New Poem, work in progress: Calm Before the Storm

Calm Before the Storm

You parked your car and walked towards me for the last time

when I shivered from the air, icy, and your glare.

You, dressed in khakis and a pleather jacket,

adjusted your aviators, chrome colored, and looked down at me.

My reflection in your lenses looked small and my expression,

turned from pale and placid to blank stare.

Your eyes you repeatedly refused to reveal

cut through me when you yelled

you betrayed me, you broke my trust.

I stood there with each word stabbing me,

and I spoke nothing of value, I offered nothing but exhaustion

while, in silence, the trees dressed in green stood

and people walked by watching.

Only when you puffed up all six feet two inches of yourself—

your teeth showing, your neck erect, your shoulders broad,

your arms out, your legs stiff and feet firmly placed in the gravel,

did you feel comfortable in your skin for the first time.

For the first time you asked me if I was afraid of you.

Each word you spewed at me softened when I said no.

Your body deflated and I heard air expel from your lips,

the ones I wanted to kiss so badly before,

and with fists stuffed in your pockets,

you said see you later.

©AAC 2014

Online Dating: Worst Experience Ever

I want to preface this piece by stating I'll be taking my profiles off sites in the near future. And to my parents, for all the anger/annoyance I've caused, I'm sorry.

I've tried Okcupid. I've tried Jdate. I've tried PlentyOfFish. And I've had a horrible, and occasionally terrifying,  experience with online dating. I signed up with Okcupid (Okc) in February of 2013 one night when I was bored and couldn't fall asleep. It was fun and flattering at the beginning to receive messages from guys within thirty seconds of creating a profile. With just my photo alone I had guys proposing...haha. The first guy I met was in his mid twenties and his tag line was that he was a 'British Jew.' He was born and raised in Georgia, and had a pretty thick southern accent (ick). I hadn't realized I just met the first category of man I'd be meeting over and over: the (not too bright) liar. A few weeks later I met a guy I'd end up falling for. Again, I met the second category of common man: this is difficult for me to say...the (intelligent) mentally unstable. I should have known I was getting myself into trouble when I thought my deceased grandfather, a psychiatrist, would have found him to be fascinating and intelligent. 

Along the way, I met an engineer that wrote code and had a hair cut resembling a phallic object (you know what I'm saying), an insecure UGA grad, a pilot (that I set up with my best friend and she liked him, I knew she would), a Feeder with a fat fetish, a lawyer with a really annoying laugh, a Falafel restaurant and food truck owner, a Vanderbilt civil engineer that looked like a skinny ass chicken, an accountant that said guys don't get raped in Panama (I told him to watch Deliverance before his bro-trip), an incredibly shy in person/assertive online film guy, a dog food salesman that wouldn't call me to ask me out, and I'm forgetting the countless others. The one with the penis hair was most definitely the creepiest. He was polite enough to ask me if I'd like a ride home, but I felt it would be safer to walk myself home, in midtown, in the dark, than to get in the car with him. The award for rudest guy is split between the Falafel guy and the civil engineer. Falafel guy looked me up and down, sighed, and when the cashier asked if our Starbucks order was together, he responded with, "sort of, but not really." Civil engineer got to Starbucks early and offered to stand in line with me while I bought my drink. Civil engineer asked me out, for the record, and he was really quite skinny. I ended up going out with a talented musician for six weeks after we met a second first time. He fell asleep on the 'first date' (I don't call vodka and coke zero a date), had a habit of snorting a certain substance because, as his mother said, working over 120 hours a week isn't enough, and he was always exhausted. I ended it after continually being asked "when will you love me??" (I never intended to...) and being told he had already chosen a replacement even before he met me. Nice guys, nice guys...

Despite the bad coffee dates, many of the messages I received were quite entertaining. I took the opportunity to respond to these guys truthfully, which means I called them out on their shit. Most recently, I was named a Facebook stalker. (1) The guy messaged me his Facebook link. (2) His Okc profile stated he was single and looking for friends, dating, and sex. (3) His Facebook says he's in a relationship. (4) He's a poor bullshitter aka liar when confronted, and blocked me when I called him out! I was also accused of looking pretentious by one guy because I use "big words," to which I replied "one cannot 'look' pretentious. You either are or you're not." Let's just say he regressed and his next two messages were infantile. Clearly he doesn't handle blatant rejection well. Another guy messaged me and I found out he was expelled from high school for grand larceny at 15. When I responded with "that's a felony," he followed up with "yes but I was 15 so I'm not a felon. Do you smoke [pot]?" 

From these websites I've met guys that use substances for reasons they shouldn't, have a history of criminal activity, lie conspicuously, aren't intelligent, and most often, they tell me my expectations are too high. I've given it a lot of thought and you're probably thinking, well you're the common denominator. You're correct, but it took quite a bit of time to uncover the truth in certain instances. I guess I was too nice in a way (which if you know me sounds like the punch line of a joke). I did give certain guys second, even third, chances. I learned I'm pretty damn good at expressing myself (who knew?), I can love, I am accepting and nonjudgmental, I'm interesting, I'm intelligent, and of course my high expectations are causes of great disappointment (a different civil engineer said I was disappointing after refusing to send selfies). 

