Monday, July 31, 2006


I don’t know you, but I know what you’re up to. I sleep in your secrets, wrapped in ribbons of your perfume. I’m a stranger in my own home, my own bed. You’re a ghost, a shade of a memory that rests between us, in the space that we once shared. You’re the line that he won’t cross, and I’m the intruder.

You’re tucked away in his pocket, the palm of his hand, the dip of his ear. You’re the salt on his lips, the foreign touch from his hands. I taste you in him, I feel you through him. You’re the hum that escapes his mouth when he breathes; you’re the one he sees past me.

I know that he avoids ‘we’, forgetting he’s a half. I’d try to be like you, if I knew who you were. Mimic your laugh, the tilt of your head, your words. Dress with garters under my skirt, and black lace under my blouse. I wonder how to twist myself to fit into your mold. You linger long past the whisper of flirtation; you’ve settled yourself into my life. No priest could exorcise you from my house, my life, or his.

I look for you everywhere. You’re haunting me, taunting me, laughing when I look over my shoulder. I know you’re there, I can feel you when I can no longer feel him.

I sleep in his secrets, bound by words he never says. He’s a stranger in his own home. He’s the ghost, a shade of a memory that rests between us, in the space we share. I’m the line that he won’t cross, and you’re the intruder.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

of least resistance

I want someone who’s been in my life previous to me falling in love with them. Why did I think it was a good idea to take this path? I’m doing something different. I was putting myself out there. Therefore, I can’t be blamed for being single. I took a chance, I ran at the risk and while it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, it made me realize: it just isn’t going to happen this way. I am not an easy way out kind of girl. I know now that things don’t come easily to me, and that this is just my fate. My cards have been dealt; it’s up to me to know when to fold them, know when to hold them, know when to walk away and know when to win.

This path is not falling in love. What a joke. It’s finding a good enough candidate and forcing it to happen. It’s having expectations – already planning out what you will and won’t tell the other person. There’s no other reason to be there, other than to hopefully cash out a winner.

I cannot take this path because it goes against everything I am. Jumping into a frigid body of water, and flailing around is not my style. Beyond taking risks, I never show my true colors until I know the water is warm. I never jump in, and not for fear of drowning, but it takes time for me to be drawn out, or drawn in. One never knows my true colors upon initial meeting, not after a few drinks, not after warnings about wrong impressions. You absolutely cannot rush me; I take my time.

Putting a profile on a website declaring who I am and what I want is everything I am not. I might wear t-shirts that bark snarky comments, but despite you perhaps knowing my bra size and my affinity for sarcasm, you really still know nothing about me. It takes time; months even, to see me. Who I really am as the wolf inside the sheep. No profile that only allows me only 2000 words is going to properly convey who I am. To anyone.

It’s not common knowledge that I like having my hair pulled when things get heated. No one knows that a gnashing of teeth on my earlobe sends me into a tailspin or that I like it when it hurts. When people discover such things they often follow up with a shocked, “Why are you single?” Because I don’t advertise, or broadcast what turns me on. And when I display kindness, thoughtfulness, or love they wonder even further how I escaped being snapped up.

I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve or my story on my surface. I traveled the path of least resistance because I wanted to put an end to the endless barrage of questions. I wanted someone to love, without having to consider if my love was wanted or reciprocated. I don’t want to be standing alone in a sea of couples at Christmas, because then, then everything that is wrong with your life is glaring, too apparent, and hard to swallow. When all you see is the perfect in others, the flaw in you is too obvious. I don’t want to have to have someone to make somebody else comfortable. I don’t want to have to have someone to fit in.

It’s not a compliment when people ask why you’re single, and then list all the reasons you shouldn’t be. Being single when you don’t want to be is hard enough, but then to deal with sideways glances, build-ups that lead to let downs is too much to bear. Being made to feel inadequate because you need someone to be someone is fucked up. I am an entire person by myself.

