I feel like I’m not allowed to expose any actual vulnerability in love.

We are so criticized based upon our looks.

Though it seems that I’ve had somehow a larger portion of being critiqued than is ordinary to a woman.

When someone says something that hurts me, am I allowed to show my partner that I am in pain? That I might be going through a spell of self doubt?

Do I lose value for allowing words to enter me and lay rest? To be infected by their touch.

It seems that love is no different than freindship - there is this aspect of consistently showing that you are prized, that you are worth having - that you’re desirable. And if you show otherwise , that you may be lost - that something of you is aching for more or to be expanded and realized - it will be a turn off. Whatever bud of friendship formed seizes to thrive, as petals descend and all that is left is an abysmal stem.

What if your partner reassures you but then asks if you think whatever statement is true? Does that not cancel out whatever reassurance?

They say surround yourself with what you want to be. I’ve always thought that to be a paradoxical statement.

But I cannot help but feel that most relationships (friendship included) are about hunters and being hunted. About an impressive resume, a dance - an ongoing performance. They are, quite frankly, conditional.

And I ask myself if I am the type of friend I would want. If I want or expect to be engaged, am I engaging as well? I know I am thoughtful, and observant. That I enjoy lofty conversations and silly ones alike. That I can be very passionate given an adequate setting. That I adore the intensity of meaningful connection.

Yet I feel very alone at times. And I distract myself with fitness sometimes, and work very hard but somehow just always feel like a yo-yo.

There are many who think I am conceited because I keep to myself, but i know we are from different planets. I am just anomaly who happens to be there, who hasn’t yet been struck by a significance that brings me to life, that gives me a path I desire and...

So many people never experience love or even a life with all that much joy. I think about that often. We’re so entitled to thinking automatically that we will, in fact, be privy to such riches.

I’ve known of many who lived in such a way where they could never truly blossom into a happier existence. Struggle and hardship is ubiquitous. It leaves scars that make themselves present even when the cause is absent.

For a long time, when i never became fully aware that Nick was merely a passer-by in my life. I loved him and wanted desperately to have a part of him. I wanted to have his child, I wanted to give the love I couldn’t have with him to someone who would be ours. It was silly. But very real to me, at the time. In fact, it’s part of that same theme- that the relationship between parent and child is the only one without some never ending expectation to prove one’s worth. It is unconditional, it is just love.

Then he came around trying to check on my status, wanting to connect - and I sabotaged it and made myself unavailable. You could say it was because he had his chance and it was gone, but also, for me, it was because I didn’t feel like taking his “test”. What about my “test” for him? I had chosen to love him, even with his flaws...but I was not given this opportunity. My flaws being not being thin enough and having no trust fund.

I know Ortega says love is a choice, but I think, as of late, that only familial love is love.

That if you don’t feel desire to prove yourself to your partner, you probably don’t care much for this person. And if you do, you’re always on a tight rope anyway.

About the friends you lose from those years in life when you are vulnerably taking shape. About a friend I lost due to time, distance, and probably subjectively.

I hadn’t properly acknowledged that you were gone.

These are the details that can easily hide in one’s “journey”

So it is now that I mourn you, our friendship and hurry

Into a chapter that I’m not confident

Is right.

You’re not there anymore to bounce ideas -

And it hurts more to feel that it is only I

Who senses this loss.

But even if I end in one of your earlier volumes,

You made it here in mine.

The impossibility is where the tragedy comes from.

Both dead and alive.

You both siezed my hand and let go in time.

I appreciate all the laughter,

That moment where you ecstastically sighed -

When the crisp air around you made you realize

Life was nascent- that you were young and loved.

Enraptured by a moment divine.

You helped me see things I was too “humble” to acknowledge.

The gentle balance between depth and materialism.

Our hedonistic celebrations of abundance.

The explorations into the psyches of those who seek romance.

Your 10 million “aha” moments, so sure of yourself but ever changing your story at a moment’s notice.

I remember the shift, when I knew it’d be the last time I’d visit you.

I never knew why it happened, but I suddenly felt myself labeled in a box.

Perhaps because I did not know what was my direction?

My story.

I suddenly became a relic from “those years”.

You had outgrown me, like one your dresses sent to the boutique.

Like you have a pattern of outgrowing and boring of many phases in life.

You did make one last very meaningful gesture.

And some faded communications.

But there were things said that fabricated a distance

I suppose I’m not one to chase.

So I stand at the tomb of our relationship...

Knowing you experience solitude as well -

But we’re not there for each other anymore,

And the book is closed.

But I hand’t yet made that final

Mark

Nomad

               NOMAD

Sometimes, your memory is a sudden sting.

Serene and focused, it assertively demanded attention.

It overcame.

The complexity of nonsense.

Fragments which don’t align.

The frustration of no answers, to withholding.

To having resigned.

My tongue begs to escape.

But I put the leash on and restrain.

What point is there in yelling or whispering in your cave?

I’d listen to an echo.

To notes that reward no satisfaction.

There is no crescendo here.

An unfinished song.

The pen sitting in a pool of ink.

Saturated until all distinction is lost.

And all I have is