I am starting something new. I have not written at all since September. Sometimes, I fear I have forgotten how to. In the fray, I have been forced to polish my grammar skills. However, sometimes I feel as if english scholars miss the point.
 No person can become a writer. They either are one, or they are not. Writing is the way in which a person sees the world. It has very little to do with journaling, typed memoirs, or letter stashes. All of those things are the outcome. Writers write because they can do little else.
 Throughout the great majority of my life, I felt as if my writing were inescapable. I looked back on all of my compositions to find that all of them had errors. I could have fixed them, but I refused to. There was something charming about the ruggedness of them. There was some succulence there. There was life.
 I have had grammar so nailed into me, that it has punctured my ability to see the world in color. Where there was freedom, there was beauty. Now, there is just a concrete row of monochromatic words.
 I abhor grammar.
 I hate caging up the watercolor lines. The structure sucks everything whimsical out of compositions. The material is inevitably drier than it could have been.

  I am a fan of the run on sentence.

"Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition." Timothy Leary

 I, the burnout 

 Queen; 

 I, the ungrateful. 

 I-

 The 

 Blank stare

 From across the table. 

 You, 

 The warlock. 

 "It was all for 

 Recovery."

 Sometimes, despite the change, I get caught in a missing that is paralyzingly overwhelming. I miss the way your breath felt on my neck when you'd lean over in chapel and whisper something in my ear. I miss your hands and your forearms and the way you'd furrow your brow. I even miss your horrible combination of cowboy boots and straight-leg jeans. I miss the way you look walking towards me, sun in your hair--beaming. I miss coffee conversations about literature and yes--I fear most days that I will never find anyone as insightful as you. I still marvel at the way you always knew exactly what to say to move, stir and even break me. But I also know where to put these things. Away in a box in the top of my closet, I lock up the missing. I savor it quietly when it comes, I've half convinced myself that it is poetry. I count it joy.
 Immediately after, I become acutely aware of the feeling in my fingers and toes, the hairs on my arms stand up, I am forced to my acknowledge my state of aloneness. I, inside my own self am the constant you could never be.
  I suppose those thoughts are the kind that make me okay again.
  I open my own car doors. I hang my own pictures. I pay for my own meals.
  Missing you at times is somewhat thrilling; it makes me grateful for a love like me.

 She in her tall socks, scrunched at the ankle,
 She, bare faced, as naked as the moon...


 She never stopped waiting.

  I expected that she knew you by the way she carried herself; I can't explain it. My intuition felt you in her and she in you as she peered into me and I back into her. She was all clean lines: grays, blacks, and peaks of the teal that is you that I became entirely too acquainted with. She was buttoned and immaculate; she communicated power, she controlled the room. She wasn't the type of girl that forgot imperative things, like the importance of wearing underwear or packing an extra tube of crimson lipstick.
 I studied her leather bag, assuming that the inside most likely cradled uniquely packaged kleenexes, a battery operated compact mirror, anti-bacterial lotion that was named quirkily after a fruit, and her designer phone cover that encased itself around a history of late night conversations...most likely with you. I bet she knows a lot about e-books, and maybe a thing here or there about rock climbing.
  I am still not made out of magic.
  And I am still too much of a child for
  Some truths.

  I was the bullet that ricocheted off of the last poetic organ of your insides. I ignited the December sky that hung itself behind you, never giving you anything to hope for as you crawled to a nearby gutter to nurse your wounds. Prior to the collapse of your broad chest, I peered through the small perfect window that the tenacity of me left inside of you. In a tip-toed fit of rage, the fists of my aggression targeted your apathetic eyes and all of the most sensitive parts of your face. My searing truths knifed their way through you; they left you smoking like the barrel of the gun that was the fleshy pink moistness of my inner jaw. My profanities wrote themselves in silver ink across your face. I started at your left temple, my fingers carved down to your chin. You wrapped me up in your stale embrace; you were a lifeless corpse with a cast-iron face.  I sunk my teeth into your flesh, hoping to taste whatever was left of you.
 The ache caped itself around me, tying my jugular like a noose. I, glistening and curled in my sapphire parka was both the volatility of a hurricane and the tenderness of a bruise. My fingers traced the strings on the insides of my pockets. Tattered and frayed like me, I clung to them in desperation the way children do. You were the gut wrenching hopelessness that draped itself over the broken wings of a still grey vacancy. Your horn rimmed glasses fogged from the breath of my cut throat generalities. In desperation, I sought to revive the words that died inside of your silences like helpless, abandoned beggars on the front porches of ruthless Decembers. You checked your watch as if you had somewhere else to be.

Unaffected
Sophisticated
You--

Limbless,
Gaping,
Me.

 No pavilion could save us, no white washed cedar with spiraling ivy, no honey suckle, and certainly not your beat up high tops that hung their hat by our bedroom door at night. There was no hope for any last, salty, drop of finger-curling, intimate sweat. There were no blossoming apologies to wreath themselves around our necks.

You were a glass house.
I was a flourishing hill.

 And with my lipstick stained, coffee soaked, haggard and beaten copy of "The Bell Jar," I turned on my heels and abandoned you in your own grey.  I left you to starve in your frosted cage, with the vacancy of strangers, in the piercing sludge of your Northern city.

 And I walked away.


 I left you on the street corner of Winter;

 I blossomed into a glorious May.

 Tonight, I slipped on my peculiarly patterned, cerulean and magenta rain boots. In this horribly soggy weather, I walked through the garden letting the pebbles beneath me sink into the thick rubber gaps between the ridges of my soles. My fingers absentmindedly traced the thick seams of my back pockets as I pulled my shoulders far back and tucked my hands into them. My flushed cheeks were moist, the temperature made me roll up the sleeves to my cardigan. The necklace that draped itself so gently against my freckled collarbone was beginning to feel incredibly heavy. "It is the humidity," I thought to myself, "Welcome home, 'Oklahoma'." I reached for the flashy gold clasp that aligned itself so perfectly with the soft, iridescent pieces that glistened in the enchanting glow of the dimly lit light. As I unbuckled it, I felt immediate reprieve.
 I sat for a moment on the swing and inhaled deep. In the soft stillness, in the perfect space between thoughts, I rested my mind.



  "Who are you?"
   Dr. Pate asked the class.

   The lump in my throat began to throb.

  "Who are you?"
 
   He asked again.


   A large portion of the class remained silent. I heard a few giggles from the back of the room, as if the question were to be taken lightheartedly. Some people sat in confusion as to what kind of answer he was looking for. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few shift uncomfortably in their seats as if the spotlight was directly focussed on them.


  My eyes became glossy.


  "Who are you?"

  He asked a third time.


  I let the question resonate.



  Eyes still closed, my fingers traced along the small planks of the "Engagement Swing". For a moment, I smirked at how many boys had sat beside me on it, I reflected on how many encouraging evening chats it has held up through and how many tears of both sorrow and joy it has absorbed in the past two years.

And I thanked it for always "hanging in there," and always being willing to cradle me.

I thanked my little garden, whose glorious trees have so willingly draped over me (without eavesdropping, or reading my poetry); who have [yearly] put up their defenses against the vengeful wrath of every Tennessee August.

And in a spirit of gratefulness, I began to weep.
And weep.
And weep.


Tonight, God placed in front of me
A question
That I finally know the answer to.

With a pair of brand new eyes--

 I see.

I swear I saw you walking toward me;
You were talking about caves.

And I was a fist full of conundrums...

So I released you.

