i'm gonna dream about the time when i'm with you

I know he loves me when we cuddle and his fingertips lightly graze my knee.

I know he loves me when we're hiking through a slot canyon and he helps me up every boulder even though I can probably do it myself.

I know he loves me when he says that if someone had a gun to the dog's head and a gun to my head, he would choose me every time.

When he does the dishes all by himself and beams at me like a child.

When he can't keep his hands to himself.

When he says we can leave the gym before he's ready.

When he tickles my back or plays with my hair or rubs my feet.

When he offers to cook me dinner.

When he asks me what I want to watch on Netflix.

When he listens to me play piano.

When he says he loves listening to me play piano.

When he lets me read Harry Potter to him.

He kisses me softly when I'm wearing lipstick.

He says, "I do," every time I hand him his wedding ring.

He eats breakfast when I make it, even though he doesn't eat breakfast.

I knew my husband loved me when we knelt across the altar.

I knew my husband loved me when he told me he had to run to the restaurant's bathroom for an upset stomach and that he "might be in there awhile" when, really, he was calling my mother and his brother because he was so nervous to propose later that night.

I knew my husband loved me when he went to my parents' house and saw my dad cleaning his guns, but still asked for his blessing, even after my dad gave him a bullet and said he would use it if my husband ever hurt me.

I knew my husband loved me when he left in the middle of our biggest fight, got on the road to drive two hours home, but came back after an hour because he couldn't leave me that way.

I knew my husband loved me when we were laying on the couch at two in the morning after dating only a few weeks, and he leaned in and whispered, "I think I'm falling in love with you."

yesterday is long ago and far away

I don't know how to write about being happy.

For years, I poured my heart out on this blog. Well, I gave you most of it. The bad parts.

But now I'm happy, and I don't know what to say. I'm getting married, and I don't know what to say.

I don't want to write a post saying, "It gets better." Because I don't know what "better" is for you. Maybe what's good for me, won't be good for you.

But I'm happy, and I wanted to let you know that it got better for me.

I think high school was an okay time. I had friends that I saw every day and I went to easy classes and got mostly A's. But sophomore year was rough and junior year was rough and senior year was whatever. I don't know why, but I cried a lot in high school. I didn't have much to be sad about, but I cried because I needed to feel that. And that was also okay. It's alright to want to feel and not be able to and then just cry because you can.

High school is all for emotional experimentation.

But things got real after graduation. Summer wasn't a thing anymore and I had to learn to pay bills and live on my own. Everyone talked about sex like it was real, because they were really having it. Nobody was who they said they were in high school. And they all did drugs and drank alcohol and I always knew that stuff existed but I didn't really see it until then. It was the first time I didn't feel like a kid anymore.

So freshman year of college was rough. I still cried a lot. I didn't like where I spent my time or who I spent it with.

And then I got over myself. I told myself I didn't have to be around the things I didn't want to be around and I didn't have to feel the way I didn't want to feel. So I still loved the people I spent my time with, but I didn't spend my time doing the things they spent their time doing.

And then I was happy. Bills were easy to pay and I didn't mind living on my own and -- you better listen to this next thing because it's the biggest miracle of all -- I got the boy. The one I pined after through all of high school. I got him. I'm marrying him. And I'm happy.

I got what I wanted and it feels natural. Like my life was supposed to be this. Like it had never been any other way before. Like I deserve this. And I do. I've earned this.

There might be too many words in this post and not enough sense, but I think someone will read this and understand. And someone needs to hear this:

It got better for me. And I'm happy.

- S.H.

i'm like the tide in the deep blue

I'm not going to make excuses for my lack of writing.

I won't stand on stage and spout a whiny soliloquy to empty seats. I won't fill a monologue with writer's block or ugly words or no words. Because I have been writing. Not here, but somewhere; in my brain, on a page, in an essay stuffed somewhere on the bottom shelf of the desk in my small room in my small apartment.

Words have left my pen, my fingers, my mouth and flown to someone else--somewhere else. Letters and phrases jumbled into sentences that mean something or nothing are floating out in the galaxy, or maybe the next one over. (My roommate would want you to know that it's called Andromeda.) But the next one over is supposed to be colliding with this one in some odd billion years and so the words will probably be coming back for more. They will be disappointed when everything is ripped to rubble and a new space time continuum has formed instead. (I don't know if that's actually going to happen. I don't know what a space time continuum even is. I heard it from Futurama.)


(x)

All you really need to know, empty seats, is that I think I'm back for now. That's all.

- S.H.

with these revisions and gaps in history

The words rolled off of her tongue, and I swear it was sugar.

I mean, the complete bliss and giddiness and the things that come in between.

