for he said

     "what is easier, my dear? falling in love, or closing your eyes as you jump from the cliff?"

and without being morbid she replied

     "tie me to the rope that hangs from the ceiling
          because my heart aches too much to trust either."

Great Big Storm

My concerns are not insignificant
because, dammit, I'm trying.
I'm trying.

My concerns are not insignificant
I just need a hand to hold
but instead
all I ever get is reprimanding lips
and condescending tones
and broken promises
and waved hands.

Maybe I have a problem
but my concerns are not insignificant.
I just want to know the truth
truth
truth
is such an ugly word.

I'm just trying to hold my own.
I'm trying.
I just want to know the truth
truth
truth
is such an ugly word.

Great Big Storm - Nate Ruess

a+b=c

and your words are sprouting like daisies in February

and I'll never know what happened.

and your braids cover your ocean of eyes

and I'll always be grateful.

and your arms will lay limp at your sides

and I'll lift up your sleeves again.

and I don't know if I should say something

do I admit it all?

it seems like a trend right now.

I lived for her until I figured out how to live for myself.

and I wish I could say a+b=c

and that could be the answer to everything.

and I wish my words would pierce like daggers for him,

because that's what will make him understand.

and I wish my words would sail into her ears

like a boat on a sea

because that's what will make her listen.

and I wish my words would hold them so close

so tightly

because the will make them realize.

I lived for her until I figured out how to live for myself.

and I wish I could just say a+b=c

and that could be the answer to everything.

but when have we ever had the answer to everything.

the lesson

do i have words in my bones or in my brain?
cause i sit here and sit here and sit here
with a hole in my heart.
so this one is for all the people i'm tired of writing about.

i sit here and sit here and sit here and
and i wonder what for?
what am i trying to do?
because i used to write to feel
and now i feel so much it hurts
and i used to write to take away the pain
but i've written and thought and written some more
but the pain lies in my fingers.
i used to think it was unbearable because i never spoke the words
but everyone has heard it all now
and it's still unbearable.

you know how you can hear something your whole life
but it doesn't sink in until a very specific moment?
well i've had that moment
and i believe
and i want to believe
and i want to get better
so what is the lesson from all this?

and believe me
i think pretty words can come from euphoria just as much as hurt
and i want to read more pretty words that don't make the bones in my back ache.
but i sit here and sit here and sit here
and what flows isn't what i'd call euphoric.
so what's the lesson?

Sundays Are For Thinking

We're 18 years old and we think about love.

We're 18 years old and we think we're in love.

We're 18 years old and we think "What is love?"

We're 18 years old we think we're falling out of love.

We're 18 years old and we think we know love.

                                                   we know love.

                                                   we know love.

I'm 18 years old, but it's still hitting me.

Between the lost notes of Brand New and Taking Back Sunday

and memories of food trucks and Tuesdays

I think I know love.

          I know love.

          I know love.

I looked up "Hipster Stool Photography" on Google to try and find a picture I liked for this post.

I stalk a lot of people on Facebook just to stop myself from clicking on his little picture. I guess the biggest improvement is that I now write about him and not to him. I don't feel that close to him anymore.

I don't know, maybe this has past its expiration date. Maybe my heart has gone sour because most people would be over it by now. I haven't talked to anyone but my basement for a long time because everyone who's "there for me" is tired of hearing it. I guess I can't blame them.

Let me put it this way: I'm over him. I really am. I'm over the romance of it all. The mystery and excitement of what might come. It's gone. It's past. And that's okay. But, I'm not over the hole it left in my heart. I'm not over those whisperings in my brain saying that I'm damaged. I'm unsure. I'm just not quite up to anyone's expectations. He's left me with 2000 miles and the feeling that I can never quite measure up.

Now, I don't blame him. This isn't a post to hurt him with my words. I'm over the angst. I'm over him. This post is allowing me to breathe.

I set my life up like a stool. Three legs. Three people. Two shes and a he. I was the seat. Everyone knew something, but no one knew everything. I don't think I even knew everything.

He was the first to go. I wouldn't classify him as a clean break, but he's the tidier of the two. I think a stool can still function with only two legs. Just be careful where you put your weight.

