A Sunny Interlude

I know that you were simply an interlude in the long search of mine to find the right person. The problem is that, for however brief a time, I really did think you might have been him. I was so hopelessly lost in you that I couldn’t even appreciate the impossibility of us. I refused to take a step back and see the truth of it: I was too much and not enough for a man who was everything and nothing at all.

I was too spirited. My highs an explosive, intoxicating mix of enthusiasm and intensity, while my lows were a fiery, worrisome mix of apathy and gloom. I would never be the woman that you needed; I would never fall to my knees and pray to a force I didn’t believe in, and I would never surrender my self-indulgent, pleasure-seeking existence for someone who looked down upon it.

You, however—you were not what I wanted in any way at all, yet you were exactly what I needed. A guide, and a moral pilot. A fulcrum strong enough to keep me balanced in a way nobody else could. I cared for you—I really did. I do, still. You just weren’t right, just as I wasn’t for you. You would never be able to keep up with me, understand me, enchant me.

I know this now, and I feel it deeply within myself as I think about the last few weeks. The thought of leaving and not seeing you again tears at me, but I know that I’ll be okay—better, even. You were never for me, and I was never for you. I thought that perhaps we were both hurricanes, ripping through each other’s lives and pulling us out of safety—maybe only I was, for you. For me, you were a sunny day in a week of cloud and rain. A welcome ray of sunshine, telling me that it’s all okay. Telling me that there’s still warmth in the dreariness. Telling me that there’s always a new day. Telling me that it’s okay to love. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

I’m sorry I wasn’t right for you, but I’m glad you weren’t right for me.




Weak in the Knees

Describe him?


He’s passionate about so many things, some of which I can’t even imagine. He believes in a force with all of his being and sees the world in a striking and appreciative way. He loves people and humanity and love. He cares.

And he’s smart. God, he’s brilliant. He understands things in complex and interesting manners. He knows how things work and how to build and fix. He isn’t afraid to have dirty feet or messy hair.

You never get tired of kissing that boy. You could kiss and kiss and kiss and you’d never want to stop. Sometimes he puts his hand against my cheek to hold my face closer to his, and something about his palm against my skin calms me. And after you finally pull away, your knees are weak and hands are shaky.

What else?

He’s trapped in a cage of desire and longing and moral duty. He’s bound by strengths that I don’t understand, and I feel sad for him, knowing what he’s missing out on.



A Letter To The Boy In The Casket

I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there with you through all of this; that I left before things got bad, although I had no idea they would go this far. I hope that wherever you are right now, whether you’re looking down or sitting silently next to me, that you forgive others and me. Perhaps we all loved too violently and felt too much; perhaps this was only within you. If that’s the case, then I hope that you forgive yourself. The rest of us down here will do our best.

I don’t know how this all works, if your soul or energy has left your body, or if you and everything you ever were is just simply gone. The finality of it breaks my heart, T. I know that it didn’t seem like I cared anymore, or that you were ever on my mind but the truth is that I thought about you—us—constantly. I don’t know now if I silenced myself because I thought it would be better for me or for you, but maybe it was just better in theory. I know that I should have reached out; that I should have offered a connection and helping hand to you, even if you didn’t want it. I should have at least tried. That’s my biggest regret now, forgetting you. I forced you to become a distant memory that refused to be distant—I deleted your pictures and your words and your number, I boxed up your gifts and your letters and us, but you still remained a presence forever living in my mind.

I wish that I could tell you that I changed in a way that you would have liked, but I don’t think I have. I’ve become more spontaneous and more adventurous, sure. But there’s still something guarded in me, something that makes me unable to say what I’m feeling and thinking, even when I need to most. I know that maybe this doesn’t count, but I’ll do it here anyway:

I love you, and I always have even when it got bad and difficult and even when I left and didn’t act like it. I loved you when I ignored you and I loved you when I told you to stop and I loved you when I said goodbye to you the very last time. I’ve buried it and lied about it, but I had to so I could move on. I couldn’t keep loving you because in doing so I started to not love myself. That’s something that I’m still working on, and that’s okay.