Things I say to guys:

-Don't tell me something I like (TV show, movie, music, etc.) is stupid in your initial message. It's rude and putting someone down isn't a way to get someone to like you. 

-If you preface your statement with "my my," I take it my expectations are too high for you. 

-If you don't know what a word I use means, LOOK IT UP.

-Never ask me if you can ask me a question (I delete your avatar and message from my inbox). 

-Never discuss anything sexual, it's creepy, crude, and immature. 

-Be a man and plan a date. This is where feminism has destroyed the definition of masculinity. I've come to the conclusion I'm more masculine (confrontational/courageous) than some of these men. 

At first glance, it seems I've wasted time dealing with, messaging, meeting, and talking with all these guys. It's not. It is exhausting, but like I know what type of job I don't want, I know exactly what type of guy I don't want in my life. 

Melancholy Monday

Ugh. That's right. You guessed it. Heartbreak. Cliché. I know.

It happened again, for the second time. There's one thing in this world I cannot stand: lies. Why I even write about this here, I do not know. All I can say is I'm so disappointed. The odd thing is I'm not mad at him, at all. In fact, I just feel angry, hurt, and sad. I may just have a complete book of poetry from this experience.

All I've been doing is writing; poetry on paper, on my laptop, or in my head. At least I have loved someone; I didn't get much in return, just a hint that he really cared: "You have to have loved someone in order to hate them." I guess that's as close I was ever going to get from him about how he felt towards me.

I accept people where they are, the problem was he didn't want someone to accept him, or he was just playing me the whole time. That's the sad part. Maybe one day he'll feel that I loved him, accept it or appreciate it. Everyone is worthy of someone caring about and loving them, no matter what. You can argue with me about that, but let's just agree to disagree.

I don't know how long it will take for me to get over this. It feels like it will take a lifetime.

Work in progress

Pain

I’m in the beginning of the end of being in love and pain.

Nothing else except cliché causes pain like this—

clear enough that the thinnest paper soaks it up

like invisible ink, staining nothing but scratching marks

upon my scarred soul, hiding between breathable air that’s left

and the miniature molecular structures of cellulose that house

what’s left of my faulty memory.

I think of you first when the sunshine crawls across my face

in the morning; the warmth on my skin reminds me

of what I wanted from you but will never receive.

With you, I wanted something shared,

but now with a sadness and shyness set in,

something is too sad to explain. I have heard

before I am instantly replaceable

with the smart girl with dark hair down the street

and the uncertainty of that statement as truth

is replaced with the certainty that I am

in fact replaceable. I am reminded of the first end,

the sense of loss nearly destroying me, but like the first,

a feeling of finality is missing from my experience.

I asked you if that moment at the park

in front of the trees when I saw myself

reflected in your sunglasses was goodbye.

You shrug—

unresponsive, you cannot, nor do you want,

to break us completely
I am left to assume. 

I have heard I am quick to move on, 

just not this time.

©AC 2014

I'm sorry in advance, but it's because I love you

It's been four years (well almost) since I got my leather notebook. It's been through, to say the least, a lot. Writing has gotten me through four years of college, many middle of the night nights where I can't sleep because I was either distraught over something, perhaps something frivolous, or nightmares or when I felt compelled to write, probably with a broken heart. My notebook, and the collection of writings stuck between the pages, holds my hopes, dreams, and desires, and when I couldn't speak, it was my only outlet. 

As I reflect on the last four years, I look to my notebook. When I purchased it, it was brand new with 'perfect' unfrayed edges, embossed leather, no rips, no tears (and no tears), no scribbles from trying to use dried out pens, no inky blots. The paper was fresh and new, not too white but not too yellow. The lines had incredible potential and each page was like rebirth. Over time, lines and pages swelled with my thoughts, automatic writings, poems, quotes, pictures from dreams and dreams, and tears did fall, only to be soaked up like invisible ink. When I was alone, my notebook collected my thoughts and feelings, and relieved me, momentarily, of pain that didn't physically exist. I struggled with losing things, and people, and when ears had heard enough, my notebook never tired of repetitive thoughts. Towards the end of my notebooks journey, I was overly expressive. 

I guess I'm just highly sensitive and emotional, despite how I choose to put myself on display. I know exactly who I am and what I want in this life. I understand how my surety could be rather unsettling, but I've known myself since I was four, and I have a clear vision. I know I am exactly where I should be and I take initiative. I may make others feel uncomfortable, but I'm not afraid to do what I think is right or needs to be done. I worry about the outcome, whether or not my actions will drive someone away, but I put my selfish fear aside because we're all here to learn and I can't let my fear of losing someone get in the way of helping a soul. I have to live authentically, but I don't ever want to hurt someone, even though my choice to be helpful can be quite painful for both of us.