500 Followers!


original art!

original art!

Holy cow, guys.

500.

That’s a lot.

Typically, when I post on this blog, I consider it my way of shouting into the void. But 500 people? Can you imagine 500 people standing in a room with you? That’s a lot of people. And 500 people who actually want to hear what I have to say? Inconceivable.

When I started this blog, I had no idea where it would take me. Now I know. It’s my zone for self-expression, for better or for worse. And, for one reason or another, 500 (well, at the moment, 503) people have decided to tag along for the wild ride that is my life (and its consequent musings). Certainly, not everything I post is a masterpiece, but I must have some good qualities if I can obtain an audience like all of you.

A great deal of what I post (at least, within the past year or so) is the lovechild of my emotional instability and my fears of impermanence. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it. But I know it must be.

Not every one of my followers shows up to my posts. I’m sure not every one of my followers is even active. But the sheer fact that I have followers, and that, of that group, at least a few people are rooting for me (with likes and comments that make my day) is very uplifting. I appreciate every little acknowledgement of my void-shouts, because it makes the void feel less like a void.

So to my followers, thank you. To everyone who cares, thank you. You’ve helped me grow my confidence as a writer on the platform where it’s obligatory to practice the craft. Every like and comment matters! And all of you matter. Thank you so much.

Ciao for now,

Mikki

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Convenience Store: More Lyrics


We walk to the convenience store
We buy iced tea and nothing more
You’re shopping for a bit of fun
That’s not what you tell anyone

You press your nose against my cheek
You look at me, eyes round and meek
But you feel shameless in your crime
I don’t know you’re just killing time

10 p.m., we’re on your quilt
and I don’t see the flowers wilt
I feel your weight across my chest
Of all my friends, you are the best

The petals fall into the dirt
I don’t yet know that I should hurt
We walk to the convenience store
But you don’t love me anymore

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Almost: A Poem (or, rather, Lyrics for which I May Never Write Music)


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Crooked-tooth beauty, your wide smile curved
I saw you were everything I almost deserved
Head on your collarbone, I didn’t feel so alone
Affectionate words, unreserved

Your eyes, crinkled pastries all happy like that
Your toes, autumn-awkward on the welcome mat
You shone perfect pink, let your long lashes blink
Then lifted me up, swift, strong acrobat

Crooked-tooth beauty, you spun me around
Like a hot-air balloon peeled up from the ground
My giggles went pealing; swear I touched the ceiling
And back in your arms, warm and safe, I was found

What bright stroke of luck had granted me you?
What guardian angel did I have? Or who
Would read my bent mind and then be so kind
As to hand me the best thing the heavens can do?

Tumultuous beauty, I held you to me
Light met your green eyes like sunsets on the sea
Sweet fragile foam, you became my home
Now my boat is lost and I am so alone.

Breakups


They suck, apparently.

It’s been over a month since I split with my ex-boyfriend and I’m still not really over it. At all.

0a134f738216560debdc0e5e71764726In that time, he’s done cool stuff with his friends and he has even obtained a new girlfriend. I’ve just kind of cried a lot. I miss the sense of security I had when I was in his arms, or cooking with him, or even when he would stop by my house on his runs and bike rides. It felt so nice to be wanted, loved, to feel special and important to someone.

I could sense when he stopped loving me. Those were a lot of nights spent staying up in bed, pretending to be asleep, with my heart rate at a million beats per second and a small puddle in each eye. I’d tried to break up with him a few times in the month before that–for his sake, believe it or not (that’s another story). But I still can’t shake how terrifying, how unexpected it was that he would stop loving me. I never stopped loving him during our relationship. I still haven’t.

I’ve been trying to fight so many of my negative thoughts that have appeared as a result of the breakup. A main one is reconciling the idea that someone could fall out of love with me  with my constant battle for self-love. Another is the loss of one of the best friends I’ve ever had–someone I felt so comfortable with that I never felt the need to hide any aspect of who I am from him. I don’t know how to feel about being discarded. I still want to be special to him–even if I can’t be his girlfriend, I want to be his best friend again. I know it’s impossible, but it doesn’t change how I feel.

Even with all of these things in mind, the absolute worst part is trying to get him out of my system. I think about him when I’m trying to sleep, when I wake up, when I get cold, when I need someone to talk to (ironically, the breakup has been the main reason for this as of late), when I see a joke that I want to share, and when I just need to see a face outside my family. I have to consciously remind myself that we won’t ever be the same, that some of the things I had looked forward to in our relationship will never come to pass. I can’t rely on him anymore. And although my feelings work to the contrary, I have no right to be jealous anymore.

Screen shot 2016-02-04 at 4.41.18 PMI’ve had to adopt a new mantra. Whereas pre-split I used to tell myself, “You are loved,” I have since found that that particular sentence can be very hard to believe (after all, he told me he loved me after he stopped meaning it, so how can I trust that anyone loves me?). The new one is also a challenge, but it’s a necessary challenge, because without it I can’t ever move on.

I am not his failure to love me.

I am worth so much more than his love. He is, after all, the one who failed. The one who wasn’t willing to work things out. The one who didn’t care enough about me to fight his cowardice and tell me he was done. He’s the one who lied, who kept giving me an empty “I love you.”

I tried to keep him. I tried so hard. But in the end, he wasn’t worth the effort. And that isn’t my fault. Nothing I could have done would have made him stay. And that isn’t my fault. It’s his fault. He is the one with the problem. He is the one who threw me away. He is the one who loses.

He was the best boyfriend in the whole world until he stopped loving me.  He was sweet, patient, cuddly, soft, honest, open-minded, kind, gentle, and maybe even a little indulging. In short, he did everything right. But it’s difficult–impossible, even–to forgive this one misstep. And maybe I don’t have to.

I will be loved again. I will find another friend like him.

I am not his failure to love me.

He is his failure to love me.

And that is not my fault.

Ciao for now,
Mikki (who, despite the odds, is in one piece)