Clumsy Love

Originally posted on Medium.com.

I grew up, then out. My height preceded my womanly shape, causing me to spend most of my formative years (desperately) trying to control my own gangly limbs.

I danced, I cheered, and occasionally played sports. I sang and acted onstage for hundreds of people to see. I was able to participate in activities requiring coordination.

Off the stage/field was a different story.

My mother always chalked it up to my fast-paced nature. I want to execute everything as quickly as possible with time to spare. (I just want to do it all.) Unfortunately, this created a carelessness in the way I moved.

Recently, I hit a moving car.

Re-read that sentence again. A moving car did not hit me, I hit it.

My boyfriend was in a euphoric/slightly manic state after the last Jeter home game at Yankee Stadium. Walking down 3rd avenue, I was slightly distracted by his goofy smiles and emotional ramblings. A car took a turn a bit late and I walked into it.

It wasn’t a big deal as it merely ran over my booted foot. I got body checked, because I walked directly into the SUV. After a moment of shock and a few “I’m fine!”s to calm my hyperactive companion, I couldn’t help but laugh. Truly, it was a supremely embarassing moment. But it was typical.

I had to laugh.

If I got embarrassed every time I did something clumsy, I’d never have time to enjoy life. I’d be constantly down because of something I can’t quite control. Whacking my arm against a wall or stubbing ALL of my toes at once may hurt and make me look like an idiot, but it’s actually a huge part of me.

So I embrace it.

I wear my clumsy nature like a badge. My body’s inability to protect me from pain (and often being the cause) toughened me up. I began to laugh at myself instead of slinking into the shadows, praying I’d go unnoticed.

Love comes to me in a similar way. I’ve never been able to pin-point when or how I’d begin to fall, nor with whom. When it does happen, I crash, stumble, fall, and headbutt straight into everything. Figuratively and literally.

The men I’ve had interest in rarely see this at first. Nervousness creates consciousness for me, giving me the ability to put on a graceful facade for some time.

It’s when I find myself, heart full of love, falling all over again.

The comfort and closeness that comes with love gets rid of my nervous consciousness in time. Next thing I know, I’m getting out of bed only to whack my knees against the table or trip over a misplaced boot.

Like my flailing arms and legs, I have little control of love. I’m unable to compartmentalize romantic feelings. They become all encompassing, a force I can’t ignore.

It feels like walking into a moving car. There’s a bit of shock, acknowlegement that it’s happened, and finally laughter.

Love is a freak accident, but one I’ve come to gladly welcome.

Poems from Nineteen

My year with depression, alcohol, and all the wrong men.

Originally posted on Medium.com.

I always feel like I’m holding back

Ever so slightly.

As if that extra bit of energy,

Could strip me down.

Leave me trembling to the core,

Leave me bare,

Gone.


Songs from trains running through Harlem,
And jogs through Chelsea to catch buses.
And boys who’s passion I loved more than their hearts.
Melodically, mathematically arranged to pull at my heart’s nostalgia strings,
To make me miss you.
(Or who I thought you could be.)


They call junk, we call it love

Dealt from men we come to adore.

Find a vein and shoot it up,

Till your body may explode.

Chase the high, let it become passion.

Let it fill your heart with hope, with adoration.

And as you lose your supply,

Begin to lose yourself.

Try every alternative and fail.

Search for the sweet nectar you crave.

Snort it or smoke it so it doesn’t hit the viens.

Passion drives you to find someone new,

And get your fix once again.

But beware of withdrawl, and it’ll happen soon,

Or maybe later, but it’ll destroy you.

You’ll find yourself empty and a piece of you gone,

Desperately searching to get a grip on.

You see the men with passion in their eyes,

And love in their hearts ,

And holes by their viens,

And your sobriety tells you to step away.

But you’ll be damned to see passion go to waste.


I’ve fallen in love a couple of times,

With cowboys and clowns and my own demise.

And like all forms of life,

it grows and it dies.

“Hello” can’t exist without “goodbye”.