I sometimes can’t help but feel temporary. My intellect knows this isn’t true. But it feels true. I worry I can’t love him the way someone else would. I love him so much; I want to give him the best, but what if it’s not me who can do that? What if I’m not the one who can make that happen for him? I feel like leaving with all my things because I can’t give him the best life imaginable. I worry my love isn’t good enough, that I’m too self-absorbed, too self. Why? Why don’t I know my own worth? Why am I sitting here crying in our bed? I know how much he loves me… but I somehow worry that I’m doing him a disservice. That I’m keeping him from joy instead of believing that I could actually be his joy. What’s wrong with me?
I’m sad. Why? Because I don’t feel good enough for him. Why? Cause I don’t know how to show him how much I love him. Why? Because I’m stressed over work and maybe there’s someone else who won’t want to run away. I don’t want to run away to punish him. I want to do it to punish myself because I don’t feel like I deserve him. I’ve suffered for so long, and now I have someone I love, and I’m scared because I don’t want to ruin things. I don’t want to be without him, and I don’t know how to give anymore. It used to be all I did, and I've finally learned how to make it about me, but maybe now I won’t be as good as others would be to him. And I want him to have the best. I don’t know how to give him what he deserves. I hate when I say something wrong and it upsets him. It makes me feel like I can’t do anything right. Eggshells. I hate, most of all, that I don’t know my worth, that I actually believe his love is worth more.

...I hate telling this story. There’s too much to explain and convince you of because I want you to be on “my side.” I want you to know that his mother was a psychopath, but that means describing her and showing you what I mean in a long winding description. It means describing his pathologic sisters, then drawing parallels for you… so you could see the apple really doesn’t fall far. I’d have to describe her leaves and his rotten core. I hate telling this story; it means remembering.
You get to a point where you just don’t want to remember anymore. You’ve learned, and now you’re done with that. You want it gone. But it sneaks up when you don’t want it to. In shopping, in deciding which purse to carry or questioning my jewelry choices. When shopping for shoes or fabric, I think of his mother, and what she would choose. From what nail polish color she would choose for me, and which one I’d choose for myself, and what she’d think of my choice. I wanted so much to please that woman, and despite being a great cook, a smart passionate woman, a woman who loved her son, they never liked me.

cool moss-covered elder
shaded by its own children
arms no longer reaching
towards heaven, but instead
holding itself to the earth
grey, rough wrinkled skin
once green and pliable
now calloused with knowledge
drag your fingers along
its body and feel the years
attempt to etch your skin
and grant you its' wisdom

Warmth
cascades through the stained glass
and the colors rejoice
and ripple across the floor
as the clouds above pass by
Footsteps kick up dust
that becomes swirling halos of emerald, sapphire and ruby
before once more settling to
its earthly beginning
Unfocused eyes see more clearly
the ethereal children at play
Lie down and allow
the dance to dapple your body
Breathe in the heavenly crowns
of light around you
and join in the exultation