 He stopped reading. Perhaps it was a deliberate decision or a slow progression, but either way I lost touch with the intellect of a demi-god. In high school the brush of his side-swept hair was poetry; he never picked me, but then, not many do. I caught his attention with my bullets of truth, and small leaflets of art that his hands would rifle through. But somewhere, he dropped off. His horn rimmed glasses and cappuccino stained vegan threads slipped off the scene. He was the boy I spent much time in the bathroom stall pining over, praying to God between passing periods that I would be interesting enough to be noticed. He noticed his girlfriend. But then again, who wouldn't? My pink fo-hawk was overlooked. She was long legged and mean; she would fight a circle chainsaw. Her lips were pierced and the glitter on her eyes was glamorous. She was a super hero...I was only in the minor-leagues. That was before I'd had the courage to take long drags on Marlboro Reds or "experiment" physically with tattooed boys from downtown bars, or linger in the faces of pierced, drunken stupors whose hats consistently hung more sheets to the wind than I could ever count. I was still young. I was too young to hold his interest. I touched his hands once; I lingered there. I made it count.
 He smelled like Old Spice and Gin.

 I kept writing because of him.

Go after her, don't sit there and wait for her to call. Go after her because that's what you should do if you love someone, don't wait for them to give you a sign 'cause it might never come. Don't let people happen to you, don't let me happen to you, or her. She's not a television show or tornado. There are people I might have loved had they gotten on the airplane or run down the street after me or called me up drunk at four in the morning because they need to tell me right now and because they cannot regret this and I always thought I'd be the only one doing crazy things for people who would never give enough of a **** to do it back or to act like idiots or be entirely vulnerable and honest. Making someone fall in love with you is easy and flying 3000 miles on four days notice because you can't just sit there and do nothing and breathing into telephones is not everyone's idea of love but it is the way I can recognize it because that is what I do. Go scream it and be with her in meaningful ways because that is beautiful and that is generous and that is what loving someone is, that is raw and that is unguarded, and that is all that is worth anything, really.

- Harvey Milk

God please don't let it feel like a wound anymore.

These Three Hours

  I am writing this piece in the last three hours of Laila's life. At one o'clock, some men will come that we don't know, they will cross the threshold of this house that has so intricately woven me together for the past seven years and they will take with them a small piece of magic still hanging in the air from what she left behind.
 The symbolism is everywhere. Last night, after two Benadryl, I lay in bed studying the wall. I noticed a strip under the windowsill of electric green paint; tears came to my eyes and I began to weep.
 When I was a sophomore in high school I experience a state of mania that was perhaps the most dramatic episode of my life. I took left over lime green paint from the garage, covered the walls with it and wrote Dickinson's poetry in eclectic fonts from ceiling to floor. After I was finished, I was left with a loud, chaotic mess. I had absolutely destroyed my room! Panicked, I called my mom and told her what I'd done. She wasn't angry, she simply said..."Call your dad and see if he will loan you some money for paint...repainting it won't be that difficult." He was used to my frequent "creative" endeavors and he loaned me the money to coat the walls with a soothing hue of lovely lavender. I reached out and touched the green paint. Has it really been five years?
 I grew up in this house. Today it is owned by a family friend who was kind enough to keep our dogs for us while Mom and I decided to further our education. Though the newness has taken over, there are still remnants of our family everywhere. My sheets are still used on my bed; my pillow still smells same. My marching shoes are still on my shoe rack, complete with dead, flaking grass from dewey, break-of-dawn marching band practices. The orange and black letterman that used to drape my shoulders during late-night football games still hangs in the closet. I ache for those nights. I crave the adrenaline rush, the echo of the cadences, the energetic fusion of flashy lights, roaring nostalgia and a tidal-wave of head to to color cloaking our students as they bring forth the "spirit stick:" a representation of the paramount Norman Tiger tradition.
 The city streets are the same. Advertisements for High V.S. North tickets decorate Main Street. Taste of Norman tickets have gone on sale. Soon the overwhelming aroma of chili, the tart taste of Rusty's Custard, and the delicious selection of Van's Pig Stand will serve as a phenomenal pre-game while our boys lace up their cleats and prepare to bring home yet another Tiger victory!
 My life was here. The trees on Berry Road are the same. In the fall they will smell like fig or nutmeg... and their leaves will change. As winter emerges they will strip themselves down to nothing. They will starkly contrast the December sky. The snow will sit atop their branches; they will survive the weariness and the ice until the spring when they will thrive once more. There is a constancy to them...there is a promise.

 For everything, there is a season.

 We have had Laila since before Norman entered our lives. A series of tragic events led us to this place that we have since referred to as our home town. We feel it is fitting. There are so many memories here. This house is where we did all of our growing as a family. Laila, Mom and I have always been the three musketeers. It is amazing how the love of a dog can be the glue that keeps a family together. But since the separation of my parents, Laila's has. I have written before on how I see God's love in my animals. Laila has taught me so much about God's love. She has also shown me how important it is to treasure every day of this one precious life that we have.
   I remember my excitement when Laila was born, I was there when she took her first breath. Today, mom and I will hold her as she takes her last. She will pass in this house...in our home. Tomorrow we will wake up and life will be different, another chapter in our lives will be closed, Norman will close itself to us all over again. And like the trees in their constancy, time will continue to do what it is best at: changing things and molding us into something all together new.
  In these last three precious hours, I will sit beside Laila in my little house. I will play her Eddie Vedder, Stevie Nicks and Bryan Mcnight (a collection of all her favorite music to sleep to). And I will be grateful that God has given me such a glorious gift in my life. I will be grateful that in my "one wild and precious life" I was lucky enough to experience such a beautiful season.

Yes I understand
That every life must end,
As we sit alone
I know someday we must go.

Oh I'm a lucky man
To count on both hands
The ones I love.
Some folks just have one,
Yeah others they got none.

Stay with me.
Let's just breathe.

Practised on our sins,
Never gonna let me win.
Under everything,
Just another human being.

I don't want to hurt,
There's so much in this world
to make me believe.

Stay with me--
All I see.

Did I say that I need you?Did I say that I want you?
What if I did and I'm a fool you see
No one knows this more than me
'cause I come clean

I wonder everyday
As I look upon your face
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave

Did I say that I need you?
Did I say that I want you?
What if I did and I'm a fool you see
No one knows this more than me

I come clean.

Nothing you would take;Everything you gave.
Hold me 'til I die-
Meet you on the other side. 

Pearl Jam

   August came.

   I didn't hear her slip in.
   Perhaps on the hems of May she knocked,
   But I was too weary to answer the door.

   I blamed it on my preoccupation with other things,

   Something didn't communicate.
 
   And now there's nothing but road signs
   And confusion

   About how I will make it.

 

This wasn't how I planned it.

 I wish I could travel "one flight down," you know, the floor Norah Jones talks about in her song? "One flight down there's a song on low, and it's been there playing all along...now you know, now you know." I bet walking that flight is the most relaxing thing ever, like when you come home in the grey and it's all white wool blankets and deep, sinking ivory couch cushions for the rest of the evening. Perhaps all of the homes on that floor are accented with the warm, charming glow of vanilla candles whose cooing flames echo off the surfaces of immaculate stainless steel countertops. I'm sure all of the bathtubs have clawed feet, and all warm, wet bodies fall into fresh linens at night. All bellies and bank accounts stay full, all animals stay warm and fed, all anxieties are calmed, and all fear of the future doesn't exist.

"One flight down, 

There's a song on low, 

And it's been there playing all along...

Now you know, 

Now you know."

 This morning, I saw a scissortail. God is so good to me. 

It's a wasteland. Everybody's moving
On.

“God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.”

― Sylvia Plath

The Autumn House Press Poetry Contest Winner

was sadly not me. But that's okay! God is still good...so good that Chelsea Rathburn was picked and her work is MOVING. She is going to change lives! Please check her out. She is going to be a big deal. I am ecstatic for her and will be buying her book. I didn't expect to win my first contest, I'm so ecstatic that I even got my work out there. Thank you to those who read my manuscript and thank you for your prayers. I'm just going to keep trucking from here, and while I'm doing so, I'm going to be lucky enough to have a book of Rathburn's poetry in my side pocket. I have a phenomenal amount of respect for anyone who is willing to put their neck out for this craft. One down, one million more contests to go! Happy reading:


http://www.chelsearathburn.com/

All of my actions are fueled by 

The fear

That I 

Might never be

Passionately kissed

Again. 

