A Ballad For Mrs. Lovett

"Mrs. Lovett, you're a bloody wonder, eminently practical and yet appropriate as always."  

This is my final headache.  

I was not born to dote, not born to breathe for you.  

I had other opportunities, other loves.  

Other heartaches.

I get my own dinner, I clean my own space.  I take care of the dog, and I pay my rent.  I file taxes every year.  I hardly drive above the speed limit.  I have stamps.

Stamps.

An ordinary life for an extraordinary faith.  Faith that he will love.  Faith that he will forget.  

Faith for first choice.

I want to remember and to be remembered.  I am selfish, I am hasty, I am ignorant.  Praying to be better, and sleeping in until noon.  Hoping for blue skies, and wearing all black.  Contradictory to beauty, yet standing for just that.

He loved very little and I loved to pretend I was part of it.  

"How I've lived without you all these years, I'll never know."

What To Expect From Me For The Next Five Years:

-A lot of missed phone calls

-A lot of canceled weekend trips

-Short days

-Long nights

-Cookies (apologies)

-Music

-Half-finished craft projects

-3:00 am research papers

-Stained notebooks

-Unopened stationary

-About 4 really long hugs

-A lot of back aches

-Trash runs in the middle of the night

-Insecurity

-Carefully planned bedsheets

-Morning breath

-A half-present mind

-Paris themed walls

-Too many blog posts

-One sided conversations about how I think my legs are getting  really chubby

-No eye contact

-A box in my closet full of crap memories
-Matthew Broderick movie marathons

-Spice scented candles

-Unused ice skates

-An unfinished screenplay for a zombie movie

-A really long bucket list

-Exhausted use of the word awesome

-Fake laughing

-Awkward moments

-Ignored questions

-3200 used matches

-Hours of listening to classical music set to funky drum beats*

-Hipster jokes

-Glee: The Music - Volumes 2,3, and 5

-Duct tape pens

-Christmas sweaters

-Unwashed dishes
-Empty shelves
-Empty promises

*

No one cares about the promises you keep.

Pseudonyms And Euphemisms

I'm not sure how often I should pray,

but just to be safe, I make sure I mention you every time.  

You're really something, I guess. 

With your straight back and your calloused feet.  I don't know what your name is, or where you were born, but you look like someone I've always known.  You look like someone I used to love.  I wonder if it was you all along.

Please don't think of me as inane.  I try to keep to myself on days like this, when the grass weeps and the trees quiver.  I try to pretend I'm someone else, someone more deserving.  But please do not think of me as anything but flawed.  And I hope one day you'll see them all as the epitome of love.  My every crack and my every fissure will someday be a representation of the stars that threaten to fall from the sky.  A representation of the way you look at that old photo of your mom.  

And every time you speak my name, we'll hear the wind fling itself against the front door, 

because when I'm around you, 

                                 I am not safe.  

I fear that I will run out of things to say, and we'll fall into patterns.  Cookie cut shapes of Christmas trees and bells, perfectly laid out on the table for all the neighbors to "ooh" and "aah" at.  We are merely caricatures, and silhouettes.  Our hands remain entwined, but our minds repel each other like broken magnets.  I fear this day and the days that are sure to follow.  I fear the silence, and the heartbeats that can be heard on even the rainiest of days.  I fear your judgment and your faith and your determination.  I fear your eyes will not ever truly see mine, and your ears will change the words I say.  

It's not right, and never will be, but I cannot help but ask you one more time, "Did you think I didn't mean it when I said I'm incapable of love?"