The Joy Scribbles

What if I can't forget you? You won't my love.  I'm not the kind of woman you forget.  Just remember,  don't let the smell of me linger in everything.  Don't let my touch haunt you.  Don't let the color of my eyes taint everything.  Forget.  The way I break sometimes.  But you will not forget that when my storms were over.  I was a warm summer day.  You were a child in a meadow.  I was filled with adventures.  You were a curious cat.  I was a comfortable couch.  You were an old soul.  I was a new book. Fresh of the print.  You were a teenage nerd.  I was an old book.  With dog ear pages and tear stains.  You were a collector.  But then I was nothing. and you were something.  But.  I know I'm not the kind of woman you forget. 

No one is the victim here.  Except her.  But not me and definitely you.  Its unfortunate that she has to live the rest of her life being the girl you settled for when you realised I'm the kind of fire that doesn't burn out.  I hope she one day finds the courage to ask if she tastes like me.  I hope you say yes. everything tastes like her.  I hope she leaves you. 

Why do you find the unavailable so alluring? Where did it begin? What went wrong? and who made you feel so worthless?…And what about the others that would do anything for you. Why did you make them love you until you could not stand it? And how are you both of these women – both flighty and needful? Where did you learn this, to want what does not want you? Where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay? —   Warsan Shire

Dear lover, I'm 22 now, I've made a home out of myself. Maybe one day I'll let you in.

You write him a love letter. A long one. He says nothing except, "how do you keep finding new ways to break my heart? ". You say "sorry. I thought you should know. Even though I can't make a home I still love." He walks away. You realize then how selfish it is to keep asking people to stay. You suddenly think of all the men you've loved. The one who hurt you, the one who left, the one who was never really there, the one who loved someone else. How selfish of you to ask anyone to stay. Not when in the same breath you pushed them away. You pick them terribly dont you? You pick them the way young boys pick flowers for girls they love. Temporary fleets of attention, that wilt. You keep them much longer than you should. then they stench. Dead. Never buried. Just there dying, filling everything with the smell of death. Rotting the bits of you you love the most. You love every minute of it. You cry when they leave. Pull yourself apart. P

They're a number of love stories I've told but never ours. It's my favorite one.  Its the only one that ends without a sour taste in my mouth. The only one I still pray for. I pray for you. Did you know? Do you ever hear my prayers? I pray the way mother's pray for their children and women pray for their husbands. Prayer is a woman's best firearm is something my mother says. I don't think she meant for me to use all my Ammo protecting you. I don't think she meant for me to pray for you so hard. But, I find sanity in knowing that even in the moments when  I choose myself over loving you God will love you for me. In the moments when you would look to me look to him. I'm not nearly responsible to hold your heart in my hands without dropping it. I fear I already have, but I want you to know. All these years later, All these boys later, ' All these scars later, there's not a smile in the world that warms my heart more than yours.

                  I want to live a life where I don't break boys, even the ones I love.

My vagina is pretty.  She is definitely pretty in the conventional neat, everything tucked in kinda way. Or maybe not. Maybe Vagina's are supposed to have big lips. Or maybe they're supposed to have curly thick hair. Or nothing at all. But my vagina is a small girl. Uncomfortably small. She hates tampons, she hates pads. she hates anything scented. She really hates thongs. She particularly likes cotton. Doesn't mind lace. But God she hates thongs. My vagina is sassy. Confrontational. She holds grudges. Throws tantrums. Refuses friends. Picky. Sometimes she says no. Violently. Just No. No thanks. Not today. Not later either. Or tomorrow. Just No.

"I AM THAT CLUMSY HUMAN, ALWAYS LOVING, LOVING, LOVING. AND LOVING. AND NEVER LEAVING." Kahlo, Frida.  The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait.

Perhaps there is a place I will keep you.  But I no longer wait on boys to choose me. 

Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at 4am smelling like everything outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex. Thinks everyone a rival. Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid, love beastly. Love sick love anti light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the belly, strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies. Fucks around. Writes poems, impresses people. Chases lovers into corners. Leaves them longing. Sea sick. Says yes. Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body. Dances wild and walks away, smiling. Yrsa Daley-Ward