my hair dried all funny and short and i boinged a fat curl. the feel of it in my fingers – the length, the release, the spring – though different, reminded me of you. yours are the only other coils i’ve ever boinged. that makes me either incredibly happy or incredibly sad, i can’t tell which. but don’t worry, i don’t think about you too much.
I’m made up of every me
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
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.
to rightly fall for
someone wrong than to wrongly
fall for someone right
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
so many reasons not to stay
and yet you did
because you were a fool
not enough reasons to walk away
and so you don’t
because you’re you
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
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.
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.
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.
“It wasn’t a waste,” said love.
“It’s only love,” said time.
he tightens the clamp
that squeezes my swollen heart
but you put it there
will I have left to assign
the ones who matter?
but I’m thinking that
loving you is a distinct
If you ever come across that one little piece of my heart, tell him I won’t be back for it.
while I’m over here
toying with the idea
of falling in love
But then sometimes
that one big crack in our foundation gets so layered up
with all the right things
all the perfect, magic things
that it seems like it just might hold.
arms down by my sides
heart still always reaching out
when did always end?
we could have been it
the sound of your voice tells me
you know it too
past the point of need
always a fine line between
comfort and constraint
being the one
who loves more
is no better
and no worse
than being the one
who is more loved
softest, thickest skin
wrapped around me from without
warming from within
nothing could break through
hiding me from everything
even from the truth
safest place I’ve known
warm against your beating heart
cheek atop your chest
a friendship born from proximity
built by convenience
sustained by ease
grown with laughter and lightness and trust
grown into something true.
picked apart by speculation
broken down by complication
tossed aside by the space between us and
sentenced to death by time.
it’s hard to admit
but I know enough to know
ignorance is bliss
years later I find
the parts of you I loved most
still fully intact
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.
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.
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.