Jesus Wept

My heart breaks over things that have nothing to do with me. And though my brain tells me not to worry, I do. And though my brain tells me not to blame myself, I do. 

And in these human moments, all I need is a touch, a kiss, a hug, to pull me out of it. But for God's sake, don't make me be the one to touch you, to kiss you, to hug you. Touch me. Kiss me. Hug me. Please, reach me. 

I'm so broken, so empathetic. I carry the crosses that are mine, but I carry his and yours and hers too. I carry these crosses on the inside, so your burdens don't have to worry you. They're for no one to see and for me to hold because when I carry them alone I can prove to myself that I am strong. 

But now and again my body fails me and my knees buckle beneath me and my arms become weary. I drop my crosses and yours and his and hers too and they scatter around for you to see and I panic so I laugh and then cry and then become so numb that I want to hide from myself.  

And I can't explain this except that I want to weep and weep and weep and I figure that's okay because grandma says "Jesus wept" too. And so I do. But you don't understand that I need you to just touch me and kiss me and hug me. I lost my strength and I don't understand why anymore than you do. 

All I know is that sometimes my heart breaks over things that have nothing to do with me. I try to hold these crosses but they seep out of the cracks and onto your lap and you stare at them like you've never seen a mess so fucking bad. 

I know it's overwhelming to see so many emotions at once but I can't really help it after I choose to take the crosses on. And yes it seeps out and makes a huge mess, and no I don't know how to fix any of it. And no, it won't be fixed overnight. 

But dammit if you just touch me, kiss me, and hug me, I might be alright. 

Honestly,

I'm homesick for the night the meteors showered me in kisses and the stars were pinholes to heaven. You held me against your chest and I memorized the sound of your beating heart. The summer breeze kept my toes warm and you stayed up with me until the sun's early morning rays came and lit my face with its first 'hello.' You left your taste on my lips and your scent imprinted in my mind. I already knew I loved you. But there was a moment in between our sleepy sentences when I realized you were him.

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Damn you

Today is one of those days where I'm going to be late to everything. I can just tell. My feathers are ruffled. 

Each time she said it my brain would revert back to my childhood and I'd think of Mojo JoJo. I think that was his name. He was a monkey. He was evil. 

It's a "I wanna crawl into my coffe cup and run away to the mountains" kinda day. Everyone is tugging at me for commitments and answers. 

I just want to go fishing damnit. 

You kissed me about a hundred times more than I expected you to kiss me ever again. But every kiss made my boots heavier. Knowing I wanted it. Knowing it was wrong. Knowing it meant something but knowing that something meant nothing. Wondering how I'm going to stop. 

There was a life to be built. But the fear of your absence will always be looming over my head. 

And that's why I just want to go fishing. Damnit. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie 

Matthew 7:6

I looked at you and I was falling...

Falling...

Falling...

"Someone has to be the first. There's nothing shameful about being that someone."

There's no shame until your heart sits in your stomach and you realized you gave a pearl to swine. 

I saw you and you were falling...

Falling...

Falling...

Gone. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie 

Apples and insomnia

When I was little I couldn't eat an apple without my fingers and mouth getting sticky. I would also get this overwhelming sense of nausea shortly after finishing the sticky apple. Although time has made me vastly more aware, nature will not relent and my fingers still remain sticky.

Insomnia tells me of my childhood; it explains what I didn't understand and reminds me of what I've forgotten. It colors in the grey details. 

It makes me sad. And angry. And anxious. I wonder what I've missed and who I could have been if I only I was then who I am now. This memory of apples taunts my heart. 

The anxiety kisses my lips and holds me close. I worry for every goddamn man in my life. They're all going to be killed. If not literally, figuratively. Their core will change and their heart will beat to a new rhythm.

But I'm sticky.

My fingers, my mouth. 

And the taste of nausea is teasing me. 

I hate apples. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Some Nights

I'm breathing in your booze.

"He's too good for me. He deserves better. But he's all I want and I'm selfish so I keep him and call him mine."

I'm coughing out your truths.

"There are so many reasons you deserve someone like him. You're a good person."

I'm drinking to my lies.

"I'm not a good person. I have a good imagination. You're all a creation of my own device. You think I'm a good person because that's what I want you to think."

I'm holding onto the words you say.

"Your only only problem, and our only bridge, is your battle with self-loathing. You're not a bad person, you just think you are."

I'm kissing my desires.

"He's what I think of in the morning, what I long for at night. He's what makes me excited to wake up tomorrow."

I'm deciphering this foreign feeling.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

I was Thirteen and it was Real.

They spoke as if I wasn't in the classroom laboratory with them. I felt my cheeks flush pink with anger and embarrassment. My fingers started to become clumsy as my eyes swelled with tears. I kept my head down so they wouldn't see. Their words were like hot irons, prodding exactly where it would hurt the most. It made me sick. I stood up, with a goal in mind. I turned to both of them and parted my lips to say something. The words escaped me. I stood there with my mouth gaping open, forgetting how to speak. I turned on my heal, walked past my teacher and grabbed my black and white backpack as I uttered under my breath, "I'm going to the bathroom." 

I couldn't even begin to imagine what they whispered as I ran out of the class. I had it coming to me. It was my fault. It was always my fault. I pushed open the bathroom door as I yanked out my phone to text the best friend I had never met. 
"My friends hate me. I hate me." 

I stood in front of the sink, bracing myself as if I could fall over at any minute. The droplets of mascara stained the porcelain white sink. I hated myself for crying. I looked up into the distorted reflection that sat above the sink. How could they call that a mirror? I could hardly see my reflection. Frustration with the school swelled up in my chest as a kid walked into the bathroom. I gave them a heavy blink and walked into one of the stalls. I slammed it shut and threw my backpack to the floor. 

I stood in the stall with my back to the door for five minutes after the kid left. I gritted my teeth together and screamed inside my head. I clenched my eyes shut and slowly sank to the dirty bathroom tile. I shook my head with disgust. Disgust with myself. Disgust with her and him. My hand balled into a fist as I pounded on the tile. 
"Why does no one care?" I called out to anyone that was listening. 

I tore open my backpack and found the stupid pouch my mom gave me for my girl stuff. I dug through about a dozen tampons before I found my only loyal friend. 

My phone buzzed.
"I don't hate you. I liek you. Things will be okay." 

Too little.
Too late.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie