sure, but he had been unable to focus on anything other than the girl sitting next to him. Her eyes seemed to be analyzing every pixel, memorizing each scene. Perhaps he was the only one in the room whose mind was so distracted. He did not want to be watching TV. Not with her body so close to his. But if she was enjoying it, he could restrain himself for a bit longer.

4 Letters

This is an old piece I wrote, but it's been on my mind a lot recently, and thus, I'm republishing it here. Sorry if you've read it before. ~A
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Love. A word. 4 letters.

It can be hollow – a word said to fill a space, a silence. It can be life-changing – the very thing some people live for. Some verbalize the word to everyone they know. Some avoid it. Blaspheme it. Some search high and low for its meaning. For the feeling it should evoke. Or simply to hear it used toward them.

Something I Need To Say

A friend recently came to me, upset with his college’s LGBT group and, in particular, an event they were holding. In celebration of the beginning of LGBT history month, the group held a picnic of sorts in a well-traveled area of campus, with drag shows, a ‘priest’ wandering around, draped in a rainbow shawl, and games such as ‘Pin the Tail on the Bigot’. My friend, a gay man, was disgusted by the display. In his words, “What are straight people supposed to think of this? What am I supposed to think of this?”