my morning mess

shoes on but not tied
hair washed but not dried
pants pulled up but shirt nowhere to be found
and this one blasted word, playing in repetition,
serving as my only sound

hi.

hi.

hi.

this is silly
stupid
a cycle i am just about to begin again
where nothing but more longing and frustration are produced
but that idealistic retard inside me just keeps saying, liz!!

... this one will be different.

Why Can't It Be Like The First Week?

Everything seems so much more exciting and meaningful when it is new. Fresh and unknown. Unraveling the center of a rosebud one gorgeous petal at a time.

Why do I believe everything to be so pure and genuine just because I don't know all the details yet?

People have warned me. Warned me that we are all damaged. That the only things hiding inside those petals are secrets that just smash any picture of the perfect rose all to pieces.
And I have learned, from my own experiences, that the only thing I can count on in regards to something new is that it won't be a smidge like how I hope it will be.

I don't mean that in a pessimistic sort of way. Just an honest way. Intentions, expectations; they just cloud reality and make these scarlet ideals that much harder to grasp.

Nothing in my life is new. The house. The family drama. The complications with colorguard. The "I want him to like me for the special and unique snowflake that I am" drama at work. The perpetual unsatisfaction with the males in my life. The almost being a writer. The dirty laundry from a wardrobe I've had the majority of since college. Even the discussions I have over coffee with people I thought I'd left behind.

Maybe that's why I just have to keep jumping. Keep changing it all. To somehow sustain this illusion that ignorance can coat my eyes and my heart in. This illusion that life and love are so much more than boring old repetition. That someday, something will take my breath away when all the petals fall off...

and it'll be just perfect in that imperfect way.