Dress Sizes

I don’t want to write about you, and how I don’t feel right inside when the gap between us is so wide or when we spar, everything inside of me wells up and there is no fresh air getting through – I don’t wear anger well, or the time you are away. I dislike how I feel primitive with my expressions.  Your vanilla and I am not, you rationalize, and I cannot.  You accept and I fight.  You’re inside the lines and I like it when I cross against the lights.   But when you wrap your arms, around me, there is only passion, and it swallows me completely and in that moment, I re-bloom.  With passion comes conflict and it’s not easy.  I think you prefer cerebral conflicts to the heat of a passionate heart.
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There are a great many posts of late by women saying they have the blues and are feeling like their own skin is a size too small.  There is something in the air women are saying, maybe a funk has settled in, worse than the cold, harsher than the flu, debilitating like pneumonia, and that nothing is moving forward.  We’re taking steps forward, but the wind is pushing-pushing, pushing us around and damn-it, it’s taking our spirit too.  Those damn Karma fairies are holding back on the good news, a winning lottery ticket, come-hither stares from a lanky stranger, they’re holding back on all those little intangible perks in life we inhale greedily and take for granted when we’re not under that grey cloud of the blues.
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I dislike making lists.  I pride myself on my memory, and ability to unfold the recent events that might make up the numbered items on the twice-folded piece of paper shoved into the right pocket of a pair of blue jeans and referred to as needed.   It goes against my grain, and if I was to peel back the layers, I’m sure I’d find that the act of scribing notes to myself is associated  with mental weakness.  It’s not, of course, it’s a pride thing. I have amazing short-term recall, but it’s the older memories that blur between fact and fiction.
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**Breathe, one, two, three, wait before jumping over the edge.**
Mine is a cursed heart and was the moment I told the tall, lanky man that I wanted to kiss him.  Who knew he’d kiss me back, or that kiss would send me spiraling out of control?  Since that moment, I took to writing love letters.  I write letters of love, of anger, or loss, of ache, or pain, and from almost the same instance, we started our love affair, I wrote ‘love me no more’ letters, and please ‘ release me letters’.  I beg him to be strong and not contact me—since I am the weaker one—but apparently he is weaker than I since he has never truly let me get too far away or go too long without pulling me back in.  He goes silent for a while, which hurts at first but I gradually resume normal breathing until he pops up in my instant message window, and we tango, spare, and begin again.

Some people blog to tell a story, to confess, to become famous, and then there are those of us who come out of the closet with their heartache with the wild notion of self-curing.  I don’t know if that will happen here or not, but there isn’t anything to be lost.

Over the edge, and damn the rules….
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