Saw him at the gym.

Looked like you.

The hair, the beard, the face

The dark skin.

The quietness
The stoic

It was enough to where

I looked at him to compensate

And felt badly.

But you’re not here

And it’s something to think about

All other men

Mere mannequins.

You are beautiful darling
And that makes me ponder

While growing fonder.

I still ask

When are you coming home?

Not geographically

But to hear your voice on the other end
Of the line

I wouldn’t want to speak and break
The sound, the song of it.

Your rhythms.

Tell me, love
Have you figured out yet

How to stop loving me
As I’ve tried to cease
Adoring you?

Pray, show me how
Show me how
Show me how

It’s a gentle ache
But it permeates

Makes me ponder
While growing fonder

I do so want
To smell your skin
Breathe you in.

The little groove right behind the ears
The warmest spot
The best spot

I would shower it
With my kisses.

At night
Alone in bed
In this large room

I cry for you.
I cry.

But I will wait


I’ll wait.


Is Being Heard “Our right” ?

I think I’ve been ridiculously spoiled by my recent years of education. A counselor-in-training who has become accustomed to conversations with colleagues that begin with an earnest “How are you doing?” and end with the questionee comfortably spilling their current state, be they sad or overwhelmed or upset, et cetera. It is an insulated bubble of intelligent women (a few men sprinkled here and there) for whom being transparent, open, and vulnerable is oftentimes seen as a strength within the realm of self-analyzation and personal wellness.

That has been my world for the past two and a half years. Constant talk of emotions, feelings, and searching for the depth behind them, and although it can be quite taxing from time to time, it is its own form of therapy.

Then the holidays arrive, and you’re with family. Family that you only see about 2-4 times a year, if that. You’re the only girl among 3 brothers, and truly are the most sensitive one. You are also a strange concoction of people-pleaser combined with stubborn, which is at times confounding and subsequently exhausting. And there is always so much testosterone in the room. You’ve lived with it, it’s a part of who you are…but that essential need that you have to partake in open dialogue with regard to recent disputes?

Not so fundamental to them.

So, while you’re about to burst if you can’t talk it out, be heard, or at least understood or empathized with (no “you’re right” necessary)…they’re just fine avoiding what they perceive to be an odd and slightly more mature edition of a temper tantrum. And there you are, in a bit of a bind because you HAVE to be acknowledged, you just HAVE to be supported in some fashion, or else you will implode.

Because it is an injustice, so you think, completely unfair and inhumane to not be considered. “But, bu-bu-bu-but…my feewings…” you inwardly blubber. “IT IS MY RIGHT!!” you holler at no one in particular, probably your lipstick-inscribed mirror. Those inspirational quotes are not getting you much of anywhere in this moment.

You want a human ear, and believe that it is deserved on the sole basis that you are a human being and need it for mental and emotional well being.

But is it really your right? Is that really my right? In a world where we currently have about five billion different modes through which we can share our opinions or attain feedback…is it our right to be heard? Or is it a luxury indigenous to those of us who have way too much time on our hands?