I love how all of us
Cherokee kids
Were indians
Before indians
Were cool.

I'm just 

That poet

You broke

At that

Stupid 

Bible College

You endured

Before you

Became
A

Somebody. 

Oh, Kiss My Indian Sass.

 I've never listened to the radio. Songs fall so short of poetry. My ex boyfriends' music taste has always made me hurl. I wish I could find someone like me.

The Writer

 I will write myself out of paper bags, out of rusted iron cages, out of steel prisons, and out of the saran wrap that places itself over my lips, streams around me like the garland of a Christmas tree, then tightens against my jugular and suffocates me. I will write myself out of suicide, out of the popping tops off pill bottles, out of hollow veins and empty houses that families used to call "home."

 I will write myself out of starvation,
 Out of scales
 That are
 Bundled quietly
 In their packages,
 Labeled as
 "Self Worth"
 Or
 "Social Acceptance,"

 That chain themselves to
 Emaciated women's ankles
 Who file out,
 One by one,

 Into social settings

 Where no one knows
 That they are
 Picking at their food,
 Spitting it into napkins,
 Then sneaking off to the bathroom
 To dine on laxatives,

 While they
 Ache
 For
 Anything
 To make them vomit
 As much as
 Their own appearances do.

 I will write myself out of abusive relationships, where the heavy thumbs of rigid kings never stop pressing on the brains of broken queens with bruised countenances and no open windows to breathe. I will write myself out of the agony of broken fingers, stubbed toes, torn ligaments and deteriorating bones. I will write myself out of tragedy, out of burning houses with searing flesh and the horrid cries of dreams that have been suffocated and reduced to ash. I will write myself out of the fear that nags and locks my jaw, that devours my screaming mind as it begs for mercy, that drags its nails across the chalkboards of a good night's rest, that poisons the soil before the quiet seeds sprout, that leaves nothing but a cycle of endless drought and toil. I will write myself out of being the butt of every joke, being torn down because of my lack of eloquence, and being taunted when there is egg smeared all over my face.

 I will write myself out of the
 Sidewalk grating,
"Mental throw-down"
 Of rejection

 Just because
 I refuse to let men pry open
 The locks of my body
 And my soul
 And devour me
 Until I'm a putrid gaping hole,

 Or because I just wasn't what she was.

 I will write myself out of your sarcasm and your lack of applause, I will write myself out of your belief that you are God or know God more than I do. I will write myself out of your pretentious, overbearing guidance.
 I will write myself out of goat-heads and sand burrs, when they are up to my knees because I was stupid enough to walk around with big faith in the calloused pads of my feet. I will write myself out of your lack of faith in me. I will write myself out of your malicious tongue and on my way out, I'll push her right off of her pedestal. I will write myself out of my own stupidity and your snickers when I stick my foot in my mouth again, or when stupid Jade "cries wolf," and when she loses all of her friends.
 I will write her out of her drug addiction, and you out of your manipulation, and her out of her arrogance and you out of your pride. I will write myself a sonnet and convince myself that my body is more than just a fleshy mosquito feast, and that my head is more than static cling, and my mouth is more than a quick release or the barrel of a gun. I will write you out of the fact that you didn't know I was a time bomb.

 I will write myself out of the psychological rape that is gossip. I will write myself out of failed papers and all the days that I played hooky from work or lied to get out of chapel. I will write myself out of tweezing my eyebrows or drawing blood because my compulsive mind washed my own hands, once again, one too many times. I will write myself out of faking that I actually like you and want to be your friend, and I will write myself out of admitting that I don't always like to be kissed. I will write myself out of the relationships that failed and I will write myself out of the way my soap still smells like your body. I will write myself out of the asphalt I eat every time I try to mend the broken sheets of a story in my mind that was so concrete that I can't let it go.
 I will write myself out of being a pitiful shell and a gruesome excuse of a person.

And I will be a woman--
Full forced,
Bold legged,
Strong armed
And
Steel frame minded.

 I will boldly and honestly walk the paths I was terrified to venture down and I will do it without a man leading me around by the nose, or the applaud of the crowd. And above all things, when I get to the end, torn up and gushing from the thorns of my pen, I will bind my truths, no matter how ugly or horrifying they actually are.

And I,
The Written,

Will stand

As naked as an open book,

As raw as a gaping wound,

As docile
As a naive child,

To be ravaged through

By you.

Also, Some Fiction

 Being alone can have its major perks. I'm discovering new things about myself that I thought I hated before but actually quite enjoy. It's very strange, I've always been dynamic, but there is a certain point in all of my relationships (friendships too) where I stop being me and start being whoever I am spending all of my time with. At that point my relationships usually end because people don't want another them, they want me and I am usually long gone. I need to put that in my about me:

      "Hi, my name is Jade Monroe and I will get lost in you."

 That aside, I've come to love fiction. I used to when I was younger, but as I got older I didn't love it as much anymore. I preferred poetry or pros to long novels. Under the influence of long "fiction hate speeches" by a surprisingly great deal of my peers (usually English majors), I considered loving fiction a mark of foolishness or stupidity.
 How unfair and tragic is that? Fiction is beautiful. I beg to differ with anyone who proclaims fiction does not benefit a person or teach them something. If nothing else, fiction is for the writer.
 I have been writing poetry my entire life, but for the life of me I absolutely cannot write short stories. Mom asked me the other day about why I have only written anthologies and never a novel. I absolutely can't. I can't remember all the hooks and twists or build up around them. Outlines are the bane of my existence. The only organization I can keep is to break up a long story into small pieces ("Escaping Ann Arbor" for example), even then, I feel like my work is lacking.
 I admire fiction writers, especially people like Jodie Picoult. I marvel at her work, she must do long extensive studies on whatever she's writing over before she begins. There are so many facts in her books that blow my mind. I don't have the patience for that kind of research, nor do I believe that would take my work to the "next level". I am a poet. Just recently I've become more comfortable with writing in paragraph form. I'm studying grammar because mine is terrible. I'm not entirely sure my brain is big enough to create another alternate universe where things work out, boys don't leave and there are capes and dragons or even better: gasoline under $3.00.
 I suppose I will be the odd duck of the English majors for awhile. I think I'm going to spend my spare time investing in fiction. I want to explore what makes fiction "good," I want to find new authors to write about and support. I want to pay my respects to a genre that I feel like by many is completely underrated.

The extravagance of a city.

Dear Sal,

 I'm pretty hung up these days. My stanzas aren't working so well for me; I've never had to "try" at poetry...it's always been second nature. Once when I was in fourth grade, a girl asked me "How do you do that? How do you rhyme and make sense at the same time?" I get asked questions like that all the time. Writing for me has always been like breathing or as involuntary as blinking. But I've been putting a tremendous amount of pressure on myself. I am in "career" mode, I knew this would happen. I've started thinking about what I want to do with my life and the options are limitless. All of these options terrify me. I've been hiding behind things for so long I have no idea what my occupation should be; it seems like everyone has a dream or "God's called them to do something". I guess he hung up the phone on me. I don't like to think of dreaming because none of my dreams have ever worked out. Almost always inevitably I am forced to start over. I wish I could get to a place where "I just wanna be happy" is sufficient as the only thing on the list. But you can't make ends meet on happiness.
  Then, you add God to the equation. I keep waiting on some grand epiphany, some dream, some go sign, something...anything...that will tell me what he wants me to do. Then I find myself going mad...because I'm not altogether sure God works that way. It all depends on who you ask, it all depends on who you talk to...but everyone has this overarching belief that it is possible to choose the wrong road and sell yourself out completely. Is this my road? Should I have done something else? Should I have started early and planned to be a nurse, a biochemist, a candlestick maker? Then I think of my writing. It is a sensitive thing, a delicate thing, it's hidden its face in the chaos because I am so anxious; it treats me as if I don't deserve it. I constantly ask it why it has gone away and it tells me it is because I have abandoned it. It is partially right. I've expected too much out of it and exploited it. I don't know if I can write for money. I usually can write on cue, rhyme on cue, put together something marvelous on cue, but right now...my brain is in a vice.
 I'm not good at being alone.
 I prayed to God the other night to send me someone I could follow around just like I watch all my peers do. I asked him for a mask to cover up with, a noose to tie my neck with and a chair to jump off of. I asked him for marriage because isn't marriage supposed to save you? Isn't it supposed to make you happy? I need something to follow; the sound of my own drummer is obnoxious and at times too afraid to do anything remotely daring. It makes it hard to be brave when you're wading in aimlessness.
 I remember when I had it all figured out; that gave me this grand false sense of security. Perhaps that's what I want--a false sense of security, I'd settle for a cardboard box to crawl up inside of and pretend it's a time machine.
 Ironically, I think I'd go forward this time. I think I'm ready for the unknown. I am ready to be done coasting, to be done on autopilot and get to a place where I feel like I have something tangible that I can keep. I suppose, if we're shooting for vague, this is my list:

