You're My Snowstorm

You are a blizzard, blowing violently in over the mountains. You rush wildly into every corner, covering every surface in that icy powder. You freeze the world into silence and peace, but also into chaos, traffic accidents, falls, and children playing (not all chaos is bad). Trapped indoors, or exploring out of them, I watch the flakes settle gently. It may be cold, harsh, and difficult to handle, but it is beautiful. You are beautiful. I can both scorn and love the snow somehow, disliking the cold distance that occurs, but enjoying the sun refracting off of the untouched inches of diamond. And though I love to see you go, I hate so much to watch you leave. But I know, in the end, you are not meant to stay. You are my snowstorm, blowing in for the winter and slipping out again as easily as spring melt, so that one morning I wake and you are gone.

Courage/To Run Or Stay

sometimes the courage required to run
                                                              takes more strength
than what it takes to stay

and sometimes the words on the tip
                                                          of your tongue
are just the wrong words to say


occasionally a sailing ship
                                            will run aground
on a reef or jutting rocks

and for each of those run aground
                                                       there is another
that never left the docks


sometimes the fear of leaving
                                                so big it consumes all
is so much worse than to remain

but every time staying because
                                                  you're terrified of loss
is worse than to stay with the pain


sometimes to go is harder than to stay
                                                               to not leave it behind
and that is when you truly know

if you stay when it's easier to leave
                                                         and barely can leave
when it's easier to go

then you may have found something worth fighting for

Leaving is a Reason

She left the note on the table and walked away

Out that door she’d walked out so many times before

And she smiled

He read the note, and what it had to say

He’d refused to hear it so many times before

And he cried

Because sometimes leaving is the reason

That they are finally able to see

Because sometimes leaving has a season

And they weren’t meant to last, truly

She saw the sky in a whole new light

She was alone and finally could spread her wings

And she smiled

He sat in the living room with his internal fight

He had to deal with all of her things

And he cried

Because sometimes leaving is a reason

For us to find who we’re meant to be

Because sometimes leaving is a season

Where we all find a way to be free

He got out of town, took a trip away

He finally let go of what held him down

And he smiled

She reached out her hand, a heart starting to sway

She watched him as he drove out of town

And she cried

Because sometimes leaving is a reason

For us to finally be whom we are

Because sometimes leaving is the season

Where we leave the road we’ve followed so far

She left him behind because she couldn’t stay

The good had fled and all was pain

And she cried

He had opened the door and showed her the way

Though he hadn’t meant to give her pain

And he cried

And sometimes leaving isn’t a reason

It’s a result of fighting so long

And sometimes leaving comes with the season

Because the love just wasn’t that strong

And sometimes leaving is a reason

For ending what hurt so much

And she thinks that leaving at the season

Makes it easier when she misses his touch

And sometimes leaving is the reason to leave

And sometimes the season follows them out

And sometimes it’s time, and it’s easy to grieve

And sometimes you want to run after and shout

And sometimes you want to bring them back

And tell them the real reason

“I love you”

Heartbreak

To leave
To be left
It all hurts
To need to leave
To have to part
Also hurts
The missing hurts
The absence of what was
Awkward hurts
Talking about it
Crying alone
Still hurts
Remembering and wanting
Hurt most of all
What's past cannot be touched
And wanting to touch it
Is unbearable
But eventually it will pass
Or so I hope
Like a rainstorm
So dark and fierce
A heart starts to beat again
Blip... Blip...
Spikes on a machine
And healing begins

Unappreciated

I was recently told that I'm really really bad at opening up, that they felt unappreciated by me. Looking at myself, I do suppose it might be true. But this same person has recently inspired in me feelings of being trapped and underappreciated myself. As well as having betrayed my trust multiple times before. It was a wonder I was still close to this person, I suppose, but he was- is?- my best friend, and recently more than that but no longer.

What is it to be unappreciated? To feel unwanted, to feel unloved? Or just neglected? I believe it to be any of those and all three, but also to be something else.

Do you ever think that sometimes people expect too much? I do. They want more than you can give, time, money, love. I recently watched an episode of The Mentalist (great show) where a girl killed her sister and framed someone else. This girl, Lindsay if I recall correctly, thought that now the way was open for the man who loved her sister to fall in love with her. Her unrealistic expectations caused a lot of grief and in fact, and most importantly, caused her to feel....take a guess...unappreciated.

Usually it doesn't happen on such a large scale. Sometimes it's just that simple expecting of someone you care about, expecting them to give more than they can, and when they don't live up to that, blaming them for not trying hard enough. Having those expectations can easily make a person feel unappreciated when that could have simply accepted what they were given with joy, realizing that the other did not have to give anything and in some cases shouldn't have.

