This place feels so forlorn;
like the small childhood house I used to live in but now
revisit with a sad smile curling the corners of my lips, and a heavy lump in my
throat. I drive by slowly, remembering it to be so much larger than it looked.
With green shutters and a red picket fence – now painted black, with a yard
cluttered with garbage and my climbing trees torn out – leaving only brown
splotchy dirt behind. The lump grows as I remember the wonderful girl who lived
with me there. Her name was Courage. She taught me to feel my soul exhale each
time I laughed from the pit of my stomach, to dream as big as I can – and if I couldn’t
quite touched what I dreamt, to imagine it and to be proud of that – and to lie
with curiosity in my eyes to look up at the flowers instead of down at them, in
order to see just how new the world could be with a different point of view.
I’ve moved, in a sense, to another place. But this will
always be my home. A small forgotten dwelling, in an insignificant cluster of
tired looking houses, on the outside of a town looking in. Courage is always
with me, though others shake their heads disappointedly and whisper that I will
never find a husband because my standards are unrealistic, my dreams are
impractical, that I need to grow up, get a “real job” and a “real life”, that
the world revolves around money and that if you don’t have enough of it then
you are a nobody going nowhere.
But I don’t want to believe them because I have to embrace these
dreams, imagination, curiosity and courage as a part of my humanness, of who I
am, and how sincerely and fully I love.
I don’t care if those who have it all figured out tell me
that the way I see things is abnormal, or unreasonable. Because I guess I feel
that it’s the most beautiful part of who I am.
I
wish I could speak words as elegant as the ones that bleed from my fingers into
my pen and onto my paper.
I don’t want to go to a movie, or eat overpriced food.
Take me to your favorite place, and let me find the reason
in your eyes. Take me home and show me where you sleep – and I’ll promise not
to laugh at the mess. Show me the window you stare out of most, and show me
what you see, so I can see it too. I don’t want you to impress me, or try to move
me to amazement. I want you to love me, and to know you’ll stay when it’s hard.
I want you to laugh at my bad jokes and understand that I am just as messed up
as I promise I am and simply not care.
For I have known men who could hold my hand without touching
me, and kiss me from the other room. I have known men who knew punk rock better
than they knew the feel of my fingers. I’ve known men who didn’t hear my voice
until I said goodnight at the door per the conclusion of a yawn swallowing
evening. I have known men who grew up too soon, cared too little, and drank too
much. I’ve known men who were artists, tech masterminds, and professional jerks
wearing suits of insensitivity and brass buttons.
I don’t need love, but it’d be much appreciated. I can put
layer after layer of blankets atop my bed, lay upon the mountain of insulation
and keep myself warm, but I’d also love for you to gently fold back the covers
and invite me in so that I can wrap my legs around yours to keep warm. I can
watch Wuthering Heights alone and dry my own tears, but it’d also be nice to
press my face against your chest and dry my tears with your soft cotton tee while
you hold me close and stroke my hair. I don’t need love, but perhaps it’d be
much appreciated.
~C