Love is not going to come to me over a broadband connection. It’s almost as unlikely as being a Bachlorette. I don’t know much about where my life is headed; I have ideas, dreams, and goals, but there is one thing I know is true. I’ll only find love when it is already a part of my life.

Sunday, July 23, 2006


I don’t even know you and I don’t like you. I don’t have to either. I’m off the hook – he allows me to dislike you. In every person I dislike I try to find one quality about them I could truly appreciate. Everyone has a story. Deaths, broken relationships, long winding love stories. I seek these stories as a way to relate. That even when someone’s obnoxious, lazy, and rude or just a snob, I can touch on one thing in their life. One thing I can understand. One thing that makes them human, just like me.

There’s only one quality of yours that I like. And that is him. With all my efforts to see past your surface, I only come up with his depth. Try as I might to search for something to empathize, I can only relate to him.

I’m excused from being friendly, even just polite, when you sweep past me as if I were not even there. You allow me to overlook you when you omit me.

Sometimes I feel bad about the way I feel about him, but usually, I just don’t care. You forgive me when you disregard him. I’ll never forget him.

Friday, July 21, 2006


I use the words fear, afraid, scared, and terrified way too much. There’s too much in life that I am afraid of: The dentist, the doctor, the eye doctor. I worry that they will tell me something I don’t want to hear: that I have to have a root canal, that my genetic disposition dictates I’ll have cancer somewhere down the line, that I am slowly going blind. I’m afraid of the dark, the unknown and deep water. I am afraid that I will never get married or have babies and will die alone.

I’m making myself available, putting my flaws and vulnerabilities out there, for someone to take. I’m opening up to the idea that someone will see all the shadows in my life, all the mess, the caked mascara and dust. I’m not afraid that it won’t happen. Now that I am trying, I could really care less – take me or leave me, just don’t dick around. I’m not afraid that a potential flame could hurt me; snap my heart in his hands, or judge me.

I am afraid that I’m going to be looking out the corner of my eye, trying to gauge the pulse on someone else’s life. I don’t care so much at this point if he hurts me, but I couldn’t bear to be hurt by you. I’m afraid that I’ll never stop wanting you, that even when I’ve found someone who measures up – he’ll still never be you.

Sunday, July 16, 2006


You’re bigger, stronger, faster.

You’re not Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde – you’re Hyde through and through, and I wish she had seen it earlier. She’d bush it off, the way you’d yell at her for over boiling the pasta. She’d swallow hard, but never react when you’d get mad at her for being late. She’d explain to her friends that you were just drunk when you slapped her for talking to the bartender.

Her family watched in fear when you’d handle her a little too roughly. The bruises were hard to dismiss, but she’d cover for you. She loved you, but she was afraid of you. She was afraid to upset you, make you angry, she feared that she would lose you if she ever told anyone that you pushed her down the stairs.

She obeyed you, learning to do things the way you wanted them. But no one is perfect, and sometimes she would forget. Your neighbours would sit on the edge of their seats, phone in hand, prepared to dial 911 at the first note of a scream. You would never allow her friends or family to visit, afraid that they would know how you control her. But behind your back her sister would visit and in soothing tones would tell her to get out.

“But I love him,” was always her response. She loved you despite the sex becoming too rough, your hands becoming too hard. She only wanted to make you happy, and when she failed, you punished her. You held her under your thumb, under your body. You’re suffocating the life from her.

I was watching last night, from the pitch darkness of my room. I head you making threats, banging your fist on the side of the van. Four letter words spilled out of your mouth one after the other. With the cut of one ‘C’ word, I lunged for the phone. You’ve got four letter words, and a five fingered fist – I’ve got three digits.

In a back alley, under a street lamp, you put your hands to her again. This time when she screamed, everyone heard. Much to my dismay, the Police didn’t arrive in time. Though it is my sincere hope they found your sorry, coward ass and gave you a licking that will lay you up in a hospital for weeks. And I hope she leaves you, lying broken in a hospital bed. Fucker.

