Climb

Maybe she’s just prettier. Perhaps he was just an easy choice, more malleable than the men I’ve chased, more emotionally available. I don’t know the answer, but I bring my imagination to their relationship regardless. He just looks so happy to be here with her that I can’t help but wonder what they discussed on the car ride over, if they went out for brunch first at one of Hoboken’s nearby bars. The man’s smile, fixed across his bearded face, probably made her feel warm when she walked with him side by side, even in the chilly outdoors.

When it occurs to me that no one has looked at me that way in a long time, I feel a sense of sadness that’s difficult to put into words. I’m often the object of people’s lust, but I have felt little in the way of being loved.

I come back to the thought that I’m lacking. I always do. She looks more like a woman compared to me, at least from what I can see at a distance. Her climbing skills are certainly better than mine: she’s ascending the white and blue rock wall at a steady clip, pushing off footholds with her long legs. Whereas she’s graceful and lithe, I’m brute strength in an incongruously small and childlike package. It’s likely not just about the looks, either. I’ve had a hard life. I have baggage.

If jealousy and envy are not the same, then it’s the latter I feel when her companion shouts “to the left.” I’ve asked Sean, who is not my boyfriend, to become belay certified, but that’s too much of a commitment for the man I regularly drive to the rock gym.

I watch him now, his black work shirt rolling up his back as he makes his way on one of the bouldering walls. He finds the routes easier to solve than I do, especially since we started climbing together regularly, and completes a V5 that I can’t even start. For such a tall and not particularly graceful man, he looks athletic as he reaches for the next hold. When he climbs down and turns to smile at me, I feel my stomach tighten: my body knows what my mind denies, that I’m hoping for something to happen that never will.

Eventually he will become one half of the couples I desire to be, but I won’t be the woman to close the circle. Friend, fuck buddy, lover – but not his girlfriend, and not his partner.

It will never be you, he’ll eventually tell me. But I know this now. The problem is that I hold onto the lessons of my childhood: the people you love are supposed to cause you pain; the more pain you bear, the more true your feelings. He doesn’t love me, and he may not even care about me. But I accept that, because it’s not the worst way someone’s responded to my love for them.

In a year, I’ll excavate the part of me that considers what I deserve in relation to how I’m treated, but that will be a sad day too, because what I will realize is that I don’t know how to give love to men that are able to love me in return. If I don’t suffer, it’s just not real. What a joke, I’ll think, to come so far in my life and still be so broken.

For now, however, it’s my turn to climb. I push my hands, one after the other, through the opening of my chalk bag, a white plume following each motion. “You were awesome,” I say to Sean. And I walk past him, placing my fingers on the start of a problem I can solve.

Cope

March begins with a broken heart. For a moment, I fear that this year will be the same as the last: my capacity for love will become a fire that turns my world to ash. But I’ve since learned that life is not grief or pain.

Life is how you cope with loss. To live, you let go.

Summer Boys

We made it a summer habit to walk along slick stone, to fumble across (often) or gracefully traverse (seldom) the cliffs that reached over the ocean’s edge. Some nights, I felt brave: I didn’t know how to swim and was afraid of heights. If I looked out and down towards the horizon, I would feel the nauseating tension that accompanied being near an identified risk, my nervous system calculating all undesirable outcomes with every near slip. So I did not look, or at least not often enough that I’d falter. And even then, my sight would only rest on where the sky and the ocean met so that I could see that my life, however meaningless, existed within a world as beautiful as it was dangerous.

I never knew if you could swim, and I guess I’ll never find out now. I didn’t know if you, like I, were afraid of heights. And looking back at that time, it’s almost certain I didn’t care about more than your presence beside me.  Mine, mine, mine. Young love is selfish, isn’t it?

Change

I put my change in a mason jar

A piece for every lie you told

Bar the most important one

Age of the Water Bearer

From the beginning, you journeyed for a more favorable sign. Still, I adored the problem that was you, even as the trials became more than I could bear. I was challenged through my hope to divert your path to my constellation. In the end, I did myself no favors. The mythology of “us,” by way of oral tradition, remembers me reckless, elides the contradictions that passed your lips.

I lost my own course in chasing you, water bearer. You were immutable and animated by air, drawing oxygen from the lungs of nymphs. At times, I felt your equal. More often, you reminded me that I was not. You did not desire complementary angles; the shape you sought in the stars overlapped with yours, as if you needed some version of a her that reinforced your bones.

Even as the sun’s proximity to Venus predicted our lives would decouple more abruptly than the event of their crossing, I was unprepared for your absence. Devastated by loss and to lose. And I’m more sorry than your audience will ever know, both for myself and (as time goes on, less) for you. Because you see, I never wanted to fall in love.

Contortionist

For too long, I played the contortionist, bending without breaking until I fit the shape of the scripts you provided. My existence in your life was carefully curated and intentionally finite. Amber, you were fun. You were easy. Even then, my performance was reviewed in the context of your narrative, my character some reduction of fiction designed only to advance the plot.

But no woman wants to live as someone else’s story. When I refused to be reduced, you destroyed the version of me you created. Worse, you were vindictive over my exit from the role; you made me doubt that I could live as more than just a subplot, too desperate in my need to be at the center of the tale and too broken to deserve it.

Some Love

For a time, I embraced the
nameless frequencies.

(The sounds & vibrations created
between our tongues & teeth by
flesh within flesh & nights
barely dreaming so often falling
awake to resonance of thoughts)

For a moment, I saw myself as
brave: to be so casually vulnerable,
I put away the barriers –

& so noise rushed in, provided entry,
reverberating in the hollow spaces.

After time, I asked but more often
begged: rearrange these sounds,
create a language we can share.

When I named our frequency, it was
with knowing your response:
For me, it was only meant as fun.

Some love can live only left undefined.
Given words, it loses shape –

& I call it love changes to
another sound for pain.