And I realized that I want that.  I want to be consumed by my girlish hormones and impossible fantasies.  Like, I want to create stories and thoughts and visions that fulfill some sort of longing for a boy who I find absolutely ravishing or some gross word like that.  It's whatever.

Because I realize that I don't have that now, even though I probably should.  I don't have that nervousness that captures your throat when you try to speak to him.  I don't have that fear of rejection that's completely irrational because you're pretty sure he really likes you, but, like, what if he doesn't?  Like, you know he's said it, but a lot of words have been said. 

I don't know, I don't think this makes sense.  Like, do you get it?  Am I being too literal here, or not literal enough?

I guess I just really want to know a boy who creates swarms of butterflies with his walk, with the curve of his lips.

And right now, I'm sorry, but that feeling is lacking.

- S.H.

sleep well

Things are different now.

The way we speak,

the way we laugh,

the way we wear our clothes.

I think I feel your heart,

but it's not the one I remember.

You've turned from innocence

to something

dreadful.

And I don't mean you,

but I mean your eyes,

or your hair,

or something inside of you that is not the thing I knew before.

It's just different.

I wonder when they all started making sex jokes.

Or, perhaps, when I started noticing them.

I'm sorry, 

but I've been ripping my brain to shreds.

- S.H.

where i send my thoughts to far off destinations

She was always riddled with ink.  It filled the crevices of her palms and followed the veins down her arm.  It bled into her heart and her heart pumped it out and it reached every nerve ending in her body.  It filled her brain with ideas and she wrote them down:

A girl, alone and misunderstood, but not really sad.

A girl, surrounded by people and really sad.

Music in the bones.

Wars within the head.

Thunderstorms and stars.

A girl, alone and misunderstood and surrounded by people and not sad, but really sad.

An unforgivable heartbreak because there is no one to forgive.

A very, very passive love.

A girl.

A girl.

She wrote them down and told herself she would share them one day.  She would wrap them up in paper and binding and actual printer ink rather than her bloodstream.

When she grew up--not old, but up, but smart, but mature--she would share these things.

Now she's pacing from room to room and sitting in desks and listening to good words and she's trying to grow up.  She's making it.  She's almost there, she's almost there.  Just another three years, three years.

She is growing up.  

And when she is up as words are old, she will open her veins and her heart and her brain.  They won't be ideas and she won't need to write them because they will be written.  And people will read her words all over the world and that's a lot to hope for, but when she grows up . . . ,

- S.H.

i said that i'm just fine

I cannot write about Death anymore 
because each moment I do 
is a moment closer 
to Death 
coming for me.

- S.H.

by a lady in black

Empty souls fill empty cathedrals and sinners begin to pray.  

The saints serenade their ears with praise, but the angels remain still.

The sinners have bruised knuckles and scorched hearts, and they don't know any better.  

They've arrived unwelcome.  

Not by God and not by the angels, but the congregation cannot tear their tandem gaze.

Sinners perspire from the fire.  

They've seen Hell and it isn't a place, it resides in the eyes of the saints.

And although light is pouring from the stain glass windows, coloring rainbows on their clammy skin, they are wishing they hadn't come.  

They are wishing they would've stayed kneeling beside their bed in the dark like they always have.

That would be less damning.

- S.H.

darling, everything's on fire

Are we talking about
fears
or insecurities?

Because I know I have a lot of the latter,
but the former seems too hard.

See, if we were talking about
insecurities
I could tell you about
my weight
that's perfectly fine,
but I'll never want to be
allowed to
donate blood.

I could tell you about the
secrets
I've hidden from the world
because I know it would
disown me if
only it
knew.

I could tell you about my
relationship
with the moon and
the sun and
how they still mean the
same things because they're
both an escape.

I don't know what fears are.

And I don't mean I'm brave because
I know I'm a coward.

I'm malleable.

I'll do anything they'll tell me,
just to fit in.
And they'll be none the wiser,
but I'll always have
my head bowed.

I know I'm a coward.

But what am I afraid of?

Obviously bees,
and I don't appreciate
hands around my neck.

But what terrifies me?

























I think I'm scared of loss.
























My experience with loss is fleeting
and I'm terrified of that meeting.























The loss of my


family


friends


mind.


I'm terrified of having
























nothing.

-S.H.

I was told to keep writing.  To never cease the movement of my hands and to let the words trickle where they may.

I was told that it's okay to write junk.

Because as long as I'm letting it out, I'm fulfilling my passion.

I was told to keep writing.  Even if I run out of things, I should just spill every thought from my mind:

This blanket is soft, and maybe a little too warm.  It belonged to my childhood bed which was bigger than the one I have now.

I've lived in every room of this house and it's strange to go back.

I am writing junk, but at least I'm saying things.

At least I'm not quiet like I used to be.

And maybe no one will read this, or somebody will and they will stay quiet.

