“how are you?,”
she asks,
like people always do,
as if she, like most,
does not understand the absolute impossibility of the question
it becomes a frantic puzzle to decode:
does she really want to know the truth?
how can I possibly sum it up in a simple answer?
or is she just asking in the meaningless way people do,
only wanting the answer,
“fine”
because I am not fine
I have stories I only tell my friends.
Well, stories I’d only tell my friends, if I had any.
I often compose entire conversations in my mind: dramatic pauses, emphatic inflections, animated exclamations.
Even slow, sheepish whispers during the most difficult parts.
I feel my face move in tandem with the words, my heart race with every tumbling emotion.
I feel your compassionate hand reach for mine.
I feel your face light up with glee, your chest ignite with laughter.
I imagine how you’d feel being trusted with my stories.
I imagine how I’d feel trusting you with them.
Sometimes I tell them out loud to the empty room, wishing you were here to listen, whoever you are.
I have stories I only tell my friends.
Well, stories I’d only tell my friends, if I had any.
she had always felt different,
separate,
other,
scalene in a world of equilateral
no matter how close she got,
there was always distance,
a gap unable to be filled,
an aloneness that permeated every relationship,
leaving her empty
and that emptiness was a bullet
she could never dislodge
-art by Maryam Savoji via Pinterest
Sitting on the well-worn, blue speckled carpet, she laughed at her friend, Anna, who’d just said something off the wall, as usual. Laughing wasn’t at all uncommon for her, she laughed all the time, but for some reason this laugh had left her feeling this recurring empty feeling, a sudden jerk into reality, as if the laugh was fake and didn’t quite belong. It occurred to her that maybe it wasn’t emptiness she was feeling, exactly. Then it hit her like an unexpected tidal wave, throwing her instantly off-balance.
She felt alone.
Holding her smile so no one could tell what she was thinking, her eyes scanned the room from face to face. Scattered about the room were the six young women who knew her better than anyone ever had. Yet, that made her sad, all of the sudden.
If she were to describe them to anyone, she’d tell them they were her best friends, her sisters. She’d do anything for them, that’s just the way she was made, even if any one of them might not do the same for her.
When she’d met them all four years ago, it was like a whole world had opened to her. She’d had best friends before, but living independently with and amongst these young women provided opportunities to see them every day, any hour of the day, in happy times and bad times, and all the in between. For the first time in her life, she had a place to belong.
She was likeable, compassionate, and loveable. It was just her personality to mean what she said, and to say what she meant; people could count on it, and often did. She was dependable, passionate, and caring. She was open and accepting of others, even when people around her were not. Standing for what she believed in wasn’t something that was negotiable. It just was. Caring about people and having a genuine interest in getting to know them wasn’t an act. It just was.
Some were drawn to her for those reasons. Yet, those qualities also scared many people. Most, actually. She shared of herself, but not everyone did the same, or with the same depth.
Some didn’t want to receive that offering. Often, it was too much. She was too much, at least that’s how it felt.
Over time, she learned that many people wished to keep her at arm’s length. They wanted the benefits that came with being her friend, but didn’t always wish to reciprocate. Some would only take. And take.
The thing was – she never pushed people away. Especially the ones sitting in this room, even if it felt like they didn’t always reciprocate.
Not only could she not risk causing people to feel abandoned or rejected…..she needed them. That was twisted and made no sense, and she knew it.
But, they were all she had.
Except, as she scanned the room, looking at each and every one of her ‘best’ friends, she felt so alone. It wasn’t the first time this feeling had hit her, but this time it was like an anvil on her chest. It was hard to breathe. In the pit of her belly, there was an aloneness that squeezed and knotted the muscles, rising like bile, choking her.
She knew these women. She had spent the last four years listening, even to all the things they didn’t say, helping, even when they hadn’t asked, and giving them everything she had to give.
She loved them.
But, in that moment, she knew they couldn’t possibly love her, not in the same way. They didn’t really know her; they hadn’t allowed that to happen.
And you have to be known to be truly loved.
-image found on Tumblr, original source unknown; older piece given a facelift
save it,
I’ve heard it all before
no need to back pedal,
or think so quickly on your toes,
trying to explainit all away with excuses
and beefy rationalizations
don’t you dare twist and pull
and try to point that poison
back at me
it’s not me,
it’s you
own it,
or walk away
because if you don’t,
I will
~image credit Pinterest, source unknown
I’m not the most book-smart gal,
and I process rather slow
no formal education taught me
the things my heart knows
no golden plaque on the wall
could measure how my spirit grows
and no fancy dress or bank account
could replace my love that freely flows
I’m just a girl who pays attention,
who shows up when others go
who listens and loves all of you,
who in tough times helps you tow
who isn’t embarrased to share deeply,
to let down barriers and overflow
and, I need that kind of friend, too,
whose love isn’t afraid to show
who understands that the only way
to be truly loved, is to be known
-image via Pixabay
beside me races the brawny river,
Mother Earth’s lifeline cascading from snowy peaks and forcing its winding path
down, down, down,
it’s miracle reaching through the circle of all living things
rippling and licking at the pure mountain air,
it opens and closes its sunlit doors
as it folds and rolls over itself,
kneading and knotting the collective thread of the life it feeds,
past, present, and future into one connectedness,
while projecting its time-ridiculing ROAR
I feel in my bones,
the reverberation of its irony –
fast, fast, fast,
it flows,
it’s commanding voice reminding me to
slow, slow, slow,
to listen
for we all end up back where we began
if we only
follow, follow, follow
our spirits are ROARING,
the lifelines feeding our souls,
forging our winding paths,
speaking to us with powerfully pure voices,
ones which are not ever meant to become
white noise
-image is mine; poem dedicated to my mountain friend; shared as part of dVerse’s open link night
there’s a place where there is no sound
where breathing doesn’t exist
and awe is all that courses veins
where nothing unearthly is missed
there’s a place where past collides
with future on prodigious scale
where something larger than ourselves
infiltrates the heart, the holy grail
there’s a place where the soul is still
where oneness with all is felt
and reverence for life and love a’blooms
where once cold has dwelt
oh, Rocky Mountains, high
thank you for gifting my soul
for calling to my dearest friend
who helps to make my heart whole
I’ll miss you both
-photo is mine
perhaps solitude is my destiny
being alone isn’t easy
but diving through my own sea
trying to understand the waves
often makes more sense than
asking anyone else
to grab diving gear
and I’m not a surfer
~image credit scubadiverlife.com
she was never content with average
with stagnant status quo
artificial, sunshiney glow
or fairytales sugaring the pages
no, she wanted wild, life in bloom
listening to her spirit
loving those who could hear it
sharing laughter when the thunder booms
-image via Pixabay
Heart Breathings 