just alyssa

Sitting in my City apartment, cars buzzing by, the girl downstairs kissing her boyfriend goodbye as he leaves, a man walking his dog is quickly passed by a jogger. Everything is moving. And I sit here, taking in each movement as I am perfectly still. I absorb my surroundings, hearing the soft hum of the air conditioner, staring at the candle burning away the last of the wax, and I feel a stillness. Tranquil serenity. When I decided to move to the City my mind was racing, trying to figure out what I was doing and why. I spent 90% of my time convincing myself it had nothing to do with my ex-boyfriend who lived there and the other 10% of the time was spent being terrified of leaving my comfort zone. Small towns are easy. They’re safe. You know people; you get your morning coffee with questions about work or your home life. You spend Sunday afternoons with family and friends and you always know who to call when your car breaks down. But there’s something those small towns never gi...

Sorry I’m not sorry…anymore. I don’t know when it happened. When exactly I realized how weak and dependent on others I can be. Perhaps when it was 3 am and I was filtering through my contacts, or maybe it was when I emailed you for the 5 th time, hoping we could talk. I don’t know when I finally picked up on my insecurity or my incessant need to be liked and completely understood, but it’s something that I can no longer apologize for. I have spent my entire life apologizing for everything. I’m sorry I bumped into you. I’m sorry I needed to ask a question. I’m sorry I’m on my period. I’m sorry I cried when I was upset. I’m sorry my house is messy. I’m sorry I’m not wearing makeup. I’m sorry my appearance is disheveled. I’m sorry I sweat when I run. I’m sorry I don’t smell fresh after the gym. I’m sorry I have morning breath.  I’m sorry I needed you to repeat yourself. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorryyyy…. I’m so tired of being...

Spoken Word Poem (click to listen)   Sometimes I wonder if you’d written your love down for me on paper… Would we have the same handwriting? Would we spell it the same? Loop our “L’s” into infinity symbols? Would your words bleed into mine? When I first met you love was as foreign as the Black Sea. It was kept in a junk drawer of emotions to describe things as tedious and minuscule as make-up or favorite foods. It didn’t capture moments the same way it did after meeting you. It didn’t have me tripping over sentences or blushing over compliments I never wanted in the first place. If you put your love on paper, where would the sentences end? Would it lead on into deep paragraphs or stagnate after only a few words. I don’t know how your love looks on paper or where it would ever lead, but I know how I spell it. I know where my love draws its lines and I know where it starts. When I put my love on paper it’s more than just a line. It’s more than syllable...