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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
October 10, 2013
Seam Stress by ~BeyondJen is "very touching" (suggester's words) nonfiction about moving on...or not.
Featured by neurotype-on-discord
Suggested by Dr-Vergissmeinnicht
Literature Text
The heaviness settled in like an anvil being dropped on me. I couldn't take the fog inside my head and the lead inside my heart anymore, so I sat in the sun to melt it away. I wanted to sear every surface until I couldn't feel anymore. What kind of life is that, though, to never feel anything? To never feel the joy of love; the way it wraps its arms around your heart and traces its fingertips along your veins? Even the pain of looking back at love's scattered memories is necessary to understand how beautiful the feeling once was; how lucky you were to have ever felt its lips press to your cheek, its breath collect in the hollow of your neck. Love does these things, sews itself right up inside you to close the holes within.
You'll be told you'll find another. You'll be told to go, go and find happiness because all this is, is hurt, and nothing else. The problem is, your heart doesn't understand the complexities of bad timing or fear or settling for another because of low self-worth. Your heart only knows love, even when your brain tries convince it otherwise. You can't outsmart love, logic is the lesser. Even a 9 yr old will tell you the same, that it doesn't make sense to not be with the person you're in love with. I know, I know.
You could try ripping at the seams, pulling the threads from deep within without tearing yourself apart. I've done it before, little by little, stitch by stitch. I've unraveled the embroidery and survived without too many pulls and defects in my fabric. And I've learned the feel of my pattern, hemmed up my loose ends, and made a better fit of myself. But I crave a careful hand to reach deep within my fibers to alter me in ways I can't do on my own. I need to be folded and pinned, cut and pieced back together, matched and paired up without counting arms' length; I need to be part of another.
I've worn love like a second skin; matched our needs and offerings like buttons notched perfectly, holding us together. I've watched threads fray and buttons fall. I witnessed you pulling at them in nervous habit, while tugging opposite sides close together over your breast, trying to hold in the very thing you were releasing. I've had your hands smooth over my rough edges and find something beautiful, and then discard me, because what's new is unknown and what's old is comfortable, even if the fit is no longer right.
I don't want to be a patchwork quilt of collected losses. I don't want to be worn by another. I just want this fixed...somehow. But I've been released; never really even claimed. And I sit now, tattered and missing the threads that made me whole, losing parts of myself through the moth holes in my heart.
--
8/13/2013
Copyright © 2013 Jen Fowler
All rights reserved
You'll be told you'll find another. You'll be told to go, go and find happiness because all this is, is hurt, and nothing else. The problem is, your heart doesn't understand the complexities of bad timing or fear or settling for another because of low self-worth. Your heart only knows love, even when your brain tries convince it otherwise. You can't outsmart love, logic is the lesser. Even a 9 yr old will tell you the same, that it doesn't make sense to not be with the person you're in love with. I know, I know.
You could try ripping at the seams, pulling the threads from deep within without tearing yourself apart. I've done it before, little by little, stitch by stitch. I've unraveled the embroidery and survived without too many pulls and defects in my fabric. And I've learned the feel of my pattern, hemmed up my loose ends, and made a better fit of myself. But I crave a careful hand to reach deep within my fibers to alter me in ways I can't do on my own. I need to be folded and pinned, cut and pieced back together, matched and paired up without counting arms' length; I need to be part of another.
I've worn love like a second skin; matched our needs and offerings like buttons notched perfectly, holding us together. I've watched threads fray and buttons fall. I witnessed you pulling at them in nervous habit, while tugging opposite sides close together over your breast, trying to hold in the very thing you were releasing. I've had your hands smooth over my rough edges and find something beautiful, and then discard me, because what's new is unknown and what's old is comfortable, even if the fit is no longer right.
I don't want to be a patchwork quilt of collected losses. I don't want to be worn by another. I just want this fixed...somehow. But I've been released; never really even claimed. And I sit now, tattered and missing the threads that made me whole, losing parts of myself through the moth holes in my heart.
--
8/13/2013
Copyright © 2013 Jen Fowler
All rights reserved
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the first time I caught sight of your
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I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
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She had always kept everything. Ticket stubs, receipts, the torn-off edges of notebook paper. Any doodles or scribbled ideas, and any note afforded her by a friend were kept and saved. Not everything received the honor, but particular things from specific events did. She wanted to keep track of each and every thing she had ever done. She did so, on a corkboard encircling her room from floor to ceiling; each day had its spot, and one could trace her life along the wall with the zigzagging strings of yarn that connected each day.
She didn't often invite others into her room, for fear they might displace something, either by
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Last night while sitting with my kids as they ate dinner, I apologized to them for not being myself and being so sad. My 9yr old son said it was okay, and he asked if it was because of her. I don't normally get into heavy personal stuff like this with my kids, but I also don't lie to them. I'd rather teach them about life, age-appropriately of course. So I said, "Yes." I continued answering a few questions, probably saying more than I should have, but not before he responded, "That doesn't make sense. If she's in love with you and wants to be with you, then why isn't she? That doesn't make any sense." Heh, I know, kiddo. Makes no sense to me either. My 10yr old daughter then asked if she was scared because of the gay thing, because some people don't like it. God, I love my kids. And nope, that's not it, pretty girl.
Apparently I like hearing myself talk. You can hear me recite this if you're into that kind of thing.
Apparently I like hearing myself talk. You can hear me recite this if you're into that kind of thing.
© 2013 - 2024 BeyondJen
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Hi there! Just a note to let you know that I've featured this piece in my end-of-the-year journal feature