But, no matter how strong you are, no matter how big you are, no matter how far or fast you go, you can’t out run God.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

shortcuts at the fork in the road

There always seems to be two different directions you could take. Be brave, take a chance or play it safe. You’ll never get hurt, but you’ll never live.

I don’t have enough bravery, courage. I couldn’t bear to put it on the line, and have it served back to me. If I did it enough, would it become like breathing? Would it become an involuntary action? Would I always bite the bullet, steel myself and go for it or would common sense enter and talk me out of it? I always do things the long hard way, even when there is an obviously much easier path to take. I rely too much on what I notice, or hear and not enough on what I determine through facts actually given to me, upon asking. Difficulty lies in the practice of intuition and perception. Asking would be like slicing a hot knife though butter. Too easy.

There are so many things I want to do, say, ask. I’m afraid of failure. Of making the same mistakes I’ve already made. I’m afraid I’d end up back at square one again. I don’t want to begin again. I don’t want to lose.

Either I make the safe choice, and go through life without breathing, or I take a chance and breathe fire. There’s always a choice. I just wish I realized that.

Friday, July 07, 2006

melodic magnetism

I like music that sounds like sex; slow motion. The sound of a tap on a drum like a heart beat, a soulful, emotional voice like rhythmic breath, chords of a guitar that sound like hips swaying deep and low, the deep throb of bass like lust swelling inside. A song, that you relate to, like the tension between the two of us before your lips close in on mine, a flutter in my chest when I think, “I thought I was the only one who felt this way”, like the butterflies in my stomach when you’re finally mine. I can’t help but imagine surrendering to you.

Connected by the cadence of the song that fills the infinity between us.

Touch me softly; run your hand through my hair, breathe a whisper into my ear. Kiss me sweetly; savor the honey on my lips, the purity in my sigh. Raise shivers across my back with the tips of your fingers and warm me with the electricity from your body. Slow me down to your hum, follow the lyrics across my flesh, and pour yourself into me like abstract.

When the melody accelerates, and the pulse of the bass radiates through our bones, and the swagger of the guitar amplifies, touch me like it can’t be a mistake. Tell me what you want. Tell me with your lips and the passion behind your caress. Grip my hair in your hand and hold me like you mean it. Seize my flesh, consume me with abandon. Leave a mark. Strip me of my inhibitions, and seethe at the scrape of my nails.

Put your hands on the curve of my waist with pressure great enough to leave a small indentation of fingerprints on my skin. Please, hold me like you mean it. Pull me under and close yourself around me. I’ll drown in your rhapsody; your rhythmic breath like an soulful voice, your heartbeat vibrating through my skin like the tap of a drum, your hips like the strains of a guitar, swaying deep and low, and my lust throbbing like bass against you.

Swell to the sound of magnetism.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

bete noir

I hate what you’re doing to me. I hate what I am doing to myself, because it takes two.

I hate that you look at me like that, with her right next to you. I hate that I don’t exist in your world when she’s near. I hate that I stop breathing when you enter the room. I hate that my heart thumps when I hear your voice or your laugh.

I hate that I am hurt by this, that it makes me sad and jealous. I hate that I hear those songs, and crave your flesh. I hate that she sleeps next to you, and breathes your scent. I hate that she shares your life.

I hate that I am crying again over something I did to myself. I hate that I search for answers in the dark, blindly clutching at strings. I hate that I lie to friends and skate over all the bumps in my life. I hate when you touch me with your hands and the cool gold grazes my skin.

I hate that I miss you, that I’m disappointed when there is nothing in my Inbox. I hate that I avoid your glances because I feel neglected. I hate when you don’t look at me. I hate that I feel this way about you because it will never end with her, and instead I will have to end it with you.

I hate that I see only what I want to see, and when reality comes crashing in, I turn a blind eye. I hate that I think of you every day, every hour. I hate that you are present in my life, even when you aren’t around.

