Shards of Glass. (Mosaic Discoveries).

A body can be deeply filled with rivets and cracks, with ridges and slopes. All kinds of places for things to hide, even from yourself.

And then, one day, you find something sitting just underneath a bit of yourself, almost as if it was swallowed long ago, never to be seen. But you saw it, and you grasped this thing between your fingers. You examined it carefully, bit by bit. Truthfully, you had caught glances of it in the years before. Like little shards of glass swept away into a corner, you dismissed it. It wasn’t big enough or strong enough for you to even acknowledge it was there. But suddenly, the shards have formed into something much larger than before, and all you can do is stare at your reflection in the mirror, inches away from your beating heart. And you have to face it. You can’t turn away, you can’t avert your eyes.

This is a part of you. A part of who you are. A part that, at times, you didn’t really know existed.

Things are not black and white. They aren’t grey, either. They are so many colors, colors that you can’t even see. They are shades and pigments and hues of life that the world holds onto. So many things. People are not defined by one role they play in their lives. Music is not made in only one key. It is not THIS or THAT. Life is not a yes or no question. People are not switches that you can simply flick on and off. There is always and beautiful in-between. This needs to be understood, in order for anyone to understand.

It is not always one or the other.

Life is not that simple. People are not that simple. I am not that simple.

Love isn’t that simple.

This thing that I’ve found, it’s much different than anything I’ve ever had to deal with. It’s not something anyone in my family seems to carry with them. And it has become very heavy, very fast. This is mostly because my family is very open. We show love easily, we hug and kiss and forgive easily. But this thing, this thing is not easy. It is not just a cake you can slice into fourths and pass around the dinner table.

It’s been so incredibly hard these past few months. The shards of glass seemed to be scratching at my skin, wanting to be seen or heard. Wanting to be felt. But I forced it down. I forced it down inside myself, pushing my palms into the weight of it. But I have cuts on my hands. The farther I pushed it, the more I bled. The heavier my heart.

I’ve started to tell my friends about it, my closest friends. Each time, my heart would drop to my stomach, my hands would shake uncontrollably, teeth biting into my lip so hard I can still taste the blood. Whether it be by phone or text, the anticipation of their reaction would remain the same. So far, everyone I have told has taken it very well. Most were surprised, others did nit seem to even skip a beat before responding. But all were accepting. All were supportive. And each time, it felt like jumping into the ocean. Only the calm, steady beat of the saltwater surrounds you. You are free.

But not completely.

And so, in the middle of all of the chaos that is my life, I realize that I am bisexual.

Mistake.

It’s going to take awhile for me to accept. To accept myself. What I am, what this means.

It feels like I’m looking at my life in someone else’s eyes. I never thought I would be in this position. Questioning something I was so sure of. Something that was always so ingrained inside my head.

I talked with my father about it. I asked him what he thought about it. But I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell him that those things are now blossoming inside of his daughter. His little girl, sheltered by white picket fences and bible hymns about the sea and backyard barbecues in July.

I remember not understanding the whole concept when I was younger. What didn’t apply to me, didn’t really matter. I had had a careless innocence that all children have. I didn’t have to worry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

My father says he isn’t in the position to judge. He says god made all people on earth. God doesn’t make mistakes.

But I know people do.

Will he think I’m a mistake?

What I Don’t.

I know what I don’t want. I don’t want consistency, routine. I don’t want a text good morning to feel like a steel weight, an obligation, a trivial testament to my commitment. I don’t want long term, or every friday night. I don’t want smothering guilt and manipulation. I don’t want wavering emotion dependent on another. I don’t want the lighthearted and hopeful wishes of riding into the sunset, the entire notion based upon a feeling. I don’t want the forever and always. I don’t want the happily ever after, the knight in shining armor, the sun melting into the horizon and his metal skin hot to the touch. I don’t want the pang of regret years later, surrounded by what-ifs and could-haves. I don’t want the lingering scent of given-up opportunities on my pillowcase, I don’t want the late night open-eyed wondering; the wrinkles in the bedsheets an abyss settling in the center of the mattress.

Decision.

