(no subject)

We had poems. I remember reading poems to him, making him read me some. There was one that destroyed me, and the sound of his voice reading that poem was one of my most cherished memories. I can't remember that anymore, it's only my own voice reading the poem in my head. Self-protection, I guess.

His body was a sacred space for me, even if he didn't come to the intimacy space with the full weight of his being. ALong with everything else I'm kicked out of temple.

Today is terrible. I didn't want to go to sleep tonight because, you know, then you have to wake up in a day that contains no hope. That moment when you're lying in bed and realise that there won't be another anything? And then you have to take a breath. Then another breath. Then another. Eventually you have to stop crying and snuggling your stuffed animal and get out of bed. Then there's work, a final exam, homework, maybe a friend to hold you a bit. Then the whole thing goes all over again.

And you have to not throw up all over everything. And you have to eat sometime. And there's no possible way to get out of this alive-- everything will be ashes, and when you see him next you'll be another person that he'll never know, and the past will be locked in that box of things you revisit when you're sad.

There are other ways it can go. I can ask for things-- hugs on the weekend, he doesn't want to give them, but perhaps if pressed he will --and the conflageration can be instead a slow and more controllable smoulder. Things can be preserved. This year is Hades' year. He tells me there's more to it than burning buildings and getting out quickly. He tells me there can be some kind of peace.

Okay. That's what I'll do, then. Self-advocacy, here I come.

(no subject)

(no subject)

This Room And Everything In It

Lie still now
while I prepare for my future,
certain hard days ahead,
when I'll need what I know so clearly this moment.

I am making use
of the one thing I learned
of all the things my father tried to teach me:
the art of memory.

I am letting this room
and everything in it
stand for my ideas about love
and its difficulties.

I'll let your love-cries,
those spacious notes
of a moment ago,
stand for distance.

Your scent,
that scent
of spice and a wound,
I'll let stand for mystery.

Your sunken belly
is the daily cup
of milk I drank
as a boy before morning prayer.

The sun on the face
of the wall
is God, the face
I can't see, my soul,

and so on, each thing
standing for a separate idea,
and those ideas forming the constellation
of my greater idea.
And one day, when I need
to tell myself something intelligent
about love,

I'll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I've forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind...
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk...

useless, useless...
your cries are song, my body's not me...
no good ... my idea
has evaporated...your hair is time, your thighs are song...
it had something to do
with death...it had something
to do with love.

Li-Young Lee

(no subject)

Wait, I can look forward to:

My Valiant Saint of the Abyss necklace arriving
Angus
Snuggles & tea with the people who have offered

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

(no subject)

Ohhhh bitterness. It comes in waves like every part of grief.

Like not feeling good enough.

I'm lucky it's exam time. Much as it seems like bad timing, I'm keeping busy and this is a big part of my identity-- I love knowing things, playing with knowledge, being intellectually challenged.

I am lucky we didn't go through a new years' together. That would have made it harder.

I'm worried about him. He's prone to lows and he may well be in one right now. On the other hand, I'm bitterly jealous when he seems to be happy without me. Still, I'm running with the first set of emotions and just sitting with the second. It'll pass.

I'm already impatient to be over it and on with my life-- at least when it's not late night or early morning, when I could be texting him goodnight or waking up beside him, and when it's not that little space between work and class that I used to steal to spend with him.

Also:

I spoke of the beauty of your face
yesterday and today, not often but always;
and I will speak of the beauty of your spirit
and death will not say it is idle talk.

-Somhairle MacGill-Eain

(no subject)

...okay, only bitter a small fraction of the time. Otherwise when I know he's smiling my heart lifts.

This makes me feel relieved.

And it was the second most respectful breakup I've ever received in my life (and probably that I've ever been a part of, to be honest). The most respectful was a boy named Jeff in grade 9, for perspective, and we had kissed and held hands.

Also, woah with beautiful girls being nice to me. I'm somewhat emotionally neutered right now but it's still nice enough to make me nervous.

Guess I need to keep chugging through my weird girl issues.