Blurred Lines.

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     I have a confession to make…
The skeletons in my closet are eagerly awaiting the day
I unlock it and allow them to escape.
They’re dead and yet –
they’re breathing more heavily with anticipation than I am.
We’ve only got each other,
so we stand with trembling knees barely embedded into our sockets,
interlocking our bony fingertips
with the only ghosts loyal enough to remain by our sides.
The same ones who haunt me are the very ones that help me sleep at night.
This ever evolving heart of mine
with thoughts of it’s own consistently up for debate,
emotions running rapidly across the vacancy in my chest,
increasing at an unorthodox pace.
I must confess –
I must express all the thoughts I keep suppressed.
It’s easier said than done.
And yet…

it’s easier done than said.
But the truth of the matter is,
it’s far simpler when it’s written and read.
Why do you think I’m only ever able to
express my adoration for you through the comfort of a text?
Concealing this intricate array of emotions
behind a screen is just as effortless as it is blinding.

I’ve told you so much and yet you haven’t heard a damn thing yet.

But don’t you feel the irony in your bones?

Telling yourself that keeping your heart in your chest rather than giving it to them is better than feeling nostalgic, dreaming hopelessly over what you
would’ve, could’ve, should’ve done differently
but didn’t because you foolishly neglected to caress your intuition.
You’re getting exactly what you’ve been giving.
Now you’re laying in bed alone
twiddling your fingers like a windowed lover,
wishing you had  gulped your ego and
admitted that another human being other than
yourself was  worthy of patience, love, and commitment.
I should’ve told you
how I felt but I didn’t.
At least, not verbally.
I’ve only ever spoken to you authentically
in the corrupted form of songwriting and poetry,
countless pieces
unraveled recklessly, passionately in your honor
that you’ll never hear or read.
What a masterpiece.

What a tragedy.

All these revolutionary ideas held captive by the extent of my own mind –
The same voice that frees me  in the art of expression
simultaneously suffocates me by the throat.
This pride is literally trying to kill me, this will be the death of me.
Between these blurred lines,
hypnotic rhythm,
intriguing rhyme,
is an exhausted mind…
composing these obscured words with a cramped right hand
and three exhausted eyes still grasping onto what’s left.

Attempting to revive it all back to life.

Trying to re-attach flower petals I previously ripped out so viciously amid attempting to convince myself that you ever gave a damn about me.

As time progresses,

this urgency only amplifies just the same.
It’s such a shame,
that I’m not mediocre like the rest –
if I were,
I would be able to say what
I felt… naturally, effortlessly, spontaneously,
without ever thinking twice
about what I could potentially be revealing
by speaking abruptly.
How I wish I could
express myself so nonchalantly, foolishly,blissfully,
ignorantly like the rest and get this pride off my chest.
But I suppose,

 I only ever have myself to blame –
for being conceived with veins beneath my skin
that thrive more sufficiently than the vast majority.
I crave the power to speak these words as effortlessly as I compose,
but it’s abnormal that I only find trust in sheets of paper with the scandals I expose.
I imagine if I told you how I felt in person, I’d only manage to stutter,
the butterflies in my stomach would go mad, viciously flutter.
I’d lose the strength in my knees, my hands would quiver,
my cheeks would erupt in flames, and my spine would shiver.
My thoughts would exceed their own pace, my heart would race in speed,
as the impulse to bite my tongue leads me to internally bleed.
The sweat would trickle down my forehead,
as I foam at the mouth with urgency to confess words unsaid.

Maybe I’ll just write you a letter.
Since unraveling my soul with ink onto a sheet as pale as your daydreams
is the only way I’ve grown comfortable expressing my reality.

Maybe I’ll write a symphony of my most authentic honesty,
I’ll start if off along the thin line between love and hate, saying –

There was and still is nothing that intrigues me more than the poetic blurred lines that reside beneath your palm.

Nothing has ever mesmerized me more than the heart that throbs beautifully in your mind without even trying.

Oh why, do you try to settle it down, insist it be  silent?

The best thing that ever happened to me was being blessed enough to have the universe provoke your energy to gravitate towards me lovingly.

You wandered into my life miraculously and I feel so privileged to know you so intimately, spiritually, beyond skin deep.

I’ll leave this letter somewhere I know you’ll see,
not immediately but eventually.
Somewhere subtle yet obvious-
like,

precisely underneath your pillow.
Strategically placed where your head
rarely ever rests, yet always lies.
I know you work amid
the depths of the night shift,
and you never sleep because your
entire being guilt trips you into remaining awake.
So, I know you won’t read my sincere sentiments until
the universe decides the timing is appropriate –
when the moon is blue,
when the stars are aligned.
Something lingering in the atmosphere
will provoke you to search for what’s always been with you…
At a moment where you’re heart is broken,
mind is grieving over her love lost –
you’ll find me right there.
The reminder laying on your bed,
underneath the hyms of your mind
is where you’ll find comfort.
I have been here all along,
you just didn’t see me…
until it was convenient.

I’ll write you a letter and leave it signed

delicately, intensely, sincerely…

yours truly –

you won’t ever have to wonder who it’s from.

You’ll know by the way the words are intertwined with one another,

that no other woman in the world could’ve sent this other than her –

me.

When are you going to go to sleep?

When are you going to wake up?

I’ve been here all along.

And as much as I wish I was strong enough to say so otherwise,

I always will be.

Because I love you dearly.

I hope you read between the blurred lines,
you’ll surely find what lies embedded beneath this divergent heart of mine.
This is a statement,
not an apology.
Don’t underestimate me or my power
to leave my light exuberant in the darkest hours of the night.
Don’t forget me.
Remember me.

Mark my words –
someday,
eventually,
inevitably,
I will have the audacity to speak my mind as fiercely as I write them.
I will provoke nations, countries, and universes to tremble in intimidation with the fibers of which my mind projects.
Even if –
in the process, it trembles just the same.
If you pay attention,
you may just accomplish the impossible –
absorb what I’m expressing,
receive the actual vibes I’ve been transmitting.
If you wipe the smudges of these blurred lines,
you may just hear what I’ve been trying to
tell you this entire time.
Until I find the courage to say it –
I’ll leave this subliminal message right here.
Half distorted beyond comprehension,
half abundantly clear.

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17 thoughts on “Blurred Lines.

  1. You are wonderful. You ARE extraordinary and your talent to express is just plain amazing. We often feel inhibited by the skeletons of our past, of our experiences. We want better than what they represent. Your voice is sounding beautifully, loud and clear. You are beautifully overcoming those skeletons and all the inequities they have made you feel. Love this!!

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Hey, you’re a NYer, let me know if you hear anything about the future of the La Casa Azul Bookstore (where, when they might be re-surfacing etc..). I am coming down there for a day in probably June and LOVED shopping there. I hope to again but I don’t know how fast they’re going to get at their “new plans”. I know they had that kiosk at that Sugar Hill Childrens’ Museum, but I don’t know if that was just for the holidays or what.

        Like

  2. spoonriver2015

    That’s one hell of a subliminal message! Funny how those “skeletons” in our closets are fully-formed, living and breathing entities, isn’t it? Loved (or maybe *lived*) these lines:

    “The loneliest conversations
    are echoes of my own voice,
    it’s even worse
    knowing I made this selection,
    I embraced this choice.”

    Liked by 1 person

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