I hate that I hold onto hope, even when it’s clear as crystal there is none. I hate that I pray for a clear answer, and courage. Because I need help. I hate that I won’t stop looking for you. I hate that I deny the truth.

I hate that to get away from this situation I’d have to leave behind people I care about. I hate saying ‘goodbye’ to you. I hate when my imagination works overtime, and my intuition leads me astray.

I hate that I want answers but am too afraid to ask. I hate that I immediately knew a year ago how much I’d care about you now. I hate that we’re a paradox. I hate seeing that picture of you and feeling thirsty.

I hate that I want to be near you. I hate the way your hair is styled because I want to run my hands through it. I hate that even just after I’ve eaten, I’m hungry for you. I hate that I want to taste you on my lips. I hate that when I came back from holiday, I could’ve ended it. But I didn’t, because I’d miss you.

I hate that even when you’re a foot away from me, you’re still too far. I hate that I feel nauseous when I think of the worst. I hate that I want you so much.

I hate that I dream of you and when I wake my life feels empty. I hate that I’ve memorized your characteristics. I hate that I know the paths your veins take under your skin.

I hate that I wait for you to tell me. I hate that I measure everyone up against you, and they always fall short. I hate that I want to quit, stop, but I’m addicted. I hate that you hold back. I hate that you surprise me with sneak attack separations. I hate that I might not be the only one.

I hate that you have another life, one that I am not a part of. I hate that I didn’t meet you years ago. I hate that I will never have a permanent position in your life. I hate that I love you.

Saturday, July 01, 2006


Sometimes I don’t wash my make up off. On Friday nights, I don’t shower unless I have to be somewhere. I never have to be somewhere on a Friday night. I over pluck my eyebrows. I still haven’t gotten my wisdom teeth pulled because I am scared.

I’m afraid of the dark. I hate dusting. I’m just getting around to learning to separate my loads into lights, darks and colours. I let my cuticles grow far too long. I never fantasize about celebrities when I’m loving myself.

I don’t save money. I’m afraid of becoming my mother when I grow up. I’m lazy. I don’t eat enough fruits and vegetables. I hate pantyhose. I hate the word pantyhose. I don’t floss as much as I should. I swear. I’m satisfied when I clear a clogged pore.

I have stacks and stacks of back issues of Vogue even though I only flipped through them once. I keep nasty e-mails from people, just so that I can remind myself never to speak to them again. I never put my DVD discs away; they just sit in a pile on my bedroom floor.

I never file my pay stubs. I never open bills; I just guess at the amount (and usually pay more than I should). I have more than 30 pots of eye shadow, but really only use 5. I never drink milk. I’ve read my sister’s diary.

I never take advice, even when I asked. My sister unsuccessfully tried to talk me out of losing my virginity. I should have listened to her. I own several photo albums, but never get around to putting photos in them. I don’t fight for what I want. But I don’t give up.

I only listen to sad love songs when I am falling into or out of love. But I’m certain I’ve never been in love with someone; usually I’m just there by myself. I don’t always think about what I say, I just fix it later. I don’t own a cell phone. I don’t know enough people to pay thirty dollars a month to have something pretty, but useless.

I am picky about music. I’m pickier about food. I’m pickiest about men. Before I take a shower, I stand and critique myself in the mirror; my skin, my posture. I have no mind for politics. I lack patience with people. I’m self indulgent.

I hog the bed. I don’t work out. The thought of playing sports makes me nervous. Outings with big groups scare me and make me tired. As much as I don’t want to, I still gossip. I don’t like Stepford Wives; St. Albert Wives.

I like the idea of trying new things, but don’t like actually trying new things. I can be indecisive. I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I rely too much on hope and destiny. I admit too much when I’m drunk. I don’t lie, but I do cover up the truth. I never deal with things when they come up. I procrastinate.

I’m broken. Sharp jagged pieces. Flawed.