Power manifests in the trembling of our throats

i made a video on my phone the other day, dull hair, faint smile, watery eyes, and i said goodbye.

i tried to explain it. i told them that life for me was like seeing the world in heat vision. palets of red and oranges, surrounded by greens and blues. we're the red, i told them, bright and flickering, surrounded by blue. i smiled into the camera, told them how dense the blue seeped into me, how i fought so hard to stay warm, how i pretended that i was as bright as the rest.

i hoped they would understand

i contradicted myself, argued that i had no reason, right? i am loved, have love, give it. why then did i have to pretend?

i told them how i hurt, how i cry, how i beg for even a breath of relief. i told them that i was losing the fight, that the purpose felt useless, and i felt ready to give up, to go.

but then, my camera suddenly went out, and i had no more storage, and i stared at the four minute video and i realized i wasn't done. i had more to say, more to explain, more to apolgize for. i wasn't done.

i almost deleted everything and left just the video on my phone, but then i thought of an empty husk and how it echoes, and i found i couldn't. but i didn't have the storage to properly say goodbye.

i realized no amount of storage would allow me to say goodbye.

so, instead, i smiled when they came home,

and i said hello

- a look into my head//jjw; whatever it may be that saves your life, insignificant as it may seem, let it.

people tell me that being suicidal is a coward's mind. but, here's the thing. when you're working at a job that kills you to make money to pay bills so you can live in a house that doesn't feel like home just so you can continue living a life that you hate, it kinda feels like suicide might be a relief. and, sure, I have the love of my family, of my friends, and my significant other, but that's not the point. the point is that if I didn't, if I didn't have memories to feed off of like an IV flooding me with purpose, and if I didn't have the ghost of a kiss on my forehead that promises a guaranteed 'ill miss you if you're gone', and if didn't have the picture perfect moment of laughing myself to tears in the car with someone who would dull with my absence,

if I didn't, I'd be a coward.

- Sometimes, life drags you down and you need a reason to breathe. I'm fortunate to have reasons, and if there's anyone who needs one, I'm your reason. If you go, I'll miss you. If you go, I'll never get the chance to know what the night sky looks like with all the stars in it. If you go, it'll be even more of a struggle to breathe. If you go, why should I stay? Why should any of us? For all of us.

Want to know the truth? Even if it hurts? Want to know how you fall out of love as easily as you fell in? I think it hurts that I think of you this way. Moments broken and jagged, a constant reminder that I want to give up on you. But, god, I am more scared of what I would have left of myself if I got too tired of working at this. Because, it is, a job that heeds warning, loop after loop of hours that we have to shove love into. And, it's nice, so nice, when the smiles feel easy and your touches linger eagerly. It's not as nice when I can't meet your eyes, when I don't know how to talk to you, don't know whether to say your name or call you 'babe' but isn't that stupid? So stupid; you're mine, mine, all mine, but I don't know if I even have you sometimes. You do things that hurt, a rough jab right at the bottom of my rib cage, something so sudden that I didn't know tears meant anything until then. Then, you hold me to soothe the tears you created, conflict weighing through you because I bring something out in you that you didn't know you were capable of. I love you, I love you, I love you. But, fuck, sometimes I can't breathe around you and it's not because you take my breath, it's because anger and bitterness and hurt clogs my throat. I want to reach in and scrape it out, throw it all away, throw you away. It'd be easier, I'd be done with the shit, be free of the push and pull of your smiles and I-don't-give-a-fucks. Freedom isn't peace, isn't warmth and joy, isn't that safe feeling of being home and being loved, though. It's just running, being able to take steps from everything I hate, everything I'm tired of. Is it bravery? Definitely not. Staying is. Fight for this, for us, is bravery but I've never been strong. You make me so, which is truly ironic considering you make me so fucking weak. God, I love you so much. But, you hurt. You hurt so much that I feel cheated. Love isn't supposed to be this way. It's not, it's supposed to be those moments that you take my hand in yours and you kiss my forehead when I'm half asleep and when your heart beat in my ear is the only song I cherish. That's what it's supposed to be but it's also when you don't come to bed and when you don't care that I'm dying on the inside and when you brush me off, when you make me at fault for everything. It's not fair, you're not fair, life's not fucking fair. But, I love you, I love you, I love you. It's true, I love you enough to be brave. Yet, I'm a coward. I love you; I hate you.

