Elaine sat alone at the bar.

Dear Cupid,

Would you take it easy? I’m an open target and clearly in your way. Stop shooting at me. Is that so hard to ask? Although, I know, sometimes I’m knocking on your door. But this time I mean it! Scram! Shoo! I don’t want you around no more, yahear? Take a look at me–I’m punctured! Holes all in me. I think that’s why I have this feeling, like melting, I’m sinking. Would you give me some time to recuperate at least? I’ll need at least a week. Leave me alone for a week, wontcha?

Listen, I know… In a few weeks, once I heal up a bit, I’ll start to miss your ways. I’ll send you mad texts. I’m a bad, bad girl and I want you to hurt me. Put me back in the field, buddy! Here I am! And I’ll get shot! Bit! All over again, like an addict sneaking out to a get a hit….
mmmmmmm, but it feels so good.
mmmmmmm, punctured like veins.

You don’t want to be the cause of my addiction, do ya? Don’t want that on your angelic conscious. Save your arrows for more deserving folk. People all around me seem to be falling in love. You shoot me and it doesn’t stick. The arrow hangs there around then falls limp. Why won’t it stay? (Why don’t they stay?) What is that you’re shooting with? A fucking Nerf gun??

I think it’s your fault. It’s your damn arrows. Maybe you have bad timing. Shooting them when I just so happen to eye a loser. Oh, man… This guy doesn’t have a car. I think he’s perfect.

Truth is, I love you, Cupid. Take your arrow and slap me on the ass with it. I just wanna love Love. But I’m beginning to hate you. I’m writing you to tell you that. I resent you for all the times you’ve hit me. Hit me and told me this time would be different. Oh, I tell myself that, too. But this time I think I’ve learned my lesson. I’m DONE with you. I don’t want any more of it. All these guys, could flip through them by closing my eyes. They come and go, come and go. I’ve noticed how they keep coming. I’m afraid I’ll run out of luck. I pick up a card and say Next! So many choices… So I’m beggin ya! Stop dealing!

Or maybe they’re the ones who are hit. And I’m the one who got in the way.

Maybe that’s what you meant in your letter when you said, “GTFO my way bitch, Im tryna make people fall in love & ur ass keeps ruining it.”

Maybe all these wounds are because I keep tripping. I’m not punctured, I’m bruised. Look at my legs and call me a Georgia Peach!
Chasing love and tripping.
Why do you keep running away from me?

Maybe that’s what you meant when you wrote, “Wait ur turn.”

Maybe it’s not my turn.

-xoxo

I never really realized how weirdly obsessed I am with guys. I’ve been keeping a diary for a couple years now and it’s mostly about dudes. lol My best writing is when I’m talking romance. Like I KNOW I WAS DOING OTHER SHIT WHY WASNT I WRITING ABOUT THAT TOO??

Jesus. Get your shit together, girl.
(Working on it.)

Started the beginning scene of a story idea I’ve been sitting on. This is like the fourth version of the beginning. I can’t get passed it. But I want to tell this story.

I want to focus on my work instead of my relationships. Is that so hard to ask?

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Misplaced

I’m outside of my house.

I don’t want to go inside.
(What is this?)

My cat greets me.
Why do I even look for a notification?
It’s never the one I want.
When it is it’s like a treasure and I immediately reply. I throw it back into the ocean like an SOS.
Help.

I don’t want this house. I want his house.

Displaced

They call me Bird at work. It’s the first nickname I’ve liked in a while. The first was Turbo. I got that in high school. I was shy in school, so all my energy went into church activities. My youth group was my social group. These were those I considered my friends, although they barely offered a smile to me in the hallways.
Turbo was given to me by Landon. He was a big, curly haired boy with lots of charisma. Older. I was good friends with his sisters, he had four, two around my age. They were home schooled.
I spent my 16th birthday with them and our other friends, two sisters, Mallory and Cameron. Both older. They surprised me and presented a cake in a dim room singing. Gave me a wooden jewelry box that I hardly used because I hardly wear jewelry.

“Chirp chirp,” my coworkers greet me instead of hey. I’ve taken to it. I write BIRD on my styrofoam cup instead of my name.

I dance around and sing to myself at work. I practice positivity there and it helps with the boredom. I get high behind the dumpster with the cooks and come inside. “Come on down, now, Bird.” They tell my goofy grin. Birds fly high.

