just alyssa

Another terrible love poem... I don’t know what to tell you: other than the heart of a giraffe weighs 22 pounds, and that when penguins find a mate, they stay together for life ; and someone once told me when flies fall in love, their entire brain is rewired to only love each other, and when one of them dies, their memory becomes blank. And I know this is nothing but a string of run-on sentences, and I can’t promise the dark clouds will never hover over our lives, or that the future will be filled with rainbows. I can’t promise that things will always be easy, or that you’ll never hurt. I don’t know how much my heart weighs, or what will happen when someone dies. I know kisses aren’t contracts, and love isn’t a promise. And I know I don’t love very many things, but here are the ones I can think of: I love the first sip of coffee in the morning, and wrapping scarves around my neck when it’s cold. I love the feeling a great song invokes, and getting lost in go...

In 2009, My grandmother gave me a journal for Christmas. At first, my entries were sporadic. Just random prayers I had. I wrote things down like letters to God; things I wanted to remember to be grateful for later on. Since then, it has become a core piece in my life, filling the pages of the hand-crafted journal my best friend gave me as a birthday present a year ago. Every few months I flip back to see where my life was and how far I’ve come, and as the new year approaches, I’ve been diving in to what my 2016 looked like. The End of 2015: A year ago today, I sat crying on my bed. I wrote about my breakup that took place just 3 days prior. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even devastated. I was hopeful. I prayed for growth. I wrote about the life I wished for the only man I knew to be the love of my life. I prayed for peace and patience. I prayed for a way to move forward. I prayed for that man to flourish. I prayed for him to have the best Christmas and to find a job he love...

Sitting in a dimly lit theater, his hand wanders over to my thigh. Suddenly he’s scooting closer and closer and I am quietly wondering if maybe it would be easier if we just shared a seat. Like perhaps he is a toddler and needs my lap. Though I don’t think his 6’2’’ stature is going to fit well. I contemplate this as my eyes bore holes into the hand he ISN’T moving. I should like this gesture right? I should appreciate the kiss he just gave me on my cheek instead of wondering when I am going to be able to wipe off the saliva he left behind, without him noticing.  Leaving the theater, instead of appreciating the territorial arm that quickly jumps to my waist as another man gives me a friendly hello, I am creating my escape plan; the text I will send him after I get home, the karate arms I will use in the car when he tries to stick his tongue down my throat, and the way I will express to him that while I DO like him, I don't want him to be my boyfriend. It always goe...