She broke down second. The hardest thing about it all is that she still tries to stick on. I was trying to help her in the beginning. I jammed that leg into the stub over and over and finally had to stop when the splinters hurt too much. I don't think she sees that her jagged edges are beyond repair. I wish I could tell you exactly what happened with her. I'm still trying to make sense of it. She could talk your ear off, though. Funnily enough, it just never seems to add up the way they taught us in algebra.

Thank God I still have her. The second her. Things might not be as perfect as they appear, but you'll never hear me complaining, cause she's still here. And I wouldn't trade the truth of that for all the Instagram pictures of the blondes and their mission calls.

The problem is you can't put any weight on a one legged stool.
And now here I am.
Here I am.

The One I Sent

(don't ask me why I sent it.)

I feel so open.

Transparent.

Please,

don't take this the wrong way,

it's really a beautiful feeling.

I smile at the little things again.

Weightless.

I like to think the air passes right through me

because there's no reason to hold it in anymore.

I'm no longer holding back.

My potential is endless.

I'm saying what I want to say

when I want to say it

and it's such a beautiful feeling.

(okay, you can ask me why I sent it.

but I don't know.

I don't know.)

(I do know.)

10:30 pm on a Friday

Dear World,

I think I'm mad. I think I'm mad and sad and happy and hopeful and I'm feeling a little let down.

I think my soul is smoke. Not the Las Vegas smoke, more like the Wyoming fog. To be honest, I don't know if Wyoming gets foggy, but when I think of my soul, I think of the Wyoming fog. I think of how some times, it's so thick that you think you can hold it, and how other times, you'd hardly ever know it was there.

When I think of my soul, I want to imagine it open. It's so open, that everything comes flooding in. You'd see words like music and pictures like books and everything would blend. I mean everything would blend.

But yet, here I am. I'm mad. I'm mad at him. This is a poem so old, that it doesn't even deserve to be written. I'm in the same position I was six months ago. A year ago. Three years ago. I've been here a lifetime. And yet, everything has changed. A year ago my soul was chained. Nothing blended. The pictures were nothing more than pictures and the words didn't sound anything like music.

But yet, here I am.

If change happens in inches like time happens in months, this will pass. If I need a yard stick to separate my heart from his, I have to accept that a foot comes before a yard. This will pass.

Much love (I'm trying to put that out in the universe these days),

Baylee

The steps I took to learn to breathe

1. Say what you want to say when you need to say it. This will only produce positive results. (And if something drastically terrible comes from it...well, sorry.)

2. Be more like a snail. No, don't be slow, just appreciate the little things. (Unless being slow works for you, then be slow.)

3. Don't be afraid to let people in.

4. Don't be afraid to let people go.

5. Remind yourself: I'm always exactly where I'm supposed to be.

6. Repeat the previous step multiple times.

7. Be confident. Be bold. I'd rather have you do that than tear yourself down everyday because you don't want to be cocky.

8. *cliche* Just allow you to be you.

9. Remember, I'm always exactly where I'm supposed to be.

10. *another cliche warning* (hey, cliches are cliches for a reason, amiright?!) Don't listen to the haters, or the bullies, or the down-putters, Their opinion only matters if they love you as much or more than you love yourself.

11. Love yourself. Hey, look at me. It's okay. It's okay to love yourself. If no one has ever given you permission, I'm doing it now. Love yourself.

12. It's okay to make mistakes. Be mature. Learn from them. Apologize. Have patience with yourself.

13. Lastly, suck in the air around you and let it fill up your lungs. Let it out. Repeat.

The feels and the tears came back

If my heart were a mat,
Would you use it to lay over a puddle?
Like gentlemen of older days,
Would you hurt my heart
For the benefit of others?
There is a certain beauty to that,
And you know I'd let you do it.

If my heart were a mat,
Would you use it to wipe your feet?
Your wood floors need never suffer
From the storms of God.
That, I would gladly let you do.

If my heart were a mat,
Would you frame it for all to see?
Give it blood for its thirst?
Put it by the fire,
That it might continue pumping?
Treasure it so much that,
Should you be evacuated,
It's the only thing in your hand
As you watch your home curl in the flames?

What hurts the most is not the footprints on my heart,
But the truth that lays in my bones.
The truth of this poem.