I dropped a six pack of corona in the beer cooler. At least it wasn’t craft beer. The bottom of my worn out soles bear shards.

I’m a fucking space cadet. Head in the clouds. I’m looking for a support but there’s nowhere to land.

I’m writing this in segments throughout the night. Free writing whatever comes into my head. I want to find my Voice. I think I can do that here. I’m ready to take my writing more seriously. I’ve been pursuing relationships. Wasting time. Flying from one fantasy to another but there’s no solid ground to land on.

“You’re like Juliette on the balcony.” I text him. I’m walking down Congress and he comes out for a smoke break and sees me. Looks so happy to see me but never texts back.

I’m in the audience and he’s onstage reading his set he scribbled on the back of his EBT bank renewal. “No antics tonight I’m telling the truth.”
I cringe. His life is on display. Each week his set is his life. I have been there along the way, skipping with the weeks and now,
“Since my divorce I’ve slept with 4 beautiful women. 2 crazy. 1 sweet,” he looks me right in the eye. “And 1 I had feelings for.”

No? You didn’t have feelings for me? Just weeks of waste? Sugar that tasted sweet on your tongue then melted and gone?
So on to the next one?

I’ve been called sweet and innocent by everyone. I don’t think I like that name.

Dragged out on stage? Are you kidding me? Everybody knows. It’s the Dawe Show.

Waiting time, sweetheart.
I don’t want to anymore.

I’m working a wedding. It’s their second time each and they just want to get drunk. I happily facilitate.
This is the first time in my life that I have questioned if I will find love.
And if I find, If I’ll keep it.

Space cadet just may lose it.
She loses everything.

Sipping leftover champagne.

Smoking cigarettes behind dumpsters.
I’m the little sparrow that pokes for substances in the trash.

I text him and asked him for dinner. Why do I do that? 
Yes or no.
Either way, I’ll go on my way.
Just need to know.
What’s up with people and wasting my time?

I’m wasting time on the clock. But at least I’m getting paid.
It’s when you clock out. What counts is what you do with your free time.

They’re all drunk now. I’m taking my time on smoke breaks, texting my blog instead of boys. Getting high behind dumpsters then smiling at guests. Come on now, Bird.
You can fly.

Let it sink in.

I feel the grime on my skin.

They told me that taking ecstasy was like taking a pill of happy. It just makes you feel good. Everything feels good. Make sure to rub the cushion of a soft couch. And sex is amazing (they grin and whisper).

I mentioned in my last post that I think the ecstasy leveled out my depressive state. A bit of a creative exaggeration, but not much. I also smoke a lot of weed and took just one tab. Who knows. My friend asked me when it hit and I just kept shrugging.

At first I told her I was dropping her off and promptly driving home to cry. Then I was convinced to stay. We adventured around. In Savannah I get to barhop because we can carry around beers in togo cups. So all night we jumped from place to place.
“What are we looking for?”
I intentionally meant that to be deeper. “It’s a metaphor for our lives.”
We went looking for a place. Always unsatisfied. Order a drink and take it to the streets. Sometimes I just enjoy that.

My battery is at 0% mentally. I usually operate in an obnoxiously optimistic manner but have lately been funked. As the night has gone on, many hits from hidden dugouts, a few beers, a lot good people, and dancing, I feel recharged.

I lost my phone charger. Third one in a month. I’m sitting in my car recharging my phone and my mind.

I feel my skin. The skin stretched over bone. I danced in clubs until last call and I feel human beings all over me. I don’t want to go in and shower. I want to sit and feel this.

I read in Wikipedia that ecstasy heightens your senses. I feel heightened, enlightened, still… nothing too excitin’. I’m feeling the last effects and I think I’ll keep it. My own little slice of happiness. It’s all I need. I’ll take it and no one will notice. When the drug goes away I’ll snicker because I stole some of its good good feeling.

(They can have rubbing their fingers over surfaces and sex. They’d miss that. No, I’ll take this.)

Maybe this time I won’t forget.

Been awhile.

