Everything about you

I want to know everything about you. I want to know how you got that scar on your left knee when you were younger. I want to know what your favorite meal is and what it was like when you tasted it for the first time. I want to know everything about you because I care. I want to know everything so I can wrap my arms around you and learn how to treat you better. I want to know what you do on a random Wednesday after work when it's raining and the world feels dark. I want to know about the books you read in middle school that you sometimes re-read just for the nostalgia of it all. I want to know everything maybe because I care too much or maybe because it's the little things wrapped around the big things that make up someone's soul. I want to know what your first fight with your parents was about and if you slammed doors like I did. I want to know how old you were when you got your first cell phone and who was the first person was that you called. I want to be able to know you on a level that shows you I will be here through it all, the boring, the fun, the sad and the happy. I want to know what it looks like when you peel an orange, if you are the type to eat it with your elbows on the table, juice dripping down your face. I want to be able to tell people if you like your coffee hot or cold or if it just depends on the season. I want to be able to tell the stories of the kind of person you truly are not the one you pretend to be for those who don't know you. I want to know your pet peeves and If one of them is people chewing with their mouths open. I want to be that person for you that you can go to and not be afraid to speak your mind, the person you have told so much to, what's wrong with telling me one more thing. I will hold your stories close and remind you that you are perfect just the way you are and it's because of the little things that make up the whole of you, the quirks. I want to know everything about you, simply because I love you. Love is about showing up and loving all of you, not in halves but in absolute wholes.

Screaming

You are like a diamond, you must boil and break under such heavy pressure in order to shine. This life can’t just be handed to you. You must scream for it, claw your way out of the depths, heaving and sobbing in order to see sunshine seeping into every crevasse of your being. You must feel the pain of living, the rawness scraping against your insides. Life is such a beautiful devastation. You can’t feel happiness without first screaming from your very core. You were born screaming. Did you think that the screaming would end? That you would be born and not have to feel every inch of sorrow that comes with it? You must embrace the dirt of it all, the rawness of being alive. You must cry and scream from your very core in order to not forget for a second that you are a miracle. The stars had to align just right for you to be pushed into this world. You wouldn’t know what warm weather against your skin felt like without feeling chills deep into the marrow of your bones. There is no equanimity without rage boiling deep within your gut. Rage from being born and not remembering that sadness and happiness hold hands. That on Sundays they undress and make love together, becoming one and the same. You can’t feel one feeling without feeling its opposite. You must bare your skin to it all, soak in the madness of what it means to feel alive. What it means to simply feel. You are living, breathing, bathed in love and hate. Drenched in misery and happiness. It’s such a godsend to feel. Feel all that you can deeply, soak and revel in the greatness it is to be you. The greatness it is to be born and drenched in emotions. Greatness comes with being raw and vulnerable, open to emotions like a wound. Feel them all. You didn’t come into this world screaming for nothing. -M.D.L

Red Flags

Red flags feel like home. I grab your red flags and wrap them around my shoulders as if they will be the only thing in the relationship to bring me comfort. As if they aren’t all bad. I make shitty excuses for them because they feel familiar, they feel like safety in disguise. Your red flags pile up and I could set fire to them to keep warm but where’s the fun in that? Let them pile up, I’ll find ways around them with words like “he didn’t know any better.” “this is the first time he’s done that.” Excuses because I have seen these red flags before, in all the eyes of my ex lovers. I’m collecting them now like a long lost collection of jagged rocks. The red flags feel like home because I have collected all the similar ones over the years and put them in a pile in the back of my mind to collect dust. Red flags wave just as good as green ones so why not settle? Settle into the words that sound alright in my mind like “he will never do that again” “he said he’d quit”. Words are just words but they add up like a stack of Jenga. I collect them just as much as I collect the red flags and it’s all adding up now. Red flags feel like home because you have disguised them, wrapped them up with pretty bows. You have disguised the red flags as yellow flags and I fall for it every time. It’s not so bad. This won’t last forever. You’ll change, but the red flags won’t. They stay red, blood red and I use them to wipe my tears because they are supposed to provide comfort but there’s none of that left here. There’s no more excuses for the red flags I have piled up high towards the ceiling. There are no more moments for change. I think I see them all so clearly now. The green flags can’t make up for the red ones my heart is buried in. It’s too late. I use your red flags as a rope to climb out of this hell I’m in, to escape the inevitable. Red flags are red flags and you wave them too often. -M.D.L