The unappreciated feelings, however, run rampant on both sides of this equation. What about the person whom these expectations were placed on? Who struggles under the weight of trying to meet them, when their every effort is responded to with "not good enough," what about them? Like a spoiled child thrust into poverty and the mother who tries to feed him, that's how it feels. You give all you can from where you are and are rewarded with temper tantrums, bowls of carefully bought food spilled and scattered because it's "not good enough." To be there feels like taking a hammer to a glass replica of your soul and this person stepping up to say "let me help." And they hammer you to pieces with the weight of your failure to meet their expectations, your inability to give them what they want.

Sometimes though, expectations are realistic. Sometimes the other person isn't trying. The key to knowing, I suppose, is careful evaluation of both people, their efforts and expectations.

Feeling unappreciated is a genuine thing, and it hurts. It doesn't matter which side of it you're on. I know it, having felt it myself. I left because I felt trapped and unappreciated, because I looked at the situation and it was wrong. Even then, it hurts. I gave someone everything and broke myself on their expectations because it wasn't enough. It hurts but it was right, and I don't regret it. Someday it will work out. Someday it will be worth pushing through. I have faith in that.

Vulnerability

This post is so honest I can't believe I'm posting it. Hello world, here's my heart, don't break it please.

I read a blog recently that assigned numbers to the men she'd cared for. Mine are not numbers, but months. I needed to write this. It's like therapy, isn't it, writing.

This is one of my greatest fears. This post. Actually, more like two. The fear of giving too much of myself and the fear of showing others how unsure I really am. How much I have left to figure out. I'm stalling here, writing this. Maybe you'll get bored and not finish reading it. No? Okay.

To my January
We had a fun time, didn't we. The two of us, though sometimes I wonder if you really ever cared or if you just wanted to. You were way too old for me, and I still wonder to this day why you were attracted to me at all, a stupid, immature 16-year-old girl who thought she had beaten her insecurity because you lifted her up.

You did help pull me out of that dark place, those horrible insecurities, the crushing sense that I'd never be enough, the feeling that I should end it all now, before I did irreparable damage to this world I love so dearly. However, relying on you was never the right way. I never even really knew you, but I knew how you made me feel, and little-girl-me thought that would be enough. Even though we barely saw each other. Even though we only talked over Facebook because of my lack of a phone. Or I borrowed a friend's phone, a friend that had known you far longer than I had.

I remember one time you walked to my house to let me borrow a book for AP English. You brought your dog, and we just talked for an hour or two, sitting on the grass. We never even really touched- you never reached for my hand, I never got to lean against you.

One time, I was fed up with my home life. I messaged you and we walked to Sonic and got ice cream. One time, we met up at the park. We always just talked, about silly stuff, about fun stuff. But we barely saw each other for real, except for these few times.

I remember Valentine's Day. Lunch at the Asia Inn. I had shrimp. You brought me flowers and a purple octopus, from an inside joke I barely remembered. I kept him around. His name is Sir.

Then it just ended. My family took a media holiday before I had the chance to tell you, and when I got back on, you were distant. You were cold. And slowly, you stopped responding to my messages. For a while it was simply pleasantries. And then that stopped as well. I have the book you let me borrow, I said. Nothing. Please come take it back, I said. I know you saw the messages (Facebook is a stalker, yeah?) but you never replied and I'm not sure why. And on Thanksgiving, I sent you a letter, about how grateful I was for what you'd been to me. I was over it, long over it, but I wish it had ended better than getting blocked from messaging you again. We died slowly, didn't we, an improbable flame sputtering in the gutter. And though we never would have worked out, though I'm long over you, sometimes, I still find myself searching for that resolution, for that final "this is done" that you denied me so many times.

I still have your book.

To my February
You. Where do I start? You never knew the depth of my feelings for you. It was immensely hard, not to tell you, but it wasn't me you wanted- it was my friend. And after everything, I still think you two would be perfect together, even if you end up as "the best couple who never dated" in the yearbook. It was hard, having to content myself with being your friend. We're still friends, to this day, thank goodness, and you're one of the best people I know. I don't think you ever saw me that way, but either way, you taught me so much.

You were, I think, the first person I ever really truly cared for- no stupid infatuation, no simple crush, and if anything, that made it worse for me. Though being your friend somehow was enough. Enough, but never enough, in a weird contradictory way.

I have so many memories. So many conversations. So few souvenirs from the times we've spent. A couple pictures, and the memories in my mind. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

All those times backstage during the plays-remember the mote and the beam? The picture of you with those glasses that we probably shouldn't have been messing with, seeing as they were a prop. Driving to the gas station, accidentally driving back with the emergency brake on. The long letters on the posters- I still re-read them sometimes, and laugh. You could always make me laugh.