Because this is literally junk.

But at least I'm writing.

At least this is real.

All of those beautiful things you read are revised.  They've been poked and prodded and they've been given thought.  They've been given a name.

But when you're writing from the vast space of your mind, you can't pin that down.

You can't call it beautiful or give it any title.

This is complete and utter junk.

But at least I'm writing.

And this is something I can't revise.

- S.H.

we were both young

You left and that's fine.

It's fine because you'll be back, not for a while, but you will come back.  And things will probably be different because we will be older and you will be wiser and I will always be a few steps behind.  Except, we have this unsustainable promise between us and I'm keeping it for now.

You are my brick.

I know we never said anything beautiful to each other, but at least we read each other's beautiful words.  And some of your words had to be about me.  They just had to be because if they weren't, I might not keep our promise.

You are my brick.

And maybe that's selfish.  Everything around me is changing and I'm using you to keep me sane.  I'm allowing myself to feel the escape for now because you aren't here.  But I'm telling myself that when you come back, I'm going to return to normalcy.  Maybe that's selfish.

You left and that's fine.

And I don't know why I'm giving you these words because I'm not sure if I love you.  But every time I let myself down, I let myself know that I've been waiting for you.  (Maybe that isn't how I should be doing this.)

You are my brick.

My days revolve around you writing back.  Because I want to read your words again and I want to remember them.  So it's okay that you took five months last time.  I had so much time to pound that paper into my brain.

You left and that's fine.

You are my brick and you will come back and everything will be just fine.

- S.H.

looks like we're in for nasty weather

The wind keeps blowing my hair into my face and into my lipstick, but it's okay because I like the way it smells today.

- S.H.

to be different but the same

"I can give you the stars," he said.

"How many?"  She asked.

He smiled

and whispered

and lied,

"All of them."

- S.H.

i'm sorry that i couldn't get to you

Warning:  Ugly ranting ahead.

Dammit, Nelson.

I know Annie Mourusie already said this in a past post, but you taught us that art is theft and I should be one of your favorites.

I should be one of those revered writers who sounds excruciatingly indie.  Something like, "There is dirt between my ribs, but you grew sunflowers with the curve of your lips."  It doesn't make any sense and it feels impersonal, but it's a great visual I'm sure.

Honestly, I don't care if my writing isn't that good, I really don't.  (Liar.)  But the fact that I've stayed in Paris--even after my visa expired--should be enough.

Dammit, Nelson.

You're only a high school teacher. 

It should matter that my professor asked for a copy of my film analysis paper.  Like, that's the important stuff, right?  It was about Pride and Prejudice and love and it was beautiful.  I think.

But she never told me if it was a good example or a bad example or an it-could-have-been-better-but-it's-definitely-acceptable example.

And I still would have gotten a greater feeling if I had made your favorite blogs list.

I'm sorry, Nelson.

This post is an absolute mess, but so is my blog and I thought they should match.  (Would I have made your list if I had made my blog pretty?)

I'm sorry that my music plays without you asking it to and I'm sorry that I dropped an F-bomb in my intro.

But I'm trying to make a career out of this writing thing and I need some sort of second impression and a first validation.  Because everyone notices my brother as a writer and my friend as a writer, and I just want to be noticed as a writer.

Really, I'm still in Paris because I'm waiting for someone to tell me that I'm doing this right.

I'm sorry, Nelson.

I'm still here because this is the rest of my life.

- S.H.

you took my soul and wiped it clean

I'm really trying to make sense of this thing I've pinned in my heart.  I feel it there and I feel it flow with my blood and dull in my fingers as I play the melodies of only ever loss.  Because I don't know how to feel anything else right now.  I know it's been a long time and I should be done with this part, but this is the longest heartbreak I've had over something inhuman.

This is the longest heartbreak I've had.

It's all been wrong since that day nearly eight months ago that I stopped knowing how to recognize love.  I mean, when something is torn so viciously away--so suddenly--how is there any other possible outcome than to make it a stranger?

And I completely loathe myself for all of this.

I'm upset that I can't stop writing about it.  Because now I'll always have these words documenting the inner workings of my organs.  My twisted stomach and still heart and beaten lungs.  I've created a diagram of my anatomy.  I've studied it over and over and it's taking up too much space in my brain.  There are more important things I should know.

It's all been wrong since that day four months ago that I still stopped knowing how to recognize love.

I thought she was happy.  But apparently you can't argue with three years and an answer from God.  And I'm still so bitter.  He lost a wife and I lost a sister.

It's all been wrong since that day two hundred twenty two months ago that I never even knew how to recognize love.

Except, I know I had it.  I was told I had it.

I'm really trying to make sense of this thing I've pinned in my heart.  I think it's the absence of love.