Blockbuster

It’s Friday night And we are driving to the blockbuster on 12th street. You know the one, with the blue sign out front and the m&ms piled up in the front of the cash register just waiting to be taken home. It smells like popcorn inside which I never understood because the kernels aren’t yet popped in their little packages. We take turns every other Friday deciding who gets to pick the movie. It’s my turn and time slows down as I scan the shelves for the next best pick. It might be the lion king or something scary like nightmare on elm street even though dad says I might be too young for that one. My dad wears black t-shirts and khaki shorts with socks that are too long. My dad says movies are art and watches cartoons with us every Saturday morning. We pop popcorn with our newly found blockbuster movie, putting the tape into the VCR and pressing play. I shove m&ms in my mouth, feeling them melt into oblivion. Life is good and I don’t know if it could get any better than this. I want to stay here with the movies and VCRs. The melty m&ms and the popcorn that comes in a package. I don’t know in this moment that things will eventually change. That movies will be streamed and subscriptions will be invented that cost way too much. That movies won’t be in a physical form, I won’t be able to hold them in my two little hands, blowing into the VCR before shoving the video in. That blockbuster would go extinct, not to be known by kids in the future. My childhood was movies with my dad, the drive to blockbuster where my siblings and I could barely handle the excitement. Time stood still then and things didn’t feel so out of control. I was lost in a world where movies felt like they solved everything. It was a tradition until time took the trips to blockbuster away from me. Time takes everything away eventually but I hold onto the memories. I can still picture the inside of the blockbuster, the thousands of shelves filled with different genres of movies. I can still picture my dad loading us all up into his Toyota truck just as excited as we were for the next movie to be chosen. Life’s too short not to remember the good times. I soak them in and hold them close to my heart. Time can pass all it wants but my memories will be for keeps. The trips to blockbuster just can’t be beaten. I thank my dad for creating such traditions for us kids, for helping create my love for movies. If only kids today could know the feeling of a blockbuster trip.-M.D.L

Scars

The scar below my left knee, the one I smacked on the bedpost the night he told me it was over, crying in sheer pain. I dont know whats worse, the scars he left me with or the leaving itself. The calloused raised scar on my right index finger, the one I scraped along a piece of glass and then hid from my mother like the shame I have hidden my whole life. These scars are those that make me. Proof that I’m neither invincible nor shatterproof. Proof that I bleed from the inside out for pain I didn't ask for. The scratches that burned into scars on my right shin from tripping over my own two feet and then laughing, having to repeat over and over how clumsy I am. The scars that I will have for a lifetime that rot within me and fester over, spreading inside my body like some disease. The scars people have left me with, to clean and nurture because no one else will. There’s only me left to take care of these parts of myself, the scars no one no longer wants to touch. I collect scars like prized possessions, rubbing my fingers over them as I reflect on which ones hurt the most. Physical scars cover my body but the ones inside me haunt me the most, like ghosts I can't escape from. The scars are permanent, visible indications that I have had a life long lived. I have scraped and clawed my way into being comfortable in the scar covered shell that I am in. All of the memories of a life well lived. The scar on my belly button from letting my cousin pierce it with a dull needle, laughing together about pain we demanded to feel and let go. Scars can show up like battle wounds, I flaunt some of them with pride, knowing I made it through the thick of it all. I made it through the worst of the worst and I have all of the scars to prove it. I collect scars like memories, holding them tight to my chest as if letting them go would be letting go a part of me. We are all just a collection of scars some more painful than others, some not being about pain at all. Some scars are given to show that we can set ourselves free from the cages we put ourselves in, reminders that in the end, scars are a beautiful collection of memories that we have collected and refused to let go. -M.D.L

Life is Worth The Dance

We slept in until 8:00am it’s unfathomable to me that’s considered sleeping in. We normally wake up at 5am and I can barely see the sun even though it’s summer out. I feel refreshed as I stretch my arms above my head and yawn, staring at you. Your hair is a mess and I love the way you simply shine in the mornings. You dance around the house like you have been awake for hours. While I can barely move, my body reminding me that I’ll never be this young or this old again. I feel ancient sometimes, like I have been several versions of myself within the last couple years. We all have shed skin and rebuilt it maybe even stronger than before. I watch you dancing and I think to myself that I hope you never surrender to the years that try to catch up to us. I hope you always have morning dances with made up songs you sing to keep your rhythm going. You’re shaking your hips and I’m smiling, taking a mental picture of this moment like I do every morning. I don’t know if the dances are more for me or for yourself but I’m selfish and will say that I absorb them up, soak in their moment like it won’t happen again. Because one day it might end. This all might end and I would regret not basking in the moment of your happiness. Your morning dances are something I look forward to every time I open my eyes and I’m not sure if you register this. I feel like the dancing is more for you, to remind yourself that you are alive and present. Maybe you too think of the fact that we will never be this young or even this old ever again. Maybe time scares you too so you cease every opportunity to dance. Isn’t that how life should be? A series of morning dances. It’s like a ritual for us, a way to start the day off right. You dancing, me laughing, both at our happiest. I could bask in this moment forever and that’s why my mental picture of it seems so important. I want to hold onto this, to us, to you. You are still singing your made up songs and doing your little jig as you waltz on into the bathroom and I realize I have never loved you more than in these little made up moments. The little made up moments that make up a whole of a lifetime. Our lifetime. The one we have chosen to adventure together. You always dancing and me trying to keep up. I’ll never be this old or this young again but at least I can say I have you, my dancer to remind me that time can hold still for a split second, to remind me that we can revel in the wonderful moments that make up our lives together. We can spend this time dancing.

