To those this is for,

This letter remains unsent, written again, it is not to you nor for you. But it is about you. I use “you” loosely, I’m speaking to myself and memories. Embedded, integral, a mark on my landscape while I reside underneath pines. Do you think we knew each other when trunks ten ft wide dominated these sandy ridges? Were we ivory billed woodpeckers? Did you see me, blurry in a dream and try to capture a photo but then i was gone? Do you think of me?

I argued with a man, a piano player, who begged me to make peace. I will not bend to satisfy nor appease you. When i ask for something, once and kindly, I expect it and will give the same to you. To be disregarded, ignored, unacknowledged, unseen as you stare right at me— that is my least favorite. I am a human, I deserve and expect to be treated as such. Maybe it wasn’t that serious. But the frivolity reminds me of our plague of apathy. I can no longer bite my tongue, those who were silenced before me hiss and scream, I am the one to soothe these pains.

I watched the shrinking, in myself and other people, swallowing what we loathe, eating garbage, these cycles of terrible worthlessness and pain. Your past is not presence, what has been ingrained can be shed by the sloughing of many skins. You will survive the discomfort, seek it out and allow it to warm you. Let a hard decision shape you. Then make another. Let sacred rage move you, this all comes back to love.

You showed me that I am lovable, the stubborn part that refused to believe has been silenced. I hope you don’t regret it. I am forever changed. The kind of love that makes old ladies smile and recount their younger days, envious and gleeful. The pink needles of pines at sunset and orange, bursting Sol and clouds, a sad knowing we will never be enough but we tried, intertwined,  cosmically linked, we shared the prairie, fuentes de ortiz, nos gatos, a dream. Unfaltering, hopeless, I lost you and I survived. I lost you and I am so much more than you, even if this love comprises much of my being. What I found beautiful in you is what I wish i could be— carefree, joyous, confident. My illusions and defense of you are the same as for myself. Old ladies love me as I am, and what I love is an extension of me.

Neighbor purrs as I scratch his chin, striped head curious and firm. I would not be who I am without my experiences. There is no “I” but this sharpness is defined. Although it is home, I must leave and be out of my mind. Rationality, logic, a linear sense of development— none of those have a place in me, I step backwards and sideways and spiral, I swim and skip, follow my heart to eroding banks and climb back up using frail roots. Everything that has happened to me has brought me here, back to the sea, my emotions and heart just beyond the horizon. I spent years in the prairie, dreaming and scheming, an avocado tree died. I withered and watched you be the person I want to be. It’s no coincidence I love outgoing people who sing, the reflection that I see in you illuminated and inspired me, and while I still hide, I am more brave and open than I’ve been in my life.

I can’t call this a love letter, or a goodbye. It’s an update, something I will keep returning to. I came here before I knew where it was, and I must leave, full bellied and aching heart and overwhelming, wonderful knowing. You tempt me, my delusions and dreams, and the bits that you leave for me to feast satiate for a couple days before reality sets back in. I love avoidance and coyness, in the sense of entertaining limerence, not a whole, fulfilling love. I love bits and pieces that i glue and mend together to create a better, beautiful state of being. But I do not seek a project, I cannot heal or fix another person unless they are willing. I am comfortable in my den and so are many others.

You text me, on acid, while your “girlfriend” is out of town, and ask why I’m so mean to you. We call and you propose a hypothetical that you’re not seeing anyone right now, that your living situation (you live at her parents) is difficult and complicated. All self inflicted, of course. You tell me that you wish you could wake up tomorrow and be a different person. (When I ask you the following days, you don’t remember lying about being single.) I meet your eyes and the one I loved is hidden beneath layers of avoidance, pounds, a year of denying truth and living in a reality based upon the erasure of one you lived and loved. You see now how easy it is. You didn’t understand how I could do what I did, yet you did the same thing. Call it love, cowardice, codependency, cheating. You can love someone and still cause harm, intimacy is a means of repair. You couldn’t stay and love me through what I did to you, so you found someone who could do that for you. Some part of me is relieved, happy, free, another part is burdened by attachment and what I wish could be. We fell asleep in my car at Edward Gilley Tract, my back warm against your stomach, comfortable somehow in the passenger seat of my sedan. We watched the pink sun rise and heavy fog linger and stars pass us by. I waited there for you, for years. It is with a heavy heart, and no choice, that I leave. I linger still, that love was life-changing, fundamental. It has traveled with me to every corner of this continent and to your home, South and across the sea. I always felt you were a piece of me in a different body and all I wanted to do was help and love you, but I couldn’t until i healed myself, a process never complete. Three years doesn’t wash away so easily and you know that, you cannot cover me, nor replace me, only find different, incomparable beings, and while I shouldn’t gloat, I know she can’t touch you like me nor know or see you as clearly as I do, that the only reason you stay is because you’re too scared to leave. Our foundation crumbled and you left before repair. That’s fine, I have my kitties and responsibilities, an unfaltering memory.