- S.H.

as for me it's nothing new

I'm sorry, darling, but I don't believe you.
I don't believe in who you are.
Because you always say
that this is who you
have
to be,
but not once
have I ever heard you say,

"This 
is who I am."

- S.H.

i guess you won't have trouble remembering me someday

I can't keep my fingernail polish from chipping.  I just can't and I remember when I had to ask my mom to paint my nails for me.  And even when I learned to do it on my own, I made her paint my right hand.  She's always been better at those kinds of things.

I mean, she's better at everything.  And I'll sit there biting my nails at an incurable mess as she takes it from my hands and turns it into something beautiful.

Then she's like, "I couldn't always do this. You'll be fine as a mom."  But that seems at least three heartbreaks away and I don't have the time.  "You just need to practice."  Or maybe I just don't know where to begin.

Like when I got my first haircut by myself because I knew I was old enough to do it, but  it didn't turn out how I expected and I was too scared to tell her to fix it. My mom took me back and got it right.  (I don't think I'd be able to do that even now.)

So here I am with my nails being the longest they've been since my last mess and I've painted them pink.  And I don't think they're long because I've stopped having reasons to bite them.  And I don't think they're pink because I like the color.

I remember when I liked the color.

My hair is slightly damaged from the times I've dyed it and my mom thinks I've done something wrong, but she still compliments it.

And I just want my crayons back because when I made a mess on paper that was the one thing my mom didn't need to take care of.  Because then it was art.

Now I've discovered new mediums like friends and pins and tags that hang from my rear view mirror and I'm not sure if that's art, but I know that it's a mess.  At least, I know they would make my mother want to clean.

And I just want my crayons back.  Especially the pink ones.

- S.H.

mega ultra sad

It's not like you were ever a tangible thing.  No, you were always running and I was several footfalls behind.  The only thing I knew was the back of your head and the width of your shoulders and that faded red T-shirt.

You played music once, not for me, but for yourself.  I told you I wanted you to serenade me always and I wasn't lying.  Because the notes that sprouted between the strings and frets of your guitar left me in a stupor.

It's not like I ever knew you.  You sat three rows and a mile away while we learned of the things that created a harmony.  It's not like I didn't want to know you.  In fact, I may have been late to class solely to sit by you, but you always came later.  We were never on key.

And I was never the only one waiting for you.  You should have seen the congregation.

- S.H.

everyone inside the mechanism

This is hard for me.

Humanity should be a simple thing.

The fingers

toes

hands

feet

arms

legs.

This should be easy.

It's the blood pumping

and veins

nerves

brain.

This should be fine.

But I can't leave humanity like this.

I can't describe this within the bounds of flesh and bone.

Replace these with metal and gears,

and you've got a machine.

It moves and works and it could be human.

If you leave it at that.

It's more and I'm not doing it justice.

And I don't want to sound like everybody else,

but I think they've covered it.

Humanity is not the brain,

it's the function.

It's the thinking

thinking

always thinking.

Not like a machine with an off switch.

Humanity is not the heart,

it's the warmth.

The pumping,

the beat

the beat.

Not like the chill of machines.

Humanity is the craving

the imagination

the creation.

It's also the bad things.

The anxiety
the depression
the loss.

I think,

humanity's been named.

I think,

there's not much more to offer.

I think,
I don't like this.

I think I'm human.

- S.H.

butterflies are passive aggressive and put their problems on the shelf

He spoke.

And butterflies flew from his mouth to the earth, to my stomach.

We huddled under a blanket, under the moon, in 30 degree weather and he spoke so effortlessly.  The words were so easy; I wasn't the first to hear them that day.

I didn't say much.  And it wasn't because I was shocked by his verse, but rather his voice was so comfortable and familiar that I had nothing to contradict.  Because as I gazed at him, his steady jaw, I only felt fondness towards him.  My kin.

He spoke and I listened and something was fluttering in the air between us and it was the strongest love I'd ever felt.  Because I was elated by his trust and I knew it didn't change anything.  Nothing at all.

He spoke and I felt like crying.  But not the way my mother would have cried.  No, I wanted to cry because I thought I should have known all of these years.  I wanted to cry because he knew all of these years.  I wanted to cry because, in that moment, I respected him so damn much.  

I mean, the thickening of my throat was for the unfathomable courage that I'd never possess.  All of the confessions that I'd never be able say.  All of the vitality that I'd never be able to stress.

In that moment, I wanted to be him.  I wanted to lay everything out for the stars and the moon. I wanted to reciprocate.

In that moment, there were so many things that I could have given.

I could have told him that I was still hurting so entirely from my loss that summer.

I could have told him that I did terrible things to my body.

I could have told him that I always went to bed with tired eyes.

There was so much I could have given.

But the night was his.

And it was so serene.

- S.H.