What is a “slut”? Most would say, a woman who ‘sleeps around’. So, basically, a woman who has sex with multiple partners. Wait. Men do that! Men sleep around, and… oh, wait. They actually are praised for it. That’s right. So women are shamed, and men are praised. Fuck the system. Having sex is natural. It’s instinctive. It’s beautiful. People experience other people all of the time. We have conversation, we cry with each other, we share memories and kisses and meals. We share these things with so many different people. Why can’t sex be the same? It’s my body. My body. Not anyone else’s. I can do whatever I want with my body. I can treat my body like a temple and pray all kinds of prayers inside. Each one different than the other. Each one holding significance in what it is meant for. I can keep my temple clean and bright. But I choose my prayers. I choose what words will be spoken inside of my ribs and no one else will ever be able to decipher what was whispered.

Everything is a question.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I flirt and I talk back and I don’t regret kisses with strangers. I dance in the dark with a boy I don’t know. I play hearts like cards. I slip from his arms and fall back onto the pavement. I hit my head so hard. I drank wine that wasn’t really wine and I never gave a second glance to the boy of yesterday’s words. Tomorrow isn’t planned or even expected. I live barely holding onto the earth. My roots have been ripped out and dance in the sky. I don’t know what direction I’m going, or who will be with me. I just let impulse lead. And I know this isn’t right. It’s not what I’m supposed to do. It’s not what good girls do. But I do it all anyway. I let alcohol ruin my bloodstream and I let rough hands grip my waist and I let my heart grow bigger than my head. And at the moment, at this moment in time, I am perfectly okay with that. I know there are consequences. I know that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I know this. But I’ve already dove into the abyss, and the dark sea has already filled my lungs. I let my body relax as the water around me becomes a midnight lullaby, soothing my skin. I play it again. I let everything become soft, and shallow in my mind. I let instinct take over. There are no thoughts, no words. No second guessing. Just feeling. Sensation. Desperation. This is what I’m doing. This. I’m free, but I’m locked behind regret. The lock isn’t that big. I just don’t want it to become a heavy steel weight that drags me along in my happiness. I want to break that chain. Sever the connection. Rip out the roots. Then, only then, will I be free.

I win.

Play boys like cards.

Play one for the risk.

Play one for safe keeping.

Play one for the hell of it.

And one of them is always in your back pocket.

You notice how things are dealt.

First, a look.

Then comes the light conversation while he thinks he’s stealing glances. He puts his hand on your waist. You walk away, he follows. Turn away, talk to a boy from class. You laugh, teeth showing in the dark.

He slipped away while you were talking, but you already knew that. Take your time, making your way through rooms, hips swaying back and forth.

He’s standing against a wall, hand in his pocket. He grabs your arm and pulls you toward him. The weight of his hand reminds you of every hand that’s held yours. And you want him on your list.

The trick is to tease. Let your lips brush his cheek. His fingertips trail down your sides.

Push him away when you pulls you closer. His eyes are piercing the space between your lips and his.

Leave, suddenly. Don’t turn around and look back.

He’ll follow.

The Girl.

This is what I know. I’m never going to be the girl with shiny blonde hair and long legs with crystal blue eyes like the ocean. I’m never going to be the girl with perfectly whitened teeth and a laugh that draws all eyes on her. I’m never going to be the girl who is so effortlessly graceful, the girl who tells stories so vividly that everyone listens. I’m never going to be the girl that goes to yoga class three times a week and doesn’t eat red meat. I’m never going to be the girl who wakes up in the morning feeling beautiful.

But I will always be the girl who writes poetry when the stars are covered by clouds. I will always be the girl who spends hours on Wikipedia learning about diseases and politics and endangered species. I will always be the girl with a quick comeback. I will always be the girl who holds her beer in both hands at parties, the girl who tugs at her skirt too often out of self consciousness. I will always be the girl who swears to often and too loud. I will always be the girl who gives endless advice to people who need it. I will always be the girl that is brutally honest and somewhat harsh. I will always be the girl who feels everything with too much intensity and bottles all of it up until she lashes out onto those she loves. I will always be the girl who either reveals too much to someone or not enough. I will always be the girl with dark brown hair and a scar the size of playing card on her left knee. I will always be the girl who is the first to defend anyone being taken advantage of, yet the last to participate in class. I will always be the girl who is a living contradiction, the girl who can never find the balance between the light and the dark. I will always be the girl with lipstick on her teeth and too many medicine bottles on her nightstand.

