she and I

I’m made up of every me
 that
I have ever been

including the one who once thought
she loved you

I hold her memories
I hold her heart
I know her sorrow, her unfiltered pain
I know the why behind every single choice
she ever made

and I see her foolishness

her stubborn trust

how she looked at you

the way she pictured us
and I can still feel
through the thrum of her heart
what it used to be like
to need you

we were once one
but we aren’t the same
so don’t be a fool and mistake my strength
for weakness

glow

so if he offered to light up your skin

to shock your bones and make them glow

to turn you to fire and

paint you red and

rip you from cold clinging hands of the dead

and worship you in a palace of flesh

don’t tell me you wouldn’t say yes.


does this mean it’s over?

I used to see us standing there

a double of you and a double of me

in the future that was always coming but never came

 
now I see nothing, behind or in front

there are no doubles and there is no us

and even your shadow (he held on so long)

dissolved in my hand in the sun

prize

And I was a prize you won ’cause I let you
again and again and I
didn’t know then
that I’d never get you the way that you had me
you had me, you had me
you had me so wholly
your eyes wrapped around me
your lips would control me and I
didn’t know that your heart couldn’t hold me
I didn’t know it would never know me
never want me
never be
anything but a lack, you see
I was the prize you won ’cause I let you and
you never knew
never knew what you had.


oh retrospect, yes, please, do come in

cold on the shore

dripping and shaking

salt in my hair and my eyes and my lungs

that was the sea

for a moment I’d swum

and you wanna know what?

it was nothing like you

nothing like floundering, drowning and blue

in a puddle.

you knew too

I hold you in my hands
  (but something about the shape)
I hold with all my might
  (it doesn’t fit, it isn’t right)

Mine because I hold
Want because I have
I try to raise you up but the weight
it’s not enough and far too much
  (but mine, but want)

I hold you in my hands
but they know
and they can’t.

back

He had a mole on his back, directly in between his shoulder blades. It was a deep red-brown, the color of his freckles, the color of mine, and it stood out against his skin whether it was pale or tanned. It was small as far as moles go, hardly bigger than a big freckle, but I noticed it, I knew it, I loved it.

He was only a friend but I can only imagine, if he had been more, how much more I would have loved it.

 


neck

It wasn’t about sight with him. It was all feel, all touch. Every inch of his skin clear and bright under my fingertips, every inch of mine aching under his.

His hands on my waist, all over my skin,
his lips on my face, my throat, my collarbone.

I’ll never forget when woke me with fire in a kiss on the back of my neck.

 


i don’t actually eat them

Just to clarify, I am not a cannibal. I don’t actually eat people’s freckles. Yes, I may lick them from time to time, but I do not literally ingest them. So if you came here looking for a how-to blog about cutting freckles out of people’s skin, or are expecting tips on the best way to include them in your favorite morning dishes, you’ve come to the wrong place (and you may want to seek professional help). Although I will admit that it’s a grotesquely interesting topic and someone should make a horror film about it.

So no, I don’t eat freckles. But I see them, I touch them, I absorb them. I take them into my memory, into myself. I consume them. Freckles are fascinating things. You can be born with them, you can acquire them from the sun, you can develop them as you age. They can be a multitude of shapes and sizes and colors and not one is exactly like another. You can connect them into lines and shapes, create constellations and works of art. They carry a certain importance on their tiny freckly shoulders. Whether you hate them and want to burn them all off your body or love them and want to build a shrine to worship them, they’re a part of you.

No, freckles don’t define a person. On the contrary; you might know someone extremely well, know almost everything about them and yet you may never know all of their freckles. They’re easily overlooked. Have you noticed your best friend’s freckles? Your mother’s? Your girlfriend’s? Can you tell me where they are and what they look like? Maybe a few of them. Most likely not all. But that doesn’t mean you don’t know the person. There are many ways, big and small, to know someone, and freckles are some of the tiniest. That’s what makes them special.

I like knowing people. I like learning details. If I consciously acknowledge and remember one of your freckles, I know you in a way that differs from knowing your favorite color or the name of your childhood goldfish. I might know your life’s story, but knowing a single freckle on your body is a different thing entirely. Freckles are another layer, on the surface but often looked over, and they signify intimacy.

Which brings me to breakfast. To me, breakfast is the most intimate meal of the day. I wake up with dreams tumbling through my mind. I’m a very vivid, often lucid, dreamer, and nine times out of ten I wake up remembering my dreams in their entirety, or at least in large segments. Breakfast is a time for me to sit and mull over my dreams. I sort them, releasing the ones I don’t want to keep and repeating the ones I do, running them over and over in my head until they stick. And if I don’t have any dreams to ponder, I use this time to simply think. I don’t like going out to breakfast. If we’re having breakfast together that means we woke up together, which means I probably know a few of your freckles. And I’m probably going to mention them here.

So no cannibalistic cooking tips, no morning recipes, just intimacy, connection, dreams, reflection, and a whole bunch of other things that I couldn’t possibly have foretold when naming my blog.

Without further ado, welcome to Freckles for Breakfast.