- A look into my head//jjw; you're the only thing I need and you're a fucking disease. get out, never leave, stay away, come closer, please don't, but fuck, please do. I love you and I'm never leaving. goodbye

- A look into my head//jjw

tell me i'm not bisexual because i love how he loves me, but don't think for a second that i don't remember how her skin tasted under my lips. and, don't assume i've chosen a side, like this is some sort of war to be fought, because they've both already won as far as i can see. do yourself a favor, you misguided soul, and don't ever think that because he's the one that i forgot how it felt with her. and, yes, i know where his eyes are straying on those beautiful females that no man can ignore because my eyes are already there, appreciating the beauty as he does. tell me i'm not bisexual, and i will just laugh.

tell me it's wrong to love outside of my race, but keep in mind that i don't care what your opinion is. their dark skin next to mine may be an issue for you, but dear, all i see is endless possibilities and potential flavors. my body tells me that their skin are works of art, so gorgeous and strong, and the desire i feel when i see it is not something i'm ashamed of. and, don't think my dad hasn't told me forever that it's wrong, because he's tried to beat it into me for years. if i won't listen to him, why would I listen to you? tell me it's wrong to love outside of my race, but love is love regardless, and i'm proud to love what you tell me i should stray from.

tell me it's wrong to love sex because i'm a woman, that i shouldn't be loud and proud with how i've been pleased and how i've pleased others. just because women used to treat sex like a chore doesn't mean i have to as well. men of old treated it like a duty for their wives to fulfill, like cooking dinner and taking care of the children. mine treats it like fun, like an erotic moment full of intimacy and love. for me, it's not a chore, it's so much more, it's special. i will not be ashamed of how i love and get love. so, go ahead and tell me how i can't just treat sex like a good time, like men do, and i will proceed to grin naughtily and pity you because you've clearly never experienced sex as i have.

tell me that i'm not supposed to be who i am, and i will laugh. do not attempt to erase me, dear. i am sassy, and naughty, and dirty, and rebellious. i am everything you fear your present or future daughter will be. but, am I really. because, i am open-minded, and proud, and unforgiving, and determined. funny how those are all one in the same, depending on perspective. so, go ahead and tell me i can't be who i am, tell me you won't allow your daughter to be like me, and i won't care.

- A look into my head; jjw// listen, sharon, I don't give two fucks what you think about me as a woman. but don't pin what you consider my misgivings on your daughter. you better hope she's like me. then she will know true happiness and unfiltered pride at being herself. not caring what people like you think is the best thing i've ever learned.

It's not easy to explain to you how every ounce of my body feels like dread, and how exhaustion wipes across my mind, smearing my every action and thought. It's especially hard when your bones rattle under your skin and your thoughts are thunderstorms, pouring consistently with no end in sight. You go, go, go and I just want to stop, stop, stop. And, maybe you don't fully understand how it feels to replay the trauma of my life, around this time every year, how the nightmares shock me awake and I cry because I thought that this was the year that I finally wouldn't be touched by all the things that have made me weak. It's been so long but winter comes and I'm frozen, not from the cold, but from my own memories, just like the year before. Some call it seasonal, I call it idiocy. And, don't you think if I had the chance, I'd wipe it all away, fix it like it never was broken, smother it out and leave no embers? For you, maybe it's easy. Maybe because you're yanked into constant distractions, your mind jerking your body from one point to another so quickly that settling sounds like a fairytale to you. And, I'll take your curse and make it into a gift, because I'll give you mine and watch to see how you handle some peace and quiet, see how you take to my curse. It's just that I feel so weak and all I ask is for you to help me be strong, help me prove my own thoughts wrong, help me get through this and help me move on. But, baby, you can't focus for one second to watch me break apart. And, one day, you'll finally look up and I'll be just fine, like always. But, are you okay knowing you didn't help me at all, are you okay knowing that when I needed you most, you weren't there? Well, dear, I am not.