My heart has been broken again. It’s been a while since I let someone in like that. It’s easy to get lost in the idea of someone. Had me confessing feelings in my diary. I always have hopeful wishing, especially in matters of the heart. Maybe it’s my tendency as a writer, but I plot out what will happen and act surprised when it doesn’t go to plan. Ooooo– twist ending!!

But is it? I saw this coming miles ahead. I couldn’t have placed the foreshadows better myself.

Why do we ignore the signs?

Caution!!
Ooookay, we say as we drive carelessly on.

Maybe it’s because I was raised a girl and since then my main fantasy has included boys. Do little boys have pretend girlfriends, too? I meet someone I’m drawn to and automatically wonder if they could…
could…
what? fill this role? this hole in my life? Are we dependant and obsessed with romance because we’re unhappy with ourselves?
So we call people and use them like trash just so we don’t have to spend a night alone.

We’re still kids, afraid of being left alone in the dark.

I’m over it. Or… I’m getting over it. My heart still sinks at the thought of him. But that’s the clumsy body stumbling after my mind and determination. It’s a little slow but it’ll catch up,
(Lindsey, read that again. I know you’ll read through your words probably tomorrow and tomorrow morning you’ll need to be reminded.)

I write these things so I don’t forget.

Tonight I took a tab of ecstasy and was so depressed that it leveled me out to my usual chipper attitude. I’m riding the last of it now, sitting in my car after dancing, texting to my blog instead of dumb boys.

Writing practice

People drink alcohol to heal their wounds.

My mother told me that.

She’s never drank before. At least that’s what I was lead to believe. For a long time I remember thinking my mother and father were virgins until their marriage night; I found out from my brother that my father had slipped.

I wonder why they would hide that from me.

My great grandmother died in a hospital bed. Her fiery red hair had faded to white and her skin was deflated over her cheekbones like a sunken balloon fallen on tree branches. But her fiery spirit remained. She fiercely witnessed to all the nurses, warning them, and going as far as to pray with some of them. I remember holding her boney hand, she shook it vigorously and said, “No drinkin’, no smokin’, and no dancin’.” These are the way the devil gets you.

I have broken all three of my great grandmother’s rules. All three in one night.

The first time I got drunk I was a sophomore in college. I was at a fraternity formal. My best friend was dating a Kappa Sigma and I went with his roommate. I turned to her and whispered, “I think I’m ready.” Everywhere around me people were drunk. It was my first experience with it.  I took two shots of peppermint schnapps with a chaser of chocolate syrup. The following day I woke up feeling horrible, but not from a hangover. I was wrecked with guilt.

Years later, I’m sneaking shots of bourbon and blue moons from the host tab at a banquet party.

If I have wounds, I don’t know where they’re from. And I wouldn’t waste my beer to pour over it. I don’t drink because I’m hurt. I drink because I’m bored at work and don’t want to drive home.

Ease my cares with front porch swings and rocking chairs

“You’re marked.” He told me very confidently. He even slapped his knee. Sitting there on my front porch swing. “I’ve seen you in action, you’re anointed.”

This praise elates me and I grin. You really think so? He complements my poetry. Old spoken word pieces I’d recite by memory in the pulpit. I watched a video the other day and I was striking. But it was hard to view. I couldn’t help but cringe at my words. But I was passionate and reverent. I noticed how my eyes avoided the crowd and the camera. I would close them or look above and I thought, oh wow, I really believed

But I was good. I had no idea. Because when I was complemented I’d shrug and say, well, it’s all God.

Faith astounds me. It’s strange.

My cousin confronted me on my front porch swing. Earlier we were picking through my late pop’s books (like he has vegetables) and he picked up one and said, “These are interesting answers.”

He’s a theology major. Also a music major. Has perfect pitch and leads a choir.

He was holding a study Bible. Old. His. Yes, but are they good?

“That’s when I knew I could talk to you. You’re a thinker. You’re smart. But I’m telling you that there are answers.”

Consider Christ, my cousin challenged me. And see what happens.

Old church of god is long winded. He presented his case of the Nazarene so well that he cried.

“Even though it’s intellectual. You can’t deny the experiential.”

Oh. Not this. Not this.

It is something I block from my brain like a traumatic child.

But in order to get where I’m going I’m gonna have to smash them. I believe in going in, digging deep. Into this. Into Life. Into me. And you. And that it will be good.

So yes, I’ll consider. I’ll consider it all.