I realize now that I miss you—isn’t that always the way it goes? You’re gone forever, and I finally miss you. I miss the good times and the laughing and the smiles and how brilliant you were. But the truth is, I hate all the other parts: the fighting, the rude comments, and the inferiority that I often felt. The problem was that I loved you so goddamn much that none of that other stuff mattered, and as soon as I got some breathing room and didn’t have the good things, all I could think about were the bad times. I wish I could say that our relationship was roses, and serenity, and blown kisses, but it wasn’t. It was loud, and intense, and thorny. I’m glad, though, that we had that; you taught me so much, and I’m so grateful.

I could keep going with a million things: the stupid fights that I remember, the times you brought me flowers, the mornings we woke up tangled around each other. It won’t do me any good though. You’re not here to read this, and I’m not with you to recite it. When I think about you now my heart hurts. I don’t think about you with indifference or loathing or annoyance, but with deep sadness, confusion, and anger. Why would you do this to us? I want to ask. How could you hurt us in this way? Perhaps I will never know the answer; perhaps I wouldn’t want to. All I hope is that one day I learn to forgive you for this and to think of you with peace in my heart. I hope that others find this as well, and that they can absolve you of the pain that you have caused so many. I know that whatever you were feeling was intensely worse than this, and I so wish that you had found another remedy. But for now, I will leave myself questioning and aching, looking for brighter mornings and deeper nights.




Think back to Eleven.


On the swing,

Dad pushing you—

Back and forth, back and forth.

There is joy and purity;

You do not know:

Hurt or pain

Real anger or confusion

The words ugly

Or divorce

Or illness.

You only know:

The wind in your hair

Saskatoon juice on your lips

The sadness of bedtime

The excitement of Santa Claus

That everything will be okay,

They love you.

Continue reading


There’s a box of stationary that I keep beneath my bed. It’s a beautiful, milky blue with my swirly initials in silver; the envelopes are sturdy, and they match the sealing wax that I bought when I was with you. Remember? When I held the glossy stick in my fingers, looking up at you and said that I would use it to seal my letters to you. I bought the stationary for you, too. I imagined my messy scrawl across it, sealed inside, being dropped into a post bin, then into an airplane, then into your own mailbox ten thousand miles away from me.

Not a single page made it there, though. All fifty sheets are all still stacked orderly in their box. Fifty sheets that should have been fifty letters, which would have been hundreds of words, which could have been thousands of possibilities. I can think of some words for you now, as I write this:

I miss you.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

I think about the one letter that did make it to you—the one that I sent Before. Before I changed my mind, before I’d settled back into my old life, before I’d met a liar I let sleep in my bed. I think about how I wrote and rewrote every word, meticulously picking each one. I think about how I signed it as “yours” and how I promised there would be an Again. I think about how I pressed my lips against the folded pages, and how I ached when I took it to the post office.

Everything seemed so straight and sure; never easy or uncomplicated, but right then things were going to work out and life was ready to unfold. We were ready to change and shift and realign. Our lives were moving, and in it all I got lost and grew still.



The Point

There seems to be no real point to life as far as I can tell, but if we had to make one up I think that happiness is as best an answer as any. So if you’re not looking to be happy, open your eyes a bit wider. Appreciate what you have for what it is. Love the people who love you in return and stop worrying so much about the ones who don’t. Find a way to leave behind what is unnecessary baggage. Find the resolution and might needed to change things. And above all, love yourself unconditionally.



Ten Seconds

I don’t remember if I thought about you yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. But I thought about you today, and that was enough to make me realize that I wish you would just leave my goddamn head once and for all, because the ten seconds that I spent today thinking of you made up for the last three days of forgetting, and now I’m back to the beginning again.

I think about how with every word and every smile you so quickly complicate my life. And how with every lie, and every touch of your stupid skin on mine you slowly destroy me.