1. I want to not be afraid of my life anymore.
2. I want to live in the succulence between moments, never looking too far ahead or too far behind me.
3. I want to forget that I ever at one time felt like I had it figured out.
4. I want to be financially stable enough to support myself.
5. I want to find a career that makes me happy and glorifies God.
6. I want to fall in love for the right reasons, and not because I'm hiding, or codependent, or afraid, or running from something.
7. I want to have a garden (not even I understand what this means).

I wasn't chosen.

It reminded me of the phone call I made,
When I told him
Not only that I didn't love anymore

But that I never had.

He asked if we were still going out that night.

I asked him if he'd heard me correctly.

He asked me
If we
Were still going out that night.

When I left him for the last time,
He wept.
He wept.

And wept.

And wept.

Then I drove off
And left him there.


I got everything I
I got everything I
I got everything I deserved.

I Won't Waver

I won't.

i was always that clueless kid in elementary school that didn't understand the concept of weekends or summer.

i just
wanted
to be in school all the time;

summers seemed endless and i wondered where school went.

i never understood
why the classes were
different when
i came back,

i thought maybe
my teachers just didn't want me
anymore

so they gave me to someone else.

i knew when recess was,
and coloring time.

and i made it to sixth grade
before i ever realized

you can't stay little
forever.

Watching the new Footloose and whitening my teeth;
Trying to make myself a promise I can actually keep
This time.

Pretzeldom

Add accidentally charging things to my ex boyfriend's credit card to the list of things I am humiliated about. The craziest and saddest part is his card account was still under my name on Amazon because unlike him, I didn't delete every morsel of him out of my life like he did every morsel of me. The second craziest and saddest part is that at one time he actually loved me enough to spend that money on me. Now I'll be returning it so he can land his next coffee date. I've achieved human-pretzeldom and what's worse? My mother just holds me and laughs and tells me how completely adorable I am. I have a dog that slobbers, an uncanny ability to always say and do the worst and most inappropriate thing at the worst and most inappropriate time and I get to add another heaping pile of hate to my plate. I hate breakups but I hate love more. I hate that I loved someone so much that deuced out on me and I hate that I turn into goo because I am bound to the eternal hopelessness of romanticism. That last sentence made no sense but it's irrelevant. Dear Jade, Dear Jester, Dear Pathetic Puddle of Goo, Dear Fairytale Writer, Dear Ms. You'll Never Have a Husband or Real Job, Dear OCD, Dear Me,


  There's gotta be a point where you're actually worth something. Will you please for the love of God go out and find it?

 Once, London was reaching for the hot oven after Heather had told her repeatedly not to. Nana cried out and motioned toward her, "Uhn-uh! No London don't touch that! That's HOT!" she exclaimed.

 London pulled back.
 "Why didn't you stop her?" Nana asked.



 "Because...she's going to do what she wants, and she'll only do it once."




 I did what I wanted;
 I only did it once.

 I'll never do it again.

 In my spare time, I've been preparing for the GRE. I'm really stressed out about it so I want to start as early as I can preparing. My GPA is in a reasonable place for all of the colleges I want to apply to, however I'd love a four point these next three semesters. If things work out, I'm begging God to end up at Belmont. I'm considering Philadelphia though. That's where Autumn Press is and that's how I got interested in it. I know it's above the Mason Dixon, but I think Phili is a pretty enough city to cope in. I love Nash. I'd love to stay but who knows what God has in store! I am planning on getting my masters in English with a writing emphasis. There are some art schools I'm looking into for creative writing. I'm new to how all of this works, but I know I'm going to be a writer. I'm just getting my feet wet, but this is me...hopeful me...we'll see.

Little feet, 

Whose toes balance, 

Whose arch expands into a full stretch, 

As my waist reaches

And I wrap my arms

Around

His neck. 

To

My feet, 

Who roam

The garden pedals, 

He kisses you. 

Because You Never Know Where You'll Be in a Year:

I'm amazed at how many people waste their lives away in hypotheticals about what God's will for their life is going to be. We spend so much of our time preparing for a potential ministry that we rarely live today. It's beautiful to want to mission in Japan someday, but to have that hypothetical devour your whole life when you've got plenty to be doing right here in the states is counterproductive. We are our own living ministries. It's not about where we're going it's about what we are right where we are. You can plan your entire life around other countries and never make it there. So many people get ideas built up in their heads about where God wants them to go. But honestly, I don't believe anymore that God calls us to specific locations. I just believe God calls us to love people. If you fail at loving people in Arkansas or Wisconsin or Arizona you're going to fail at loving people in China. We waste so much of our lives planning for hypotheticals in the years ahead. But you never know where you'll be in a year...and if it doesn't work out, people stand befuddled, they become angry and confused with God. If they make it, they fail at what God's called them to do anyway because they don't have people skills or building blocks or the foundation to get by. It's okay to love another country and it's okay to want to help...but if you never call your mother, if you neglect your siblings, if you're critical or overbearing to your peers, if you take advantage of people, if you have more dream ethic than work ethic, you're not preparing for your ministry in the right areas. You'll pack your bags and take all those habits with you. Ministry is not a job, it's breathing and alive; it fills seconds and moments and hours. I wonder how many people look back on the huge gaps of their un-lived lives in which they were "preparing" (coasting) in between "now" and their ministry. Were they not called in those times too? We're not biding time...we're living on precious time; this isn't a test run, this is the real deal--every day. This is God's will in action. Now that's a terrifying concept if you've been sitting around wasting the days in wait. What could you be doing?

"So Come Over, Just be Patient, and Don't Worry; and Don't Worry..."

 My obsessions are in full swing. I am eaten alive. I sit as still as possible, I inhale as deeply as my lungs will allow. I desperately attempt to gain some clarity, some peace.

 My demons are back; they are in full swing.

 Cycle one. Cycle two. Cycle three. Cycle four. Cycle five. Cycle six.
 Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
 Complexion. Weight. Symmetry of face. Teeth. Symmetry of nose. Check complexion. Check complexion. Touch face. Touch face. Weigh. Weigh again. Weigh again. Weigh again. Check face. Put on makeup. Take off clothes. Weigh. Put clothes back on. Weigh. Take clothes back off. Weigh. Get fully dressed. Check complexion with makeup. Worry about future. What if I'm not in God's will?What if I'm going to hell? What if I am not supposed to live in Nashville anymore? I'm not going back to school. God wants me to drop out of school. Focus Jade. Breathe Jade. Be still Jade. What should I do for a living? How will I make ends meet? What if I don't make it through school? I'm not mentally stable enough to make it through school. Stupid Jade. That's why he didn't love you Jade. You're fat Jade. Jade you're a failure Jade. You're not a flower Jade. He didn't want you Jade. No one wants you because you're such a fat failure Jade. No one loves you Jade. Just got die Jade. Maybe if your complexion was clear someone would love you Jade. Complexion. Complexion. Weight. Weight. Teeth. Teeth. Crooked teeth. Symmetry. Symmetry. Symmetry. Is that cancer? Is that cancer on my leg? That mole? Was that there? Is that cancer? Google cancer. That's cancer. That has to be cancer. What if I have a brain tumor? I might...I can't control my anger. I fall all the time. I have no memory. I bet that I have a tumor. What if mom's dying? Is mom dying? Jade we're all dying. We're dying and while we're dying you're worrying...and you're wasting time. You're running out of time Jade. You're running out of time to live. You're running out of time to find someone who will put up with your fears Jade. You're dying Jade. You're dying every day. Every single day...you're dying.

