a tree branch breaks.

"Is this what you want? I have never felt like this before. There is good and bad in that statement. You have the power to show me my darkest traits. You also have the power to convince me that I am in the wrong even when I believe that I am right. My mind is never settled when I think about you or us. Maybe it is because of the manner in which our time together had started. Maybe it's because we never loved each other. Maybe it's because I have never really felt or acted upon true love. Maybe I think that love is a fucking joke wrapped in a shit storm of cliches and empty promises that people make for their own self-loathing reasons. What I do know is that I will not spend whatever shitty time I have on this earth self-destructing. If you want something you have to make it happen the way you want it.
You say I never "talk". Who would want to talk to someone who constantly reminds you of what a piece of shit they are? Granted, I'm not that stubborn not to realize that I have been wrong and have hurt you. You have the god given talent to remember every little shitty thing that i have done to you, examples included. I on the other hand dont. It cant be that i have always been an asshole because, well, why the fuck would you put up with that. And it cant be that you have been an angel the entire time because thats not possible. The difference is you need me to keep fucking up so you feel this sense of power. You like to be the puppeteer. I will not ever be a puppet, and thats why we suck together.
I repeatedly play back in my mind what it would be like if we started off differently. It could have been great. I would have been the chivelrous gentleman with a witty yet sensitive side and an overwhellemming sex drive to boot. And you would have been..."


upstairs, fucking your brains out, instead of down here, alone and snooping through your Documents to get the slightest idea of what is going on in your head. We would still be bickering over your atrocious spelling (It's "chivalrous, not "chivelrous" and "overwhelming," not "overwhelleming.") I would continue to bash your girl friends, because let's face it: They are mean. Your wittiness would give way to snideness, because you would still be insecure. The notches in my belt would be just as prominent, if not more, because (having not fucked up) you would be less forgiving and less likely to accept my past. Your cologne would still attract me to your leather jacket, yet repel me from your pajamas. I still would've required a glass of juice before morning sex and a meal before my first cigarette after a night of heavy drinking. My hangovers would be the same, puke and all. We would see less of each other - not because we choose to spend more time apart, but because we wouldn't be so preoccupied with what the other was doing. I would still bitch about hair product. Your drinking would still concern me, although maybe you would not be driven to drink so much. You would still be the most unhygienic person I know, but I would still take massive amounts of pleasure in doing your laundry and cleaning your room. Neither one of us would have locks on our phones. This would have saved us around six hours (assuming that we unlock our phones around 30 times each day.) We could have spent those six hours watching 14 episodes of Sex and the City. Or 8 episodes of The Wire. Or cooking 10 green bean casseroles. I would still be kicking your ass at bags and darts...every once in awhile. In fact, I would probably see victory more often, because you would probably throw the game more often. I know you joke about it now - how you "let" me win. But we both know that you need to beat me too badly to ever "let" me win. If things had started differently...seeing the beaming smile on my face when I win a game of bags or darts would be worth more than the nagging competitive streak that you choose to harbor now. You might have written a song for me, because I would have inspired you instead of stifling you. We might have actually gotten around to writing a song together. But not to settle some petty argument about poets versus songwriters. Rather, it would have been because we share a mutual passion for the collision of music and words. I would be "putting out" rather than "putting up." You might have pissed on me ages ago, because perhaps you held some subconscious restraint all of this time for fear of embarrassment. I would have made a joke about it and then let you go back to sleep while I started a load of laundry. Your hair would still be in the sink and the toothpaste cap would never make it back to the tube. I would have showered with you more often, because I never would have felt insecure, physically. My National Geographic tits would have hung freely and in my unprecedented lack of inhibition, you would have been the bearer of my first shower serenade. I would have never found a naked girl in your bed that day. "Green Eyes" would still be a source of comfort and not a reminder of inadequacy. You would strive to be something great - not Hank Moody. I would look for comfort in your arms and not the mundane cry of a morning dove. I wouldn't be afraid to cry in front of you because you would welcome my vulnerability without exploiting it. The mileage would still be racking up on your car, but we wouldn't notice. I would have continued to write you little love letters and leave them for you to find when you are alone. I would never have written such a charming break-up letter, as this.

I don't think the crooked branches on trees are a sign of failure. I think, sometimes, they have to bend a bit so they can be closer to the sun.

...you try to turn a whore into a housewife.

English was love at first write. Love poems fueled by teenage hormonal rhapsodies fueled a fiery romance. My young fingers found unearthed pleasure in the embrace of a pen. The ink was flowing constantly, leaving evidence of a love affair in full bloom. We spent several years between sheets, basking in the post-coital glows of each climax. I wore those words like a promise ring and vowed, Til Death Do We Part.

Like most whirlwind romances, familiarity bred boredom. What was supposed to be a marriage built on history, compatibility and passion quickly dissolved into a chore. It was a lackluster charade riddled with monotonous conversation and fake orgasms. Sure, I felt secure. But I also felt suffocated and stuck. I was losing more of myself each and every day that I slept with those dead-end dreams.

(My colorful history has taught me a lot about compatibility and passion. The most important lesson, which I am continuing to learn every day, is that you cannot force either. Furthermore, although it is difficult to find one or the other; it is practically fucking impossible to find both. So when you do, wrap your legs around that shit and hold on for dear life.)

I'm lucky to have found Psychology. Psychology feels effortless. Psychology "gets" me, and I don't mean that in an ironic sense. Psychology does not thrive on drama or judge me unfairly. Psychology feels like home. I want to shout it's name from the rooftops. I want to make out with it in public and make my friends sick with jealousy. I am more than content falling asleep with Psychology every night and waking up to it every morning. Psychology is my white picket fence. I want to have a long, fruitful life with it.

However, I will continue to fuck English on the side.

Welcome back, Blog. I've missed you.

It's Ours

there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing

that
gentle pure
space

it's worth

centuries of
existence

say

just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch

that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all

ever.