And yet, what I will never be, is so much less significant than what I always will be.

Proud.

I have makeup smeared under my eyes kind of like the little tiny streams that form in your driveway when it rains. My heart is loud, so loud.

I just found my archives on my blog and looked back on the very beginning, in 2012. I had posted some personal pictures of myself and a few writings. I looked at those pictures. I saw a little girl, afraid to trust herself or anyone around her. I saw a little girl who didn’t know what state she would be in the next day, the next hour, the next minute. I saw fear and sadness. I saw innocence. I looked at those pictures and read my own words and I felt myself being projected into the past. I could feel the trembling of my hands in english class. I can remember the nervous lip biting and the self consciousness and the constant unnecessary fear of the world. I relived those emotions and those experiences in a matter of moments. And it made me sad. So sad. To look back and realize how fucking broken I was. I knew things weren’t that good. I knew that. I just didn’t know how bad. How sick I was.

But I am also proud. I am so fucking proud. I’ll say it again. I am proud. I compared my posts now to those back then, and found out a few things. I never lost that spunky little attitude, the feminist ideals I already had (even though I didn’t know what a feminist even was). I never lost that spark. That spark is still burning, glowing. But what changed was the mood. I slowly moved out of self-hatred, sadness, loneliness, and overall depression, and made it to where I am now. I noticed that in place of all the negative things, there are now positive “don’t-fuck-with-me” kinds of posts. They are meant to empower, to strengthen. I now look to strengthen myself and others around me.

I am no longer stuck in that dark place. And damn, if that isn’t beautiful, I don’t know what is. I was so lost. So lost. Everything was dark. Everything hurt. It’s amazing what the brain is capable of inflicting. Absolutely terrifying. It didn’t feel like I was living. I was barely surviving. I was surviving with the least amount of effort. But now, things are different. I look directly in front of me when I’m walking. The ground beneath my steps is no longer a safety net. I can introduce myself to people without feeling like my throat is filled with cotton and the stupid tears that would almost always start to form. I am so fucking proud of myself.

Sparkling Mad.

Temporary fix. Temporary fix. A fix, a fix. Please touch me until I can’t feel anything anymore. Touch me until the nerves under my skin go numb from your skin on mine and I can no longer understand where my body stops and yours starts. Let’s work on our cardio at a ninety degree angle, baby, until something contracts. Breathe until there’s barely any oxygen for the both us of, love. I know you’ve got it in you, I know you want it. I’ve been watching you for awhile. I know the way your eyes follow me in the corners of the room, where you think no one else can see but you. I know how hungry you are. I know you’ve been waiting for so, so long. Even though I could wait for ages, I’ll spare you the time. Because I want it too. And maybe this isn’t exactly right, or— it’s not forever, it will never be a forever or an always in a heart shaped box. No. We’re kept in an old box of cigarettes. We’re addicted and we’re unhealthy and we’re fast and easy and convenient (all you need is a match) but we’re certainly not forever because every flame burns out and I don’t think either of us read the warning label before we reached for each other.

3.8.2015

Cut my hair. It feels thinner, straighter. Different.

I wore red lipstick today. It felt like a bright streak across an empty canvas. It felt so good.

Boys are frustrating. Love is frustrating. Not knowing what to say, saying too much. What he means, what I mean. What THIS means.

If he’s right or if he’s a temporary fix to an old wound or if you’re really just lonely at night and need someone to cover you up in the cold (even though he doesn’t ever check the temperature). Maybe enough kisses will solve the questioning and the confusion. Maybe self-consciously trying to fix your sex hair in english class the next morning is the fix you needed because secretly you find it funny no one will ever know what you did or whose sheets were wrapped around your wrist. The glass in my window pane collects rain just like yours, except sometimes, when it’s dark and the lights are off, I treat myself to my bare reflection. Skin and breath and everything you wish you had on nights like this one. In the morning, I dress, knowing exactly how the blouse I’m wearing hugs my body. I know it drives you crazy.

So I sit here, in different hair (it’s really the same, it just feels different, so really it must not BE the same if it doesn’t FEEL the same, is it?). And I wonder what you would be doing if you were here with me. You’re probably not even thinking of me, no, you’re probably drinking cheap beer with your voice echoing the room, only concerned with present moment.