beingabletobreathe

I am the exact same girl I was 10 years ago. I am still terrified. I'm still expectant and hopeful. I still cry when I think of sweet, cool air falling on me through the night. That fragile, awkward time when I let everyone have a piece of me, without asking first what their intentions were-I'm recalling it like it was yesterday. Just last night, when I handed myself over on a refurbished silver platter. Cleaned up enough to make me look appealing. It feels like hours ago that I felt my heart beat in my back, or slipped off my bed, into some color. When I wrote down in beautiful words all the experience I was hoping to wear. Like a necklace

        Sex isn’t always what you think it’s going to be. I watched him take my clothes off like he was a stranger. He pulled at my buttons and undid my bra quickly. Like it was a race. His fingers slid across my shoulders while he slipped off my top. His hands were rough and I remember thinking, maybe rough hands means he knows what he’s doing. He didn’t really look at me while it was happening, he looked in my direction, but our eyes never met. I lowered his jeans and asked him if he thought this was going to take a while. I had a lot to do that day.             &#

 Today is the eve of your birth. Generally, one wouldn't know that. Usually, it comes as a surprise. But, your mother is impatient, and she was ready now. Pros and cons. But, it gives me time to say a few things before you come into this world completely unprepared for everything it will throw at you. Tonight is your last night sleeping and growing safely in your mommy's belly. It's your last night of real, true, absolute peace. Peace you will  never know so well again. And the first thing I want to tell you, is to enjoy it. Savor it. While you're surrounded by fluid, and every word is muffled, and you feel invincible, take it in and enjoy it

My skin hurts. Literally, my skin. Not my muscles, or my bones, no. My skin. It's not burnt or calloused or cut. It's sore. My clothes hang around me, and that is all people see. Clothes hanging on bones like a metal hanger. When I pull my belt tighter, my skin pinches my spinal cord and tells my brain I'm in pain. I press my oversized hand to my chest and wait for a knock. I wait too hard, or too long, or something too much, because my skin pinches again. I am sore. My outsides are sore. My cheeks are soft and when I hold them between my fingers they hurt like the rest of me. I have no injuries, or marks anymore. Nothing that obviously, and

When I was little, it use to amaze me how colors were made. In art class I would sit and mix paint because blue and red didn't stay the same when they fell in love. Every single color found its match and danced beautifully as I swirled them together. Black and white were my favorites. I'd pour the creamy paint into a bowl and watch as black and white swirls, turned into grey swirls and owned the container holding it captive. Grey was amazing to me. Because black and white are nothing alike, and grey is in the middle. Black is dark and scary and demanding. And white is graceful, and trusting, and clean. Grey is nothing. Grey is bland. And safe

When the sun hits the trees just right, I didn't know this, but it looks like the world's on fire. Its rays sneak through the branches and reflect off of cars and land on the table across from me. I'd much rather stare into the street than look around me. Out there I start to feel like a year, even a single night. The wind is chilly and I can feel it past my skin. This sort of thing doesn't happen anymore. This sort of feeling got lost within too many nights leading up to another move. All the boxes and trips and packing is exhausting. And when you do it so often, eventually settling down becomes like unpacking, you only bring out so much, be

Rain is murdering my window. The wind keeps sounding like a scream and it echoes in my head even after the trees stop casting spooky shadows on my wall. The water streaks the glass and races toward the bottom of the pane, I pick the underdog and I always lose. It's kind of hard to win against gravity. The lightening illuminates my bed and I can see my frame shaking in the storm. Pretty soon my eye lids are heavy and even sooner the sun is up and I slept through shakes and terror and being afraid my house would float away.  Afraid that the waters would rise to my second story and my daddy wouldn't hear me scream and worse he wouldn't come to r

The paper of the book was rugged and used and starting to turn awkward colors from spills and sun and too much life. Corners bent and the edges were all soft like feathers rubbing against the tips of your fingers, or better, your wind burnt cheeks. The binding cracked and little pieces of dust floated into the air and took to the wind. The cover was red once. A beautiful, shining red, vibrant like the blood in my veins. Or so I imagined, as I let them echo out a story. The corners held tears and rips and soft fabric that I think, maybe, once was paper. The middle pages began falling out and tape just wasn't enough to suffice anymore. The ink

        Maybe it started when I began placing too much worth on the little white seagulls that fly over the bay. Maybe when the sunshine started being responsible for my happiness everything started to go downhill. Maybe it was the sound of an air conditioner whirring loudly in the background, or the feel of smooth cotton around my bare arms, or the way the warm wood was soft under my feet. I think it probably started with a lot of things. Maybe it started when those little birds started feeling like an excuse to smile at a big body of water. When the rain started lasting longer and the sunshine seemed

I can't even write about the color of his eyes. I can't tell you that they were blue or green or that they sparkled when he talked about love and sports. I can't say he had the greatest smile or that his laugh was enough to make birds sing. I can't say his hugs were out of this world and that receiving one felt like receiving a gift. Like every time was like unwrapping a smile. And maybe that sounds like too much. Maybe that sounds too good. Like whose arms really hold that much heaven. Maybe it sounds too perfect, But these are things I cannot tell you. I can't reminisce his childhood filled with silly tales of dragons and snow ball fights a