If you're flawless, then you'll win my love.

I'm a perfectionist. A total Pitta all the way. I've got this constant inner need to fix things that are broken, even if they are wayyyyy broken. I will be the one that will beat the dead horse both figuratively and literally (or at least try to shake it and wake it up.) It's just how I remember learning to be. "Never give up, never say die, you're a constant warrior on the battlefield." Some times people think I am a Taurus.

I'm finding that this nature, while keeping me on my toes, is causing me more harm than good. I'm starting to feel more and more like I used to when I was a kid. Like a bird in a cage picking out all her feathers. Only this time it's not my parents constantly telling me to look out for all the dangers out there. It is so engrained in me that I can do it myself without even thinking about it. I want things to be perfect because I'm terrified of being hurt and of people hurting me.

It doesn't surprise me that I have had relationships and even in my job, demanding of me more and more because something just isn't enough. Some people enjoy this but I end up walking away from it defeated because I feel like I wasn't ______ enough. These cycles get worse with traumas in my life.

Constantly demanding perfecting is essentially telling yourself that things are in a constant state of imperfection and will never be wonderful because something is always wrong.

Deepak Chopra says that attachment is fear. Like a bird clinging to a wall because it doesn't trust himself to fly.

To me one of the most romantic movie lines ever is from Bridget Jones. Colin Firth tells her, "I like you just the way you are." *hmmm, maybe someday, maybe today :)

peace

A poem for love near to touch.

Come my love and keep playing your passionate songs

straight to my sentimental heart.

In the doorway I drift, listening to you sing to yourself.

Lost in the harmony to the song on the radio.

While I pretend its all for me.

The defined arch of your back makes me want to weep

in wishing for all things far away from us,

But oh, so near to touch.

Wouldn't we be a beautiful sight, if all visions came true and I

could sign my name across your heart?

It's hard to look in your face while my mind is sweeping me away.

For all that I learn,

all that I've read

and keep

tucked in the ebony hope chest inside my mind:

Rays of ochre light pushing through the unstitched cracks.

In walks him or hims;

And my mouth betrays me with a split tongue

and twists my sense,

my logic to simple puffy clouds

and

pale dreams.

Oh, it's the hateful contradiction of it all

never to lay down

my full hand

(long, graceful yet strong)

I tuck the winner up my sleeve

while the acid butterflies

chew my stomach

and my heart melts in their eyes;

Butter from love

or

a rose tipped blush of inner fears?

of what? I cannot say.

In lust I hear hello...

You could write my lovers caresses congealed

line by line

on a music playlist.

Crawling

step by step

up my CD

collection,

cracking each

thin plastic jewel case

as I crunch along.

Bass, rhythm and lyric

that was

sometimes

solemnly given me

Now, coursing through

my bone and marrow;

Wings spreading into

Snapping flames,

Feet fanned into the

Chilly waters that drew down

my beloved Buckley,

While I become one more like myself.

The day when it dawns

I woke up nestled in my lover's white sheets. Woke up looking into eyes the color of a cloudless sky; long honey colored lashes. Remembering the strength I felt the night before and the night a few days before that.

He kisses me and runs his long fingers down my back. He gets up, puts on the clothes thrown on the floor and makes me the coffee he had started 12 hours ago.

I always love looking around the floor surrounding the bed at the scattered remains. He asks if I would like a cup, handing me a small serving in a dainty floral tea cup that has been in this borrowed apartment forever. We snuggle and I read the New York Times together, miles away from anything going on there. He gets out his laptop to check the baseball score. Charmingly explaining each score, illuminating me on the extreme difference between the Mets and Red Socks. I drink my coffee like an english rose, smiling to myself. I won't tell him my Grandfather had been taking me to games since I was in diapers. I point out the picture of the Somalian Refugee on the front page. Eyes glazed in tragedy, beautifully shot by a photographer who went home to a meal after taking it.

He tells me about how he has a hard day ahead of him. I put the paper aside, "Oh please tell me about the hard life you lead." I laugh. "Well, I get up at 2 in the afternoon," he kisses the inner part of my elbow, "I wake up with a beautiful woman in my bed," he kisses my mouth, "And I have to get my haircut at 3."

A flush brings a glow

O what a sweetened world you'd happen to be

To think that all that is to find, is

taking a taste

to have a hold of me.

I see all of you in the coming of the wake,

and I am the one

who will decide

when to break

and leave you with hairy thoughts of me.

Oh what a dewy balm this summer may bring

By Neptune's purple

and shimmering skin.

With siren's cries, like satellites

on fire.

By minding my topaz mines

eye

and still you'd love

to think you have

a merry hold of me.

11/3/10

The tenderest honeysuckle

Like a princess who deserved her prince,

I was always sweet;

dripping tenderness from my eyes

like honey from a comb.

One day He came and

took from me a small taste

that grew myself

rotten and unseemly.

Taste buds left stuck deep

to all the sap that

dwelled in me.

Another day,

further, when years had gone

by,

lonely,

I cried. Which brought back the buzzing spark

I thought had

forever died.

It filled me full again,

so that I burst!

Cascading, radiating,

all that once was long closed.

All that remained was pure jubilation

from these new tears

that rose.