The Tales of Virago-- A Beautiful Mess

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being your idea of good-enough. For not being your type of person. For laughing a little too loud, and sounding a little too sound in my decisions. I'm sorry for that time I offended you with my intonation, facial expressions, and wording. I'm sorry for when I speak too much--for that time I came off as bossy. I'm sorry for saying something wrong. I'm sorry for being a woman--but really, for being a bitch. For being a threat, when I am equally intimidated, but you'd never know it because I put up a defensive front. There's a push to be perfect, but not too confident. Confident, but not too cocky. A leader, but not too bossy. Smart, but never smarter than you, and you never smarter than me. Large and in charge, but somehow small. Somehow, we are supposed to be all of these things, while still finding a way to love ourselves and others. I have much to learn, but if there is anything this world is teaching me, it's that ...

It is the end of a semester, and everything is due. I have a presentation in three hours worth 10% of my grade for a class, and a follow up report that is 15%. Checking my phone, I missed nearly eighty text messages from the cohort, among various other notifications and voice mails--all within the six hours I was working. My sinuses are on strike, and my body is actively waging war with a fickle environment that thinks it's natural to go from 60 to 30 in the matter of a day. I want to cry, but it has been long enough that I am not quite sure how, or if I still know the comfort of tears.  White knuckled on my wheel yesterday, I was trying to remind myself that my worries were a snapshot in time; in a few hours, everything would feel more tangible, and perhaps I wouldn't feel as though I were floating. Clearly that worked well, considering I snapped at no less than three people once arriving from my work at the hospital to my office hours (sorry guys--I still love you, and...

Snow White As the white silently encloses Covering everything it touches It is so serene And we go back Dawning on white blankets of crystallized cool Sliding into the still of the night. It is you and your thoughts: Just one last gaze at the white- To escape To forget the night. Each night. To forget our thoughts At least- that is what I imagine it to be like. It is calm. Each crystal entering as you lay there Allowing your body to finally be free. White blankets that disregard the worry outside your window Because one more night with this raw person you were Seemed like far too much. So we cover ourselves and watch this peaceful scene as the crystal Sinks. It is the silver snake working its way through skin. And we slumber into transcendence And learn that heaven is white, too It is blues and greys.  Red. A clear sky morning. But the earth begins to moan beneath White blankets fade in and out for those left behind. ...

Anger is a deep seated feeling of betrayal; the elementary cursing substitutes are no longer relevant, and the only words that fly are a culmination of "fucks," "damn-its," and perhaps the occasional "asshole." While to the outsider they seem a bit excessive, you know the scope of your wounds, and the reality is that these words are quite accurate ways to begin coloring the hostility. You aren't sure whether to scream or cry, so perhaps you cope with words to the tune of "I'm fine," followed by an attempt to feel numb; your attempt, while well-intentioned, is piss poor, so numb is inevitably returned with a tsunami of unresolved emotions. Perhaps I have been forced out of cloud nine's numbing wave, and in turn, have been left feeling a little--shall we say, pissed off. At least, that is the start of it.  Anger is the emotion when you have to face the unknown, and you tell everyone not to worry about you, but you hate the unkn...