Someday you'll make a great husband for a great woman, probably a girl we've neither of us met. Someday you'll be famous, you'll change the world. Thank you for the time we spent, no matter how you saw me during that time. What we had, what we have, my friend, that is enough for me.

To my August
I don't know what happened with you. I don't know why we were ever anything. Oh, wait, I do. You pushed so hard. You were my first kiss, and all I knew about you was your name and that you played in the band at your high school. But we got along alright, holding hands that first night, sitting outside the church dance when I got sick to my stomach.

Our story is simple. Co-chairs of the Youth Committee. I knew almost everyone, but I'd never met you. We barely spoke before that night, within the meetings, and especially outside them. I knew nothing about you but what ward you were in. Which is, coincidentally, now February's ward. (Geez, just let me completely give away who everyone is. But this is good. This will be good for me.) At the night of the youth conference dance, you somehow always ended up nearby. And I made you laugh. We danced, you pulled me close, and you were my first kiss. Right then, with hardly any warning.

I hardly knew you, and now I wonder why I didn't stop you from taking so much from me. I opened my front door, and you wanted straight to the bedroom, pardon the analogy. I liked the way it made me feel, to have someone to kiss, to hold, but I came to my senses soon enough. It was easy to tell you no after that, easy to stop you. It lasted maybe a month, I think.

I still see you every now and then. I'll spot you, and I'll wonder, what are you doing now? And then I realize I don't really care about you anymore, I care about the memory of the way you made me feel.

I saw you a while later with another girl. I wonder if you're doing to her what you did to me. It broke my heart a little, but not a whole lot, because I realized you aren't the kind of guy I should have serious feelings about anyway. Not a total jerk, which is honestly how I felt for the first few months after it happened. But not worth that much of my heart- sorry.

To my May
Oh, May. My May. Perhaps you'll guess who you are. I know you have read my blog before. But will you see yourself in my words? It's always been a struggle not to give you too much. Nearly a year now, I've cared for you. You were the opposite of August, not pushing too hard, taking what I was willing to give and being okay with it. Not to say you haven't asked for more, and I've said no. But you listened and respected that, which meant so much.

You once wrote me the story of the way we were. I think this might be my version in return. I'm not sure I want you to read this at all, actually. You know what, stop right here. (I know you won't. Wishful thinking)

Gradually this year, you worked your way deeper into my heart than any before. (This will give away who you are if nothing else does). You're my best friend (see?) and I trust you more than I thought I could. I am comfortable around you, physically, mentally, emotionally. You've been a shoulder to cry on. You've seen me stressed, angry, sad, tired (read: loopy), depressed, happy, joyful, eager, in more ways than anyone ever before. You've always been there, and I feel like I know you too, the way I hope you know me. I know the curve of your smile, the feel of your hands, the sound of your laugh, and the way you are when you're sad or tired. I know when you want to kiss me by the way your heart beats in your throat. I wonder if you'll regret letting me have so much of you someday. At least I was your first kiss, though I can't be your last.

I never wanted to hurt you but inevitably, that's what I'll do, and I'm sure you know it too. There's no way around it.

I've said it before that I didn't want a high school relationship. I've said it so many times, posted about it, thought it to death. I've instead said to you "Wait until I graduate." But, now, I'm not sure I can even give you that. I'm not sure it would be right, nor would it be fair to you. Heck, even what I've given you may have been too much. Thinking about it is breaking me in places I didn't know could break, and I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. Being around you feels so right, and we fit together like puzzle pieces, but not the right ones. I know, there's no future in our relationship except for as friends. I know, I'm going away to college in the fall. I'll be on a mission in a year. I know, you're young, and you'll get over me quickly. What I don't know is if I can say no to you again this summer, and it breaks my heart to think about it. But when I think of you, and a future, I know that to make it there you'd have to be someone you're not. And it's you I fell for, and that's the hardest thing, isn't it? That you can at once be my heart's best friend, and my heart's worst enemy. That your choices break my heart and your chances at being a major part of my future.

Where you're concerned, though, I'm weak. I can think about it logically here, in black and white, with a keyboard under my fingertips, but I'm sure when I see you I'll fall again. You're my drug, the thing I don't know how to live without anymore, and I don't know how to just be best friends, and I won't give that up. Even if I can't give you the romantic relationship that I think we both kind of long for, I won't give up my best friend, the person that has been there when no one else was, that I trust completely. I hope you feel the same, and know I'll always be here. I'll be the best friend you ever had. Any further is gray.

We'll see where the future leads, May, though the ending I already know. But the winding path may have a few surprises in its corners before it splits us apart.

Please, please don't judge me too badly on this post. It was what I needed to write, to get my heart in order. Because in the end, I am who I am and that me is wildly unsure