And I don't know how I will do it.

I love that we

Start school later than most universities. Everyone has headed home and the beach is

entirely ours.

I Feel Weird

Like something is misplaced...
An important something...

Like a limb.

Confusion in the
Cracks.

Gravel,
Separating sand;

The edges
Are vindicated
By
Innocent blood,

It's the
Most honest
They've ever been.

Free Response:

Does personal growth depend on loss? Can a person grow to their full capacity in the same location their whole life? Is it possible to grow as an individual and have a relationship or is it better to stay alone? Is having a dream job imperative to living a fulfilled life? How imperative is financial security to overall stability and happiness?

Go.

And

Stay away

From boys

That have strong chests

And smell

Like fire wood.

I wish I never

I wish I never

I wish I never

Had to leave this ocean.

Every time I have ever been here
I have had a boyfriend at home

That completely put a damper
On
Everything.

Now I am alone

And I am finding

I love
The water.

It is vast and cerulean on
The inside

Just
Like
Me.

My melon and white vintage swim suit hugs my hips and ruffles down to my mid thigh. It ties around my neck and shows off my shoulders which are perhaps my most beautiful feature even though up until recently I have never shown them. I have always been particularly modest, partially due to body insecurities and partially due to my nature. I'd rather be iconic than sexy. I would rather be classic than seductive. I would rather be Jade.
This time last year, he called me on the phone. I was ecstatic to hear from him. I hadn't in days. He had anger in his tone the moment I answered. I didn't know what was wrong.
"You okay? What's got you down?"
I asked.
"I can't even enjoy my vacation because I feel guilty every time I see a girl in a bikini. It's like I think back to you in my head and just know you're worried about the fact that I am looking at girls in bikinis."

I honestly hadn't even thought about it until he told me. At the time I chalked it up to our arguing that he'd felt that way. But now I just chalk it up to him telling on himself.

That's the difference I suppose,

between him and the type of guy that I want to have.

I look in the mirror and my hair is long now...past my shoulders. I am in shape, though my cheeks are still round and rosy and my frame is soft. The sun kisses my freckles and my freckles kiss it back. Finally, I have no body hang ups...they left

when he did.

  I have an artist's hands. My skin always glistens, I always leave glitter behind; I think it naturally follows me wherever I go. Some boy will love to hold those hands. Some boy will love that glitter that flakes off on his shirt. Some boy will love my hips and my round shoulders and my rosy cheeks and my ambitious eyes. Some boy will love this poet. He won't be drooling over carbon copy morrocan beach goddesses in Florida because I will be enough. I will be enough for someone... someone who actually has character. Someone who actually values the right things. Someone who can be faithful. Someone who is actually good enough For a poet like me.

The moon tonight

Is the most beautiful moon
I have ever seen.

It's like a big pumpkin pie...

Over the ocean.

Headed to Port A for some much needed time on the beach!

I t's Aug ust Fir st.

 Is t h e sky sti l l a
S t ark
M an go
Vani l la
Ce rulean
Sw i rled
Emp t y  v o i d?

D id w e flo at li ke sof t ba l l o ons
 Of f to the lu na r landi ng?
D i d we p la n it l ike chi ld ren
Bu r stin g in anticip ation over
T h e glo w of chri st mas lig hts ,
Da ncing
E n chanting ly
F rom fligh ty
Cei ling sk ies
To the re flection
I n go lden dre am
B u lbs?

Di d we get re al jobs ye t?
Or pos s es re al mi tt en s that wil l keep
Us war mer than dad's ol d wo oly socks?
A re we gr own
Li ke t al l
We eds or dand i lion tigers that sl e ep
In side li l l ie s up

Sca l in g
Hi gh
I n to the aby ss?

A re we money mar r ied yet?
Did h e co me back to b e he ld

I n he r boso m o r a re we
S til l em pty b el lied
An d co nfused
L ike sil ly be d hea ds
I n a
W at er c o lor
Wi sh
B ank s?

Are we
E nd ing st ill
O r was th at
Su f f ering
F rom
L A S T
Yea r?

A re we qu iet
H ave
W e
P ai d o ur due s
T o
Th is q u ie t
F l a n nel
H eat?

I Believe There Are Sequins in Heaven

In my life, I have had the privilege of knowing one of the most phenomenal, and vivacious people that I’ve ever come into contact with. In high school, I stood in awe of his impeccable style, glowing complexion, fanning eyelashes and beaming grin. I coveted his bag collection and his extraordinary ability to piece clothing together. Joseph Veloz was born to be famous. He was and is to this day the most glamorous human being I have ever known. When he graduated (a year before I did) he left Norman and moved to the West Coast. I live vicariously through his Facebook pictures where he sports high-end designer clothing and is ever so boldly living the life he was born to live.

When I look at Joseph, I am confident in my own uniqueness. He will never know the impact that he has had on my life. His art is moving, his talent is undeniable, and above all things his personality and his love for others radiates and teaches me how to love. He is an iconic figure for me because of his self-confidence. Joseph is also an iconic figure for the Gay/Lesbian/Transgender and Bisexual community. I believe he is an incredibly positive influence for anyone who struggles with self-love issues. Because Joseph has always been himself, I am better at being myself.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting at a table in the cafeteria with a group of my friends and they began discussing their views on the gay community. What began as a general “feeling out” process quickly became a bash-fest. I became livid but I said nothing; I did nothing…I just got up and left. Since then, I have thought of nothing else. I am angry with myself for not sharing my opinion (though I know it would have never mattered). I often do not share my opinion as I do not want to offend my brothers and sisters in Christ, but this has been on my heart and I feel it necessary to compose.

I happen to adore the Gay/Lesbian/Transgender and Bisexual community.

I have learned more about godly love from them than I have from many of my friends in the Christian community (not that the two are mutually exclusive). I will expound on this by saying, it is unfortunate that this particular group feels the way they do (though they are as entitled to their opinion as I am mine). However, I cannot help but parallel them with the critics and the bullies that my dearest friend Zach Harrington faced for years before he took his life in 2010. The week after Zach’s suicide, a sermon was belched from the pulpit condemning homosexuality and sexual sin. I believe the Bible is 100% true, but I will never believe that what was said in that sermon was of God. I felt heaven when I was buried face down in Zach’s flannel hugs; I have no doubt that Christ was there. Furthermore, if Zach wasn’t able to make it inside the gates of heaven, then there is nothing but hell in store for me. I will never be more worthy of heaven than Zach Harrington.

I once met a transvestite at Waffle House who told me there were sequins in heaven.

I believe there are sequins in heaven.

I believe there are large, silver, illuminated vanities inside our own personal dressing rooms with our names engraved in the doors. I believe that there are drawers and drawers of fake eyelash selections…some with glitter, some with feathers, some that curl, some that are un-even, some that are metallic, some that are neon, some with gems and others that have no comparison in length or thickness! I believe that we will have lipstick in colors we can’t even conceive of and eyes-shadow palates with names like “Angel Dust”, “Hev-n-ly Glo” and “Glow-rius”. Sequins will be on every article of clothing, and we will be supplied with everlasting Aqua-Net to keep our locks perfectly in place.

I believe there are sequins in heaven.

