Life’s funny like that

The first day I really met you was when you knocked on my door. When I opened you had a confused face, a notebook, and your planner. You didn’t wait until I said hello. Instead you ducked under my arm and sat down on my floor. “Help me plan my life. Also pick 5 clubs to go to with me.”

At this point I had met you briefly downstairs in the laundry room and ran into you once in the common area.

But I did as you said. We spent 3 hours sorting through papers and coming up with your life plan. You wrote sticky notes of times I should meet you for clubs and lunch. At one point you cried about the pressures of college. I just told you it would be okay and held your hand.

Life is weird like that.

Fast forward 2 years. You have your own apartment and I come over to study. The two weeks finals hit we were inseparable. We studied together, made gigantic plates of nachos, and slept together. In between sleepless nights we danced to our favorite songs and made art projects.

One night we were so sleep deprived you knelt next to my chair and refused to stop staring at me until I walked you to bed. You fell asleep in my arms that night and every night after during those finals.

Fast forward another 2 years and we are in grad school. We got apartments close to each other. We spent what time we could with each other. You left college for a job and forgot to leave your new number.

Life is funny like that.

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Happiness

The weirdest part of growing up that no one ever talks about is this constant pressure to be happy.

This constant threat that if you are not completely put together in your later 20s that you are a failure.

The thought that your mental health should be perfect. You should have a perfect diet. With a perfect exercise routine. A perfect job. Traveling schedule. Perfect conscious.

Its exhausting always trying to be perfect. To be sane. To be this image.

I don’t know a single person that has it figured out.

We are all spinning around on this planet wondering what we are doing wrong. Exhausted.

The weirdest thing is not being allowed to say “there are times I am not OK.”

We just don’t have to be.

Beating Heart

I know I could never hold your little heart the way you hold mine so delicately in your hands. The worn spots were it had fallen before. You just dust it off like it was the last jewel known to man and you just want to kiss it, to see it reflect in the sun. I know I may fail you but you just pick me back up, dust me off, and shine with me.

You’re my little man.

Strong, independent.

And I know that you get embarrassed when I pick you up from school and scream, “Baby Jacob!” You tell your friends, “don’t worry, she’s a little crazy.” Crazy? No baby, I am in love – with your little smile, tiny teeth, and all too short arms. The “oh brother’” look and “we need to talk.” And I know sometimes I cannot always keep up with you – with Veronica, Stacey, Becca? Who? But you humble me. No matter what I do and who I become you always hug me the same and smile the same goofy grin when I walk through the door. You never think I am more beautiful with makeup or less beautiful after I leave my shower. You say my hair looks good crazy, reminds you of the villain on your favorite TV show. If I am leaving I better be giving you a hug or you’ll run out to my car like I forgot something. That “are you serious” look gets me every time.

Loud. You are loud. Wonderful, aggressive, proud.

I wonder where you got that from. I love you little man. My bleeding heart beats for you. I once read that a human heart can fill a sea in a lifetime. I don’t know too much about that, but I do know I would spill out my sea if only you would swim with me forever. I want to see you grow up, fulfill all your craziest dreams, and watch you experience life. From the first crazy party you tell me about to the wonderful girl you bring to wife. I know you think you will be young forever but I want you to cherish it. Just remember your niece only lived for four months. I want you to live like you would if she was still watching, needing her older nephew to show her the way. I know you are so young now but soon you will be 18 and packing up to leave. I cannot bear not having you with me but remember in all times of doubt to be strong. I am never far away.

I love you beating heart.

Best Friend, Angel

To the boy always pushing girls off the swings for me in head start,

“You know I’ll always be that person”
“Uh… what?”
“I said I’ll always be that person to you. Even now, you know.”

Cody, you were an amazing present I never said thank you for.

I keep wanting to show pictures of my trips to you. I know we planned to go on many trips. We decided this summer we would go on surprise trips all the Fridays we could. We would go camping. I planned all the hikes, and all you were thinking about were the s’mores. Our priorities were never in order, but we still got there.
And now, sometimes, I don’t feel close to you when I’m just standing here. So I start writing, and suddenly you are here. So I’ve been writing more. And I’ve been thinking more.
I know you always believed in heaven. And I don’t think that concept sounds that bad. I mean everyone partying and seeing loved ones again. I’d like to think that’s where you are. And eventually I hope I get there to you. And I’ll show up begging to ride all the amusement park rides. And you’ll say, “That girl wasn’t on a swing, but I pushed her out of the way for you. Ride with me.”
And maybe that’s what heaven is like. Some alternate universe where you can have all the people you ever lost doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing to you.
Sometimes I just want you to know we all still love you. We all still will.

Love Always.


Odd Honest Love Poems

“I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.” – Pablo Neruda

The way you twist and turn in the dressing room, trying to make sure the dress fits you just right. Your tiny little ankles pivot this way and that way as you decide this dress is not for you. The next dress is just the right length. I can tell by the way you raise up on your calves. It is perfect. You pivot around once more before you twirl to your side. This is the dress you want. I have already fallen in love with you ten times before you leave the room.

I know all this because I was waiting on you outside of the room. I could see those tiny little feet move around like artwork. I could almost hear the little pitter patter of your feet as you swiveled around. And now out you come wearing that little smile.

In this messy world this is love. I know it. It may not be perfect, but the way my heart falls in step with your feet I am content to live out this life.

Artist and their Creations

Paint me in, paint me strong. Paint me like the St. Peter’s Basilica. Michelangelo show them. The world forgot what beauty is. How it is carved into the skin by the man that holds his knife and judgments so close to the medium.

Picasso paint me into your blue scenes so I can finally understand how it feels to be shut off, to be cold, and to only live in one color.

Monet, paint me that same sunrise from 1872. You must have longed to see the sun be brought up to that ocean.

Donatello, make me into a burning David, but this time remove the hat, open my eyes, and bleed with me. I want water pouring out of my pores. I want fluid movements that earn for a pull from the tourists that seem to think I am but a precious metal. Make my hands lonely, make them reach out, and make them unfulfilled like every man and woman still searching for their worth in this world.

Neruda, paint me wordless into your poetry. Create me into the forest of your lost love and read to me of your sweet sorrows.

Rembrandt make me into the storm of 1633 in the Sea of Galilee, because I know all too well the pain of being destructive to others and most importantly to myself.

Munch, create the same shocked face of the Scream onto ever man and woman who screams for everyone to love them only to realize that they do not love themselves.

Vermeer, I appreciate your work on the pearl in the girl’s ear. But the mere idea that the pearl was worth more than her body ever was, makes me shutter. Who are we? We have always been awful.

Da Vinci, I admire your work creating the vocal point of compassion, love, and understanding into your work of the last supper. It astounds me that you gave your life to represent a selfless being only to have the followers fall apart at the seam because we cannot get over judging people by the color of their beliefs, outward appearance, and lack of social class. We do not lend a hand because we are afraid of the disease we can catch from others who are not like us. Ugliness is not a disease you can catch that you do not already have. We are all filthy, just in different aspects.

And Van Gogh, paint me into the stars so I can look down on the world and finally understand why we move so fast. As if there is something we are moving closer to but never really touching.

Finally, mother, hold me. Hold me and speak slowly into these damaged ears. Tell me I am beautiful and worth something more than a wife. Tell me I am more than a lower half and promise me, promise me you will never leave. Because I can always go into the minds of artists but you are the greatest creator I have ever met. You never sold me to any museum and you never boasted I was the best child in the world. But you loved me endless and you told me I was one of your beautiful creations.