Muh Huert

I was watching suit life on deck one time, when this chick bailey said something like this, "he kept baking me heart shaped cookies, and no, i don't mean cute little valentines, I'm talking like four chambers and an aorta"

The logical part of my brain loves this, and thinks its kindof cute.

I mean sure, the part of your body that processes gallons of blood a day isn't typically considered cute, but love that he loves her with his real heart, or likes her, whatever.

It isn't about cutesy valentines and cheap bathroom cologne and a single rose

to me its about real everyday things and truly breathing with someone and a flower shop or a greenhouse built in memorial to your first love who yeah you might hate now but there's a part of you that just wants to keep planting tulips together *no pun intended*

I'm pretty sure that there wasn't any actual real meaning behind this random line off a television show, but random things like that just stick with you i guess, and my heart is full of random things that I hear and feel and forget almost instantly sometimes to come back six or ten years later to remind me of kissing j.r. saxton under the bleachers at my brother's basketball game in the 1st grade or to the time i fell out of a tree and had a scratch from my bellybutton to my chin and couldn't wear a real shirt for three days or even the first time i saw my mom and dad hold hands in lee's marketplace or when my brother's and I would answer the telemarketers phone calls by making fart noises into the phone...

this is the taste of nostalgia for future distant past memories and the wonderful moments i can and will have

these are the moments i am composed of, they are what shapes my heart

peace.

I'm sick of looking back, I want to look forward.

     I wrote this in the 9th grade, I forgot about this night because of memory suppression, then a year later I wrote this to piece together the memory.

I'm sitting in the waiting room. 

"How are you?" They keep asking.

 "I'm fine" I keep hearing myself say. 

Easter has always been a sad time for me, since the time I have been old enough to know what is going on, I've been the only child who still wants to dye eggs, or participate in childish holiday activities. This year Easter was exponentially worse. It was the same Easter night that I awoke to the only sound worse than an infant crying, a mother crying. I wasn't old enough to drive yet, but being the youngest of five, three of whom are brothers, I knew enough.

             There is some sort of dam that humans have, which can hold back liquid hysteria until it's somebody else's problem. It wasn't until I was sitting quietly by myself in the emergency waiting room that the dam breaks and I am flooded with the images.

 Whites. 

Blues. 

All over the floor, 

all over my mother's hands. 

She's shaking. 

She is shaking so hard. 

All over. 

Blue lips. 

Whites, everywhere. 

Blue veins. 

White spots dot the floor I stand on. 

They laugh at me because they know I am helpless. 

Blue eyes, they stare vacantly at nothing. 

White monsters laughing at me from the linoleum.

               I shouldn't be in shock, I knew this was coming, but my brain refuses to allow all the blue and white to process. It's not true. It's not. This isn't happening. But that's not true either.

Everything is fine now. Or at least that's what they tell me. But I still cannot walk into my kitchen at times for fear the ground will be stained white. Again and again, I am brought back to the somber smell of that waiting room, the blue carpet, the blue and white textured walls. They surround me like I am a fugitive.

Sorry for the somewhat depressing post... I don't do well when thinking about the past, my parents misplaced my childhood, it's up to me to begin the future.

A Love Letter To My Shoes. From My Pants.

I have this theory that you can tell a lot about a person by the kind of pants they wear.
While this isn't entirely accurate I have just been thinking about it all week, and so here you go, an insight to pants.

Dear Lefty,

I feel the beginning of your fabric brush the end of me,
and I can't help it,
a shiver runs down my seam.

Your laces have the most beautiful curves,
but I can't stop thinking about how amazing it would be if they came undone,
so that every time our wearer walked you might flip up and skim across the outside of me.

The scattered bits of conversation between the touches,
You tell me you are self conscious because she leads with her right foot.
And how she puts the right shoe on first,
But baby, I don't mind.
I don't care about starting trends, or being a hipster,
I just want to fall off the shelf where I am kept and lay on the floor right next to you.

I can't and won't tell you how jealous I am of the socks,
I don't want to be in the dark,
or breathe in the sweat all day,
and my favorite part of my job is swinging around in the open air,
seeing everything.
But I would give that all up to be right next to your sole.
I would give up the open air just to be that close,
to feel your cotton on mine.

But for now I am just a pant-leg,
and I don't have the opposable thumbs necessary to untie your laces.

So I will stay here,
waiting for the moment when she trades us both for sweat pants and a pair of slippers.
waiting for the moment I can lay with you on the carpet,
and wrap you up in my denim,
and finally,
be still.

With love,
     The Left Pant-Leg



Inspired by Sarah Kay:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIAQENsqcuM