My Language

A poem begins with a lump in the throat.  ~Robert Frost

As I continue to try really hard to stay with the things I'm feeling rather than revert to running and diverting, I'm going to just keep channeling and writing ... who knows, maybe I'll create something beautiful out of hurt or pain. What better gift could I give myself? I'm tired of running and trying not to feel stuff I've avoided feeling for months and months, and even further back than that. I realize it's only prolonged the process of moving forward. I can't afford to scrutinize it anymore, judge myself or bury it. I can only observe it and just let it be what it is. So I'm going to own it.

It'll get old, I'm sure ... to some of you ... and may not make sense to others. But I've sacrificed enough of myself for others.

I'm doing this for me. 

My Language

You spoke to me … your ocean eyes

Butterflies

Incessantly flying inside, teasing the edges of my heart

You spoke to me … you knew

I was young -- yes … old, young, barely touched

Never so deep

You spoke to me … your mouth

Unlocking

And I, soaking it up like an arid sponge

Wanting the dream

I still dream

You spoke to me … your breath

Whispering

Secrets buried beneath my skin, aflame

And I, tumbling, falling, terrified, elated …

You spoke to me … your spirit

Placating

Confusion burning at the fridges, choking

So many firsts – pure … tainted, taken, given

But no, I didn’t lose … I feel lost

You spoke to me … your heart

Fluttering

Contrived, feigned, manipulated, real … to me

You did not take, though I feel taken

But no … I gave

And I’ll give again

~C~