Little Fists Inspired

In this moment, I'm grateful he's a sound sleeper and doesn't notice me turn from left to right, stomach to back before deciding I can't sleep. That I need some sort of mental evacuation. 

I've been here before, this in between, where I know what lies ahead. Know what needs to be done, and yet I continually drag my feet in the hopes that something will change and someone else will be put in charge of making my decisions for me. 

This in between where days are half spent dreaming of what may come, half in fear or what will. 

On June 7th, I'm running into Her open arms. I catch myself slipping into what it will be like. Its been two years since I've run my hands through the flowers of Her hair, let myself wander among the hills of Her body. It will be a moment of liberation when I can kneel at Her feet and kiss Her yet again. 

I told him I'd be gone for two, maybe three weeks. I won't be in California for six. That's nearly two months. But I have to go, break this cycle once and for all. I'm going to lose Indi. 

I'm going to lose a lot of things. 

I'm making a mixed CD for when I go. Something to write to, to paint to, to forget to I suppose. 

I hate my body, I hate that it's proof of what I've given these last two years and what I'll take away. 

I'll never forgive myself for not taking the risk and moving to Boulder the summer after I graduated. 

I wish someone who find some undeniable talent within me, let it unfurl in their hands and encourage me to do better. I've lost that ability.

I hate my writing. I hate the feeling that it will surmount to nothing.

I pray that I get accepted into the Peace Corps, that I have a reason to disappear and lose touch with everyone for two years. And, more importantly, to have a somewhat legitimate reason to shave my head.

I can't stop listening to Dayvan Cowboy by Boards of Canada.

I want desperately to be the next face of Puerto Rican politics in someway. 

I'm ready to stop breathing a little and calling it life.