Do You Like Yours Too?

I really like independency. In fact, I revel in it. It's not just something I participate in, it's a quality I identify my identity with. Without independency, I don't feel like me. But here I am. And here you are. I want this to work. Badly. Irritatingly badly. I don't even want to admit how badly. And I know the steps, I get the process, we slowly start asking or offering favors of each other, then suddenly, we can't remember how we did those things by ourselves when the other person wasn't doing it for us, and then we can't remember what it feels like to be alone, and then suddenly, that facet of my identity, that piece of me, is gone. I'm no longer independent, I'm dependent. And I sacrificed a part of myself. I sacrificed a part of myself for you. I don't like that. I mean, I do. It's romantic, and people change for the better in relationships, and you make me a better person, but for God's sake, isn't that scary? Isn't that terrifying? Pulling away pieces of myself for someone else? Is that what's supposed to happen? I think the answer is yes. Presumably, you're changing, too. If it's healthy, than we both change. If it's healthy, then we each pull away pieces of ourselves, but we patch them with pieces of each other. If we're both sacrificing, but both growing, then it's okay. It's a two-way street. I'm okay with the answer being yes. But only if this is real. I like my independency. But do you like yours, too?

Pierced

Pierced. I saw it. I stepped out onto the ice and I saw it. I skated, clumsily, around the frozen water, slipping on the smoother sections and stuttering on the stubble. I avoided the bright light of its point. Inside, I could feel a pulsing heat. I tried to freeze the warmth I felt, suffocate it with the cold, snuff it out with the surrounding snow. But it was too much. Some fatal combination of the smooth and the stubble, the rough and the watery, toppled me towards the center of the ice. Facing the point. The warmth inside me was growing. Thickening and expanding, it began to pour out over my skin. Then it was too hot. I was sweating, panicking, the cold intercepted and the sweat froze and suddenly, I was encased in an icy hot shell that was once pleasant and unassuming. The point was getting closer. Closer, and closer, and closer still, it began to take form. A pick, a spear, an arrow? For a second, it flickered and it looked like...you? But no, it was still hurtling toward me and my last clumsy stumble landed me upright, my heart directly aligned with the object's trajectory. I could not move, all I could do was hope, pray, cry, cry, I was crying, please, let it be the arrow. But it wasn't the arrow. It was just an icicle. And I was pierced.

Roots

Roots. Roots strengthen. Roots expand. Roots last. I have roots. I'm strong. I'm stronger than most. I know this about myself. It is not an opinion, it is just a fact. I force myself to be strong because I grew up in an environment where I needed to be strong. Adaptation is necessary for survival. Strength was an adaptation I had to accept. Bark. Bark peels. Bark holds the burdens of other creatures. Bark can be ripped. I have bark. There have been more times in my life than I'd like to admit when I've been torn. I've allowed others to abuse me. I've absorbed other people's burdens. I've let myself sustain wounds even though I'm stronger than them. And it hurts. It hurts like hell. I can see it happening. I know it's happening. I am completely and utterly aware that it's happening. I am accepting pain from another person. And yet I let it happen. Time and time again, I let it happen. In so many situations, I am strong. In all other situations, I am in control. But I let myself peel. I let myself be used. I let myself rip. And why? I forget that I am strong. I forget that I have the ability to expand. I forget that beyond everything else, I have roots. No matter how strong I am, not matter how long I am able to fight, sometimes, all I need to do is stand on my roots. Roots last. I have roots.

Blow Out the Candles

Blow out the candles. The clock chimed 5 o'clock. The wrapping paper is too tight, the ribbons are too long. I can't seem to find the seam where the tape should be holding it closed. The glossy shroud encases the present eternally. I push back my chair and yank myself away. Turning around, I try to forget it's there, sitting on the table. I pace, drawing farther away and then back again countless times, so many times, too many times, and I suddenly lost track of the time. Unable to stand it, I grabbed the candles from the cake and burned the thing. The smooth paper surface shriveled into rough wrinkles until succumbing to disintegration. The ribbons trailed away in ringlets of fire, eventually puttering out into wisps of merely what once was. And from the ashes of its encasement was a bush-- now burning-- leafy and green. I grab my water glass and snuf out the remaining flames. The water splashes and droplets cover my body and the bush alike. The clock chimed 3 o'clock. I blew out the candles.