beginning of june, three guys rejected me all at once. the span of one week. for a month thereafter, i began every story with that preface.
things is, i owe each of those three men a thank-you-note.
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the languages of love.
mine will be memory. i will remember + record.
b/c i won't be good at voicing the i love you's, the kind words. i won't offer up compliments freely, and i won't take them humbly. but i'll remember it all. your shoes. the cut of the light across the floor.
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it begins under the skin. gets caught in the throat. lines the undersize of the collarbone. lodges below that first set of ribs. trickles down to the stomach.
it's only when it gets there--bottom of the belly--that you're sunk. in deep shit, so to speak. or just in deep.
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october 20.
i took an elbow to the boob at work tonight. boy did that grant some perspective. big picture. means to an end.
getting into the cab at 2 am. it reeks of cigarette. makes me think of that one guy. that totally wrong one. he's married now. i hope he's well and happy. i hope time and a new love...
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she wanted to tell him, he was her christmas morning.
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to try + compare our beauty to someone else's is a moot point.
all we strive for is to fulfill our own capacity to be beautiful--it signals worth (reproductive +...)
to say i'm more beautiful/ less beautiful than her is a waste of energy. waste of time
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she didn't want to say it. didn't want to give voice to it. to answer his question. mutter it aloud, make it real, create a boundary--a set of rules, gift a road map that would mean more lives must pass before they'd see each other again.
but the truth always surfaces. it must