But I also believe in a perfect Utopia where the lovely flowers of this nation would be deemed intelligent and responsible enough to choose whether or not they are capable of and financially, physically, mentally and emotionally supporting the life of an unborn child. I am a morally conservative, partially “Republican” (whatever that means) Christian that attends a Bible College in the thick of the “red” south and I am pro-choice. Let that resonate. If as Christians we honestly believe in free will, we should also believe in the freedom to exercise it to the fullest. I believe Christ believed in validation. If our government, which has no place in our private lives strips the women in this nation of a choice they also strip them of their validation. In turn, the choice is made for them…in the end what good does that do? I believe there is sometimes only a “best” choice, and the most humane, selfless and just thing to do in those situations varies from person to person. Do we not consider the fact that sometimes the life of the child in question might be worse than never being born? Either way-who am I to make that choice for another person?

Furthermore, I believe we grow closest to God when we are forced to ask the difficult questions and make the difficult decisions. If someone makes that decision for us then we are stripped of the opportunity to succeed or fail on our own terms; we are stripped of that opportunity by a group of others whose definitions of success and failure may not match our own. What if a person’s growth in Christ hinges on that decision? What if a person’s coming to Christ hinges on that decision? Do we doubt God’s justice so much, and think so much of our own decision making that we believe we should be allowed to dictate the lives of others? If we LOVE others, we should also validate others. We should respect their privacy. If we cannot find it in ourselves to lay down our lives for them, we should at least lay down our mouthpieces. Do I believe the unborn has a God-given right to live? Yes. Do I believe that abortion would ever be the answer for me? No. But, in no way is it my right to speak for my sisters in Christ and for the lost. That is not my place. That is between them and God and I have enough faith in God to know that if He has any part in it the right decision will be made.

Five years ago, in anticipation of the 08 election, I would have read this and been appalled. As a former “straight-party” voting republican who wanted to be the governor of Oklahoma, I would have written in and deemed these words “trash”. A lot has changed since then. I learned that I couldn’t represent a people group, when I was pro-life, sitting in the lounge of an abortion clinic, holding the hand of a friend in the throws of despair, knowing in her heart she was making the most humane choice possible. I also learned that Christ can make beautiful even the most treacherous of situations. Today, she is what the people at the Bible College would call “blessed”. Beside Christ, and her unborn child, she will stand when she enters the gates of heaven because of her godly love and her unshakable faith.

Five years ago, I didn’t believe there were sequins in heaven. I would have read this and asked myself “How can anyone who actually LOVES Christ BELIEVE these things?” To which I can now proudly respond to my seventeen-year-old self and to my beautiful friends at the Bible College,

It is BECAUSE I love Christ

That I do.

Chic Fil Hey Now People Let's Use Common Sense

I'm really frustrated and annoyed by all of these Chic Fil A posts. I might just boycott them for a second year just because of the stupidity of all of this. I wish people would stop going on about "Freedom of Speech". No one said they couldn't have free speech; most feel like it was an unnecessary political statement made out of complete stupidity. I'm really frustrated by people posting statuses such as "We must stand up for Christian principals and values..." and this whole Chic Fil A gathering business. When did it become "us against THEM"? I guess, even though I'm a Christian I'm a "them". When people part take in things like this, it bolsters the idea that Christians are anti-gay. Sure, I'm glad Chic Fil A claims to have Christian values, but by taking on an "us against them" stance, you're in a sense making a statement about yourself. Christ didn't work that way. People have a misconception about Christ and the world. Just because you're a Christian doesn't mean you choose "Team Jesus" and are automatically against the world. Wrong. We are supposed to fight against depravity, not fight with each other about life choices. Christianity is not a free ticket to meddling in people's personal lives...it's about having enough faith in God to pray for whoever; that He will build their lives up abundantly and bless them and lead them as He sees fit.

 We are in this world but not of it.
 That means WE STRIVE for holiness and are to drench people in Godly LOVE.

 I think a lot of this has to do with a misconception in accountability. Accountability is NOT reprimand. When Christians turn it into this they make all of us look judgmental and overly critical; that wasn't Christ. Accountability is igniting the flame to keep fighting the good fight of FAITH. Accountability is being accountable for someone who needs YOU, you to love them, inspire them, encourage them and reveal Christ's glory through YOUR life to them.
 I'm not going to even going to get into the fact that politics and religion should not mix. That is another underlying issue of all of this. People don't agree on the boundaries between religion and government. Christians think "standing up" against gays/the far left/the "world" is what Christ would have them do. That's a misconception. Standing up against "the world" means having the courage to live in a sick world on love and faith that tomorrow you'll be given your daily bread just as the birds are given theirs. Standing up against "the world" means having character and a strong moral fiber when it is so easy to cheat others, to cover your tracks, to come unglued or to quit.


 Christ loves the gays as much as he loves you.

 Sorry Charlie.
 Hate to burst your pretentious bubble.

 If Christ is anti-gay, he's also anti-YOU because if we're tallying "sins" your judgement is just as "poisonous" as their "alternative lifestyle".

 Get over yourselves.
 I personally will never again believe religion and government need to intertwine (that was a mistake I made as a political minion in high school). ALL Americans not just Christians deserve to worship and believe whatever they want and live the lifestyle they want. If people have Christ shoved down their throats their whole lives in a country where they are supposed to be free, we are turning people AWAY from God. It's HUMAN NATURE. And no one is going to take that seriously. This isn't a Christian nation. This is a free nation and we are Christians living in it. So stop putting your thumb on people by your vote just because you don't want to stand up and do the RIGHT thing in the eyes of Christ. If people lived the Christian example MIRACLES would happen. This Christian example has nothing to do with CHURCH or POLITICAL affiliation. This has to do with LOVE. Love people enough to give them their freedom...THEN if because of your example of Christ they want to choose Christianity...that's real. Be brave enough to let them choose for themselves. Be brave enough to give them the RIGHT to live their lives in the way they want. VALIDATE them. They are people, not an alternative species. They have hearts and minds and souls; they are made in the image of Christ...just like YOU. Who are YOU to judge them? Christ didn't appoint you for that job, so take one extra thing off your plate and relax at the end of the day because He's got everything under control. Christ gave you a choice to choose HIM. We as Christians don't give other people a CHOICE to CHOOSE Him. CHOICES DO NOT MAKE US MORE LOST. THEY ALLOW US TO EXPLORE THIS LIFE FOR ALL IT IS SO THAT WE MIGHT BE FOUND.

 Get off the bandwagon already.

 You think Christ is PROUD of this?
 This DIVIDE?

 You didn't read the book right.

 God's not anti-gay. Stop inflicting your own legalistic beliefs on Christ. Christ loved the lepers. Christ love the prostitutes. Christ scorned the Pharisees.

 Take a look at yourself in the mirror.

You add a whole new

Shallow,

Arrogant, 

Film

To your hypocritical

Facade

Of Christianity. 

Well done. 

My applause.

"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, dear void."

-Kathleen Kelly, You've Got Mail

A week from today
I will be
At the
Ocean
Reading
Shakespeare.

Have you ever

Just

Loved
A
City?

The Poet, After All...

You Know What They Say About Birds

Accepting what you can and cannot expect out of someone is crucial before entering into a relationship or friendship with them. If a person is not trustworthy, has a spotty record, has loyalty issues, has a lying problems, has little character, makes the same poor choices over and over again, takes more than they give, has entitlement issues, makes promises they can't keep, can't keep their mouth shut, omits, belittles you, is only skin deep, is arrogant, is cruel, is prejudice, is judgmental, is critical, has a jealous heart, has little ambition, is domineering, is controlling, doesn't like Coldplay or when you wear glitter on your eyes and/or can't accept your pet rock collection, they absolutely cannot be expected to act beyond their capacity to make whatever changes you feel they need to (whether you are justified or not in your belief) to fit into your life. Furthermore it is almost selfish to expect them to do this. 

 Loving someone who has hurt every friend they have, isolates themselves, makes themselves entirely too available, [insert your own idea here], automatically makes you responsible for understanding when they "screw up", "take you by surprise", demolish your faith in them or break your heart. You can love a snake all you want, but at the end of the day...it's still going to be a snake and there's no guarantees it's going to love, like, or respect you back. 