Did you hate that part of you before someone told you you should?

Its summer and I can feel the sweat trickling down my spine. I hate the way the heat makes me feel. My thighs are rubbing together, making me feel uncomfortable in my own skin. There's a hole where my thighs meet in the biker shorts that I put on under my dresses to try and prevent the chafing of my inner thighs. I guess my thighs were too much for the shorts to handle. The sweat is too much for me to handle. There's sweat in places that only I know exist in this body. I feel sticky as I wipe my hands across the beads of sweat running down across my forehead. It's 102 degrees today and all I can think about is what clothing exists to match this level of suffocation but still allows me to cover up the parts of my body I like to keep a secret. My belly, my thighs, the way they rub together. These body parts of mine all seem extra large in this weather and all the clothing feels impossibly too small. The heat makes me want to shrink. Shrivel up inside of myself like a dried out corn husk. It's unbelievably hot and I tell myself it's okay to wear that crop top but then I find myself wishing it would grow several inches in length to cover my belly that I have been hiding all winter.The heat engulfs me and immediately I'm wishing society wouldn't dictate what a girl can wear during the hottest time of year. As a matter of fact, any time of year really. I feel the underlining need to hide the parts of me that society feels is unacceptable which seems to be every inch of my body. There's fat there, there's stretch marks here. The heat makes me want to walk around naked, forgetting that these stigmas exist but how could I forget? I'm reminded every morning when I get dressed, everytime I open social media, every god forsaken time I have to purchase a bathing suit. Girls can't take up space with their revealing skin. Shrink, shrink, shirnk. It's too hot for social politness. I feel so conflicted in wanting to wear the least amount of clothing so I cant feel it sticking to my body and covering up the parts of me I was taught to be ashamed of. I can feel sweat puddling into my bra and I wonder what it would feel like not to wear one. Freedom. I imagine it feels like freedom but instead my boobs are trapped in a sweat prison dying to be released. I could curl up inside myself thinking of walking around without a bra on. The judgement I would feel would be enough to drown myself in my own sweat. It's so hot that I am gathering zits across my body like wildflowers. The sweat accumulates and the zits are signs of where it sat stagnant. Society says I must cover those up too. It's too hot for makeup, it drips down my face leaving streaks of my real face showing, zits and all. I'm not as ashamed of my zits as I am of my body and I think that speaks volumes. My body takes up space. Zits shrivel up and go away over time but my body wont, it's here to stay. My body shouts "look at me!" and I try with all my might to quiet it's screams with oversized T-Shirts. There's nothing to see here. I'm becoming one with the sweat now. I'm trying to love the skin I'm in more, the stretch marks and curves but the sweat reminds me of all the crevices I have, of all the places that rub together. There has been no point in my life where I have fully loved my body the way it's supposed to be loved, where I have looked in the mirror with joy because this body carries me. It takes up too much space and it sweats profusely in this heat. I say "it" like my body and I are two different vessels. Like I'm seperated and can't be seen with the likes of my skin. I'm covered in cellulite and stretch marks and I don't see a world that would allow me to love this body I reside in. I'm either too fat or too skinny and society won't tell me which one is worse to be. My thighs are rubbing together and there's sweat trickling down my spine and all I can think about is being accepted for the body I reside in. I take up space, I have cellulite and stretch marks because I have lived a wonderful life in this sweat covered body. My body has carried me, loved me when I haven't loved her back. I feel the need to be kinder to this body and maybe I'll start by accepting the sweat that's trying to keep me cool, accepting that my thighs rub together. My body deserves to take up space, to scream "look at me!" because it has won wars and has battle scars to prove it. It has carried me through 102 degree weather regardless of what I wear or what size I fluctuate into for that day. I should love my body for all that it is. Maybe I'll start today maybe just maybe say fuck society and love myself 102 weather, sweat, or not. -M.D.L