You tell me my feelings aren’t delusional, that we should be allowed to go through the changes and path of our emotions. I believe you, for a moment, comforted by a strong knowing that my feelings are true and my heart is full of unbound love. You blame it on a lack of time, you’re a busy person. I move slowly and take my sweet time, knowing spacetime is intertwined and events are what comprise time. Am i the one who waits? I dream and write and cling, waiting for the day you come home to me, and the meals I cook are eaten by two and our laughter echoes down halls. I still don’t know about you and maybe I do it to myself, maybe the certainty I crave is fictitious and all I can do is hope until I stumble upon you. If I ask, won’t you throw me a bone? I’ll gnaw until it splinters, and beg and whine for another. I do not want to be like that. I want there to be no question or doubt in my mind, and if it arises, I’d like you to soothe it.

Again, my use of you is insane, I’m speaking to many different people, past, present, and future, but most of it comes down to self reflection of myself, based on actions of another. There’s no separation between you and me, my lived experiences are not unique, and in 15,000 years of human history, it’d be impossible for this to be the first time someone has felt this feeling. In 15,000 years of human history, I know I have crossed your path and we are inextrincably linked. In my short twenty three years, I am learning to choose “me”, that includes loving other people, protecting my body, and regulating my mind. I don’t care if you read this or understand, while I’d like you to, what’s more important is that I speak and share my remembrance. You may have forgotten but i have not. I have not, I cannot, I will turn this into a story and share it. As a writer, I memorialize you, along with my emotions and perceptions tied to you.

I kissed you and it felt like another, vulnerable and aching, I stayed. I taste a glimpse of him and it’s hard for me to pull away. You are not him. The tenderness and adoration with which he touched me is absent in your hands. You move quickly, roughly, with no thought or care. You look me in the eyes and leave me to clean up the mess. I am not deperate for pleasure or connection, my body asks and I try to give it space but this was not what i was seeking. You have me confused for someone who loves you, but I know instantly when i love someone, even if i exhibit restraint. I deserve better and more. You deserve better and more. We all deserve better and more. We find that by action, bridge gaps by communication. I am too scared to tell you what I want, how to touch me. I shouldn’t be there if I can’t say those basic things, if I can’t trust you to respect me, if i can’t protect and trust myself after receiving what I ask for. But the only way to learn and change is through other people, so I try again. And I wait some more. I expect nothing of you.

I crumble and soften, reform and harden, shoulders tense and thighs shaking, my body is the perception of reality. How do you find your divinity, your Holiness upon these Holey lands, sacredness in the desecration? Where are you? Can you see me? Do you linger in the past and feel as if you’ve paused? I take a deep breath and smell black beans stewing, hear birds chirping. You can leave and go anywhere but you take yourself with you. I wish i could bury it in soil and come back when I’m anew and ready. You stay with me. I shed you. I find another way you’re still here and I slough it off, put it somewhere else, in a new way.

I have hidden from you and deprived myself, based my life and existence off irrelevant, shrinking beliefs, and I am tired of it. I will walk where I please, accordingly, I step in any direction and can change at any time. I am not stuck. I woke up this morning and enjoyed the person I am, knowing the many ways I’d like to be. It’s easy to wake up and wish for change, I wake up and brush my teeth, feed the cats, stretch. I am the change I’d like to see and cannot hide behind wishes or empty words. I am stubborn, dedicated to what I want and envision, I will not be shamed for my steadfastness, but I do appreciate criticism and reality checks. I smoke a half a bowl in the morning, the other at night, flowers, tobacoo, bud, and write what’s on my mind. It’s more than you. But guess what? I still love you. Even in these hideous, violent changes, I still love you. I still remember you and catch you on the breeze. There is still hope, separately and away.

I love you from afar and hold myself most dear. I hope you do the same. I hope you remember who you are and live a life of return. Your ancestors await you, presence awaits. A better world depends on it. Joyful and aware, I rest and love. Round yellow eyes watch me, lizards scurry, I’m hoping. I’m cleaning and cooking, moving past myself and popping bubbles that have housed me. I show up, the same and differently, refined.

Is it better to just post my thoughts aloud? Oversharing online is an unfortunate habit of mine but it’s in hopes that I find people and allow them to be seen. I’m a mess, containing multitudes and contradictions, I follow my heart and deepest dreams, knowing they are constantly shfiting. I’ve clung so hard to you and I, I’ve forgotten there’s more. There are other people who love me and want to experience spacetime, change, and presence. I will not hide, nor be haunted by ghosts. I will be a mermaid (not a fish!), a pineland fairy, a thunderstorm and heat lightning. I will burn and blaze, unable to see you through the smokey daze. In this open space, I occupy and expand. I’m scared but that’s okay. < 3