 There is a quote from a movie that I love (though the name escapes me). Deborah Messing's father constantly tells her "Women have the love life they choose". People have the relationships they choose. You are the company you keep. Not only do people with no moral fiber damage you emotionally, more often than not you'll find your own moral fiber decaying because of them. This concept has really made me evaluate the people I choose to surround myself with. I don't want pretentious people in my life. I don't want girls that have jealousy issues in my life. I don't want guys that are arrogant in my life, I don't want people in my life that will not only compromise what I believe in, but "wear me down" to the point that I find myself "okay" with their behavior that is most likely hurting themselves and everyone around them. Walk away from self destructive people or destruct yourself. It's as simple as that. I know that from now on, my trust is going to be harder to obtain. I will base my beliefs of a person on what they deliver, not what they promise they'll deliver tomorrow or the next day or the next. And...above all things, I'm going to be the person that I'm looking for in someone else. Read that sentence as many times as you need to if it confuses you. I'm fed up with fair weather. I'd rather be alone than keep expecting things out of people that they do not and will never have the capacity to give. 

This ocean in me is as deep as Tennessee.

Oddities

July Has Brought Me These Lovely Gifts:

When guys pressure you to try to commit to something that they really don't want or take seriously but need the ego boost of YOU waiting on THEM to call so they ask you out for their benefit.
When all the scumbags from high school come back around and want you after they rejected you.
When you feel like an objectified piece of meat every time you post a facebook picture because of crude comments, text messages or emails you receive.
When people you don't know read your blog because they're devising a way to make conversation about something that they "suddenly" have in common with you.
When you've worn out the phrase "I'm absolutely not on the market," and guys won't stop badgering you about dating or being together in the hypothetical time of "later" which is the realistic time of "never" because you just don't do well under pressure.
When guys who have girlfriends say incredibly ROMANTIC things like "I'd dump my girlfriend for you." Charming. Wow. What a catch!
When guys contact you last, (after they've asked out everyone else) because they've suddenly realized you're "the one".
When guys you're actually interested in come around when it's convenient for them, then bail, then show up again, then bail.


#nodatingever

  

  Living as a recovering anorexic is victory...

  But to tell your mother to get rid of the scale 

  Is something else entirely. 

  

  #victorious

I am not afraid because I've lost all the right things. I've gained all the right things. Remove the clay from my eyes so that I might see.

Don't panic.

Proud of Boston

I am proud of Boston for keeping their promises to the Gay community and proud of Mayer Menino for taking a stand for equal rights among all people groups.

My bare feet 

Were in the sand;

I was never on land. 

I was

Never

On

Land. 

Escaping Ann Arbor Pt 7 (Rough Unedited Fiction)

1.
After an hour in the summer heat we were seated inside the colorful mexican restaurant. I carried on casual conversation with Luke while Brent sat quietly. I was grateful we weren't in Nashville. When Luke had come to visit us in the spring I felt like I'd been the butt of every joke that came out of Brent's mouth. It made me agitated and hateful; I felt tremendous guilt the entire time for being so snippy. The underlying tension was still there between us, but at least Brent was on his "home turf" and did not feel like he had something to prove. Brent never loved Nashville the way I did. It wasn't Chicago, it wasn't Boston, it wasn't "upscale" enough for his taste. He hated the rank smell of cigarette smoke, the bars, the musicians in their cowboy boots and rarely tipped his hat to southern hospitality. He once (only half seriously) admitted he'd always hated the thought of moving to the south. Prior to his southern experience he'd always considered southerners uneducated and "dirty". My heart broke at this. "Never bite the hand that feeds you," I responded, "and feeds you, and feeds you, and feeds you...biscuits and gravy, and chicken fried steak and all the things they don't know how to cook properly in the north," I added jokingly. While Nashville had been his last "option" as a scholar, it was my saving grace. I often thought if he only understood how lucky he was he would lead a less critical life. I tried often in love to tell him this; he'd listen for awhile but would always go back to his old ways. I was always heartbroken by the way Brent saw the world. He constantly looked through the eyes of entitlement, it was as if everyone owed him something and even if they gave him their all it was never enough. In some ways this challenged me; I'd be lying if I said I didn't always want to give him everything. I tried so hard to show him what I saw; I often felt foolish, like perhaps I was only a poet seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.
 When we first got together Brent would marvel at the way I danced in rain storms, how I always played pretend, how I loved fresh flowers in my hair and how I'd walk around barefoot just to feel the grass between my toes. My adventurous side both puzzled and enchanted him. It never stopped him from walking with an umbrella though. it never stopped him from trying to put it over my head when it started sprinkling. It never satiated him to where he did not hunger for greener grass constantly. It didn't change his necessity for perfectly folded shirts, an immaculate vehicle and his need for absolute silence when he studied. I supposed that was okay, changing him was never my goal. In all honesty his structure was what I found particularly interesting and perfect about him. My only want was to teach him how to love...love another person, love himself, love the world...it seemed as if it were possible. Even when things were horrible I clung to that hope that perhaps I could open his heart. I feared how bitter he was becoming by the day. He didn't see me as magical anymore; our chemistry had died. I was constantly brainstorming ways to ignite him again. I loved him and worried about him and felt inferior constantly. I did very little outside of trying to force what we had to grow again. I had faith...I had a faith I believed in...

"Maybe today will be the day he'll think you're a flower again,"
 I'd constantly tell myself.

 I lived my life in a constant wait for something,
 Anything
 Good
 To happen.

2.
I stared at the waitress. Her short skirt made my heart race with anxiety.
"Please God, don't let him look..."
I begged.

I looked at his eyes.
To my relief he was looking back at me.

I couldn't believe what I saw--
He was glistening as if he was looking upon me for the first time.

Was I delusional?

He touched my hand and instantly
Peace washed over me.
For that brief second nothing was bad, everything was right.

"I love you"
He mouthed.


"I love you too"
I whispered back.


"Dear Journal, 
  Tonight, I think he loved me...it was only for a second, almost faster than a blink, but I am soaring. He didn't talk to me on the way home, but maybe he just didn't want to ruin the moment we'd shared with words. Perhaps he wanted to hold on to that one good thing just as much as I do. Perhaps it was the momentary miracle from God I've been begging for...perhaps..."


There was a knock at the door. I looked up and he came into the room. I was sure he'd be asleep by now; it was almost morning.

"You're leaving tomorrow..."
He said.

I thought this was an implication he wanted to spend time with me.

"I just wanted to tell you good night again,"
He looked down at his feet as if he felt uncomfortable being so sincere.

"Well, it's morning now, why don't I just come sit with you until the sun comes up?"

He smiled back at me and motioned for me to follow him.

We fumbled quietly down to the basement and sat on his flannel couch.
He sat close to me. His arms were warm and I felt a tinge of sadness that it was over.
I was going home in the morning.

It'd been what I'd wanted,
But now it was nothing I wanted.
Things were starting to be okay again,
Or at least for the moment.

I was grateful.
I didn't want to let that one good day slip through my fingers.

The unfortunate thing about tomorrows
Is that usually
They come.


3.
 My neck was so tense with fury I considered stopping at the "drug store" at the airport to see if they had an Icy Hot or some form of a heating pad. I hated him.
 Leave it to us to fight on the way to the airport.

"You just...YOU EXPECT me to cheat on you. I might as well be doing it. It's like a self fulfilling prophecy. You're gonna pinpoint all my mistakes and turn them around like I'm unfaithful..."

"Maybe if you weren't so SHADY all the time, maybe if you didn't Facebook chat our female friends that you're so evidently attracted to, maybe if you'd been a decent human being instead of an ANIMAL none of this would have ever happened!"

"You're impossible. You're IMPOSSIBLE!"

"I...I'm sorry I said that, I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry...I have such a hot temper..."

"Maybe it's because you're from a BROKEN HOME, but our family doesn't yell at each-other. We were taught to solve problems in a more constructive way. I'm really sorry your parents weren't good to each other but mine don't yell. Maybe verbal abuse runs in your family...but you don't have to be abusive to me."

 I was so physically ill, I felt the food in my stomach start to come up. I laid my seat back as my jaws tingled and my mouth watered. I put my hand on my head.

 I was going to miss him like air.

4.

"Do you want to walk me in or do you want to just drop me off?"
  He was already parking the car.

 He put his hand on my face softly.
 "Jade, I love you, of-course I'm going to walk you in..."

 I grabbed my Hello Kitty backpack,
 "Kitty in the terminal!" I said. I danced trying to make him laugh.

He grabbed me.
He held me.
He smelled my hair.

Suddenly, I felt wetness on my cheeks.
It wasn't my own.
I looked up and big glassy tears were falling from his eyes.

I loved him back. I loved him back so much it was as if all the breath had left my body and everything was hazy. I loved him as much as I did the first time he put his lips to mine.
I breathed him in.

He smiled.
He wiped his tears away like a child.

"Tell me you love me like it's going to be the last time..."
I said.

The words came out like honey.

We stood there stargazed
For a moment,

Neither of us knowing that it would be.

Proud of The Jim Henson Company's Declaration of Equality.

              I am so grateful that I have always been blessed with close friends in my life that are willing to practice tolerance when it comes to my beliefs and the beliefs of others. I have dynamic people that I love in my life that have taken their stances on both sides of this topic. In no way would I ever want to upset, invalidate or hurt them. However, it is because I am a Christian that I believe in diversity, equality and above all things that we should love others as Christ loves us. I am proud of The Jim Henson Company for standing up for equality. I too will no longer be supporting Chic-Fil-A with my business. I welcome all opinions on this topic, however please take into consideration that mine will not be moved. All hate statements will be deleted and immature emails will be ignored.

                                                   

 I wish that I could undo all of my high school "dids".
 I would have played harder and worried less.
 I worried so much in high school for no reason.
 I would have had more fun
 And not been as up tight about everything.
 I would have loved Norman more.

 I miss Okla.

"Quiet, but I'm sure there is something here,
Tell me everything cause I want you here.

Quiet but I'm sure there is something here,
Tell me everything cause I want to hear."

Sickness is so 

Habitual. 

The classic "ombre", with dark roots and blonde tips is anti-southern in ways I can't even bring myself to discuss. Ladies, don't be lazy with your roots as an attempt to be stylish. Hold yourself with dignity. This is God's country after all.

 It's strange to go to the mall, wallet full of cash and find absolutely nothing that you a. need b. want c. can justify spending money on. We have a Barns & Noble in our mall, people. It's the strangest thing. I just need to paint. That's really all. I'd rather spend money on supplies if at all. I don't need much...just this.

A Note About West Texas

All I really wanted

Was you
To take
Me with you.

I don't really have
A reason
To be
Anything

Anymore.

Escaping Ann Arbor Pt 6

1.

 Though we didn't have internet, I decided to upload the gorgeous pictures I'd taken to my computer. I'd only gotten a few shots of us together. We rarely took pictures together anymore. At one time, we'd held a strong banner, we'd had a declaration to the outside world of the happiness our bodies couldn't hold. Where had all the romance gone? He used to write me letters almost daily; he'd surprise me with flowers, he'd take me to buy art supplies, "Paint whatever you want," he'd say. He never had any expectation that I'd paint for him...he just loved to watch me paint. He knew that most of my money was spent making projects for him so he was always willing to chip in to support my craft. I loved to paint for him. He was my inspiration. 

  I hadn't opened my computer in forever. Due to my incapability to shut it down properly, the first thing that met my eyes was a lifeless, frozen Safari page still hanging on my screen. My breath caught in my chest. I'd forgotten what I'd been reading when my computer died. My email was open and there it was...the letter from April. It read:

 Jade, 

   I was incredibly infuriated after our conversation about your low self confidence in the car today that I can't even look at you right now. Your self pity disgusts me. I refuse to take the fall for this no matter what I did. My mistakes shouldn't affect your self esteem. I told you, it had nothing to do with you...I just made a mistake. I hate being the monster. And after-all, you've never felt good enough. I couldn't make you feel secure even before I did that. Stop pinning your issues on me. I should be the one that feels bad. 

  How do you think I feel? Look at the clothes you wear! You pile on layers. I'm the guy with the girlfriend that dresses like an amish girl. God forbid you show off your body at all. And GOD FORBID you ever buy anything new. Maybe if you actually took a little bit of pride in yourself you'd actually feel like a woman instead of feeling like crap all the time. Just a thought. 

                                                                                                                                  Brent

 I sunk down in my seat. 

 I'd already begun making an effort to save up for new clothes. I never had money because I was terrible with my finances and when I did make money I usually spent on gifts or romantic evenings for him. I had to admit though, in ways he was right. How was I supposed to keep him interested if I didn't take care of myself? In his defense, I should have been strong enough inside myself to be able to take the news with dignity. I shouldn't have yelled like I did. I'd always felt so much shame afterwards for yelling. It was just so unexpected. I could have never conceived he would be the type of guy I'd always been afraid of. It didn't fit him either. It puzzled me constantly

 How could someone be so perfect and do such cutting things?

I constantly marveled at how in some ways I felt like I knew him better than I knew myself, and in others

I knew nothing about him at all. 

2. 

I frequently did what any girl would do. 

I frequently did what any girl would do. 

I frequently did what any girl would do. 

I lied a lot, with eloquence and false reasoning to justify him;

I became 

The poster child

For taking the blame. 

3. 

 When the last day "up north" came, we packed our things and closed the cabin down for the season. Leaving northern Michigan was one of the most heart-wrenching things I'd ever had to do. I squeezed my leather-bound journal, fighting back the tears. Something inside me knew that I would never have the opportunity to lay in a hammock, and stare up at those beautiful tree tops ever again. I marveled at how the sun peaked between the leaves in all the right places and tall trunks and limbs cast shadows that felt as dark and hollow on the inside as me. I had the audacity to make a "we" statement. It felt awkward as it came out of my mouth. 

   "You're never gonna have to give this up. You know, like, no-matter where we live. We're always going to come back here. At least...promise me we will. I don't know that I can live without this place."

  

  "Thanks,"

   He said coldly. 

 I immediately felt stupid. 

 Who was I to believe I'd ever have any say in his future 

 Or what we would or would not do?

 Just like always, I shut my mouth. 

 I laid my head back, heavily and weakly...

 Knowing that I would always only forever be

 The girl that was 

 Just along for the ride. 

4. 

 We sat outside the mexican restaurant. I hadn't seen Luke in ages. My heart ached to talk to him. He and Brent had been friends forever. I was constantly in awe that anyone could be so kind. His heart was tender and I was sure some portion of it had to be southern. He was warm; he constantly beamed. I was continually amazed that Brent could be so cold to people I cared about and yet have such amazing friends. I felt honored to know them. But I always felt honored to have any involvement with Brent. I was intrigued with him, I was grateful that anyone as perfect as him would let me be involved in his life. It didn't matter that I was the butt of the joke most of the time. It didn't matter that I felt second, or third or fourth or fifth best to the other girls he wanted. It didn't matter that at the end of the day he was always halfway out the door. If, at night, I could go to bed knowing that he was still mine, my life had a purpose. My life made sense. I had worth. I was loved. 

 I knew when we fought, that if he turned around and looked back at me before he actually left

 it meant he'd come back and forgive me for whatever stupid mistake I'd made this time.

 I found hope in his inability to make up his mind about whether he wanted me or not...

 the small portion of the time he actually wanted me made up for all the hurt that happened

 when he wasn't sure that he did. I loved him so wide and so deep it compensated for the days when he 

 absolutely could not love me. I couldn't blame him after-all...I was hard to handle...I was an"exotic animal."

 I was grateful that he would even consider keeping me.