In the end, I'm glad it's you.

Stop and feel this moment. Doesn’t it seem fragile, like the whole world is holding its breath, trying not to blink? 

Doesn’t the brazenness of young love seem like a million years away? How many times have we known heartache since then? Our scars are like webs across our hearts, and we sit here, naked, asking: Do you see me? Do you know me? Am I enough?

Let’s not listen to the voices, OK? Half of them are telling us we’ve found each other and from here it’s happily ever after. And the other half is telling us love is a sham, forever is a lie. What the hell do we know about forever? We’re just two kids with the rest of our lives to lose. Do we even know how to be in a relationship that doesn’t have an expiration date? Of course not. Nobody does. We just start somewhere near the beginning and time ticks, ticks, ticks us along until we’re older, until we’re old, until we’re dead …

Will you be there when I die? Will you still love me then, even in those last moments? Will you still hold my hand and trace the veins that run under my frail, papery skin? Will we still laugh until our sides hurt and tears run down our cheeks? Will you still look at me like I’m made out of sunshine and magic? Or maybe we won’t need magic by then. Maybe we’ll have found the comforting rhythm of friendship and life-long partnership behind the smoke and mirrors. Think of the life we’ll have lived, and all the things we’ll have seen. Isn’t life a wonder, the way it never slows down?

Please understand me. I’m as sure about you today as I was the day I met you, and every day in between – like gravity and tequila and God Himself brought us together. (And what tequila hath joined, let no man separate.) When I met you it was like I could see color for the first time. It was your eyes – sharp like a pinprick, soft like a whisper, dark like a thunderstorm, deep like the sea. I looked in them and saw everything I needed to know: I was home.

But I’m scared. Is that OK, to admit that I’m scared? Not of you, not of us – just of life in general and the reality of being human. I’ve spent 27 years in this body, and before I was 27 I was 7 and I was 17. And those people I was then, they’re still here, inside this body. Their memories, their experiences, their states of mind, they’re all still here, slinking around inside these hollow bones. I can’t promise you what I’ll be like at 37 or 57 or 77 because how could I? And you shouldn’t promise me either, because we shouldn’t make promises we can’t keep.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. If I was, we wouldn’t ask every old couple we ever meet: What’s the secret? What’s the secret? The people want to know, what’s the magical formula that will lead us to a long, happy marriage? Because we don’t want to face the truth: There is no secret.

There is only you and me – two selfish, stubborn, messy people with the best of intentions, just trying to grow up and grow old and build a life in a world full of selfish, stubborn, messy people.

They say you don’t pick your family, but that’s not entirely true, is it? Because I picked you and you picked me, and together we’ll start a new family. We get to pick the person with whom we’ll share a bank account and a bathroom sink, forever. For as long as we both shall live. We pick the person who will hold up a mirror for us every day and say: this is you, look at yourself.

And in the end, that’s why I’m glad it’s you.

It’s only been a year, but already I feel like you’re a part of me, like an extension of me. It’s uncanny how well we match. There aren’t enough words in the English language to describe it accurately. Even our quirks, those rough edges in our personalities that prick and grind harshly against others, seem to fit. We move around each other like water -- ebb and flow, ebb and flow. Even our friction is like a slightly-too-tight hug.

You still fascinate me. I’ve been tangled up in your complicated, maze-like mind since the first day I met you, and I’m certain I could spend the rest of my life crawling around inside your headspace, looking at life through your eyes. But it’s the day to day, the way you move through life with such openness and ease, that I love most. It’s the in-between moments, the moments no one else sees, except us.

In the whole wide world of people, you’re the only one who makes me feel brave enough and safe enough and loved unconditionally enough to stand before you at the altar and say: Do you see me? Do you know me? Am I enough?

Ships

What is mine to give?

Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's spring. How could I not look out at the world that's fresh and green and new and not feel that gentle stir in my gut, like change is coming? Like change is here. I feel like I'm standing on the threshold of an identity crisis — again. How many times have I been here? Five? Ten? A dozen? Sometimes it's scary, but not this time. This time it's exhilarating. And also peaceful. At times, identity crisis has felt like painfully peeling back weather-worn layers to expose ratty scars, or like cutting out infected wounds. But this time it feels like discovery and adventure. It feels like new growth, like blossoming, like reaching out and stretching new muscles I never knew were there. In the timeline of my story, this is the part where I'm finally coming into my own as a human, as a woman, as a writer, as a creative, as an intellectual, as a spiritual, emotional, physical and sexual being. I feel powerful, but not in an awkward, abrasive way. I feel comfortable with myself, even as I'm grappling with what that means — to be myself. For years I've been digging and clawing at myself, asking over and over again, "Who am I?" All the while half-afraid of what I'd find. For the first time, that inner dialog has shifted and I find myself asking, "What is mine to give? What do I have to offer my friends and family, my world?" Yes, my world. Planet Earth belongs to me as much as I belong to it. I am the future of my world, and I have a responsibility to take care of it. Hell, I am the present of my world. I am not a girl. I am a woman, and for the first time that doesn't scare the shit out of me. For the first time I don't feel the urge to apologize or ask permission to be the woman I was created to be. For the first time I feel like I've earned the right to stand in the space I'm standing in, to own it and use it — not just for myself, but for the good of those around me. What does that mean? Hm. I have no idea, but I have this aching feeling I'm about to find out. It's weirdly bittersweet, actually. Like I've stepped out of young adulthood (big girl adolescence) and I'm looking back at my own shell. I can never go back, you know? To those moments of raw insecurity that I've worn like a blanket for so many years. I've hidden under that immaturity, convinced I had nothing to give; I could only take. I can look back and remember what those moments felt like. I can stand in my old footprints, but I can't peer into the future with fresh eyes like I once did. Because I'm standing here now, looking backwards and forward at the same time. For a long time I've felt like I was playing house with myself, pretending to be a woman. Then suddenly I woke up and realized I don't need to pretend anymore. I don't need to become a woman, or even be a woman. I am a woman. I'm not afraid of myself — of my spirituality, my intellect, my emotions or my sexuality. I no longer feel like they're all separate parts of me that circle each other like dogs in a dogfight, each bristling with teeth bared. I've called a truce, and I'm in the process of making peace with myself. I'm learning to trust myself, to respect the many facets of my being and to protect and cultivate each of them while still allowing them to live in unity — in harmony. I'm learning to be comfortable with the knowledge that I am strong enough to be vulnerable. I'm learning how to trust my intuition, how to listen to that inner voice and decipher its meaning. And I'm learning to forgive myself when I'm wrong. I'm learning how to sit with myself without hating the silence and wanting to escape my own skin. I'm learning to stop apologizing for my opinions, even when they're not popular. I don't need anyone's permission to use my own brain. I'm also learning that I don't need to keep my emotions on lockdown or cage my empathy in order to prove my intellect and my "strength." I'm learning the true meaning of strength, leadership and power. I'm learning that love is not a weakness; it's a powerful motivator, and it's something I am full of. It's what fuels my fascination. It motivates me to learn more, to understand more. My emotion is what drives me to seek logic and understanding, to make sense of the world. I can't have one without the other, and I refuse to apologize for that. And for the first time I feel like I don't have to. I can just be because I am. And that's a good feeling.

Dallas

I was enamored by your beauty, 

By the way your sleek glass walls sparkled in the Texas sun.

I wanted to bounce my shiny, new dreams down your mirrored hallways,

But we don’t have time for those kinds of childish games.

Here, we mainline success.

And it settles in like December in our bones. 

     If we could only get enough…

Porcelain people with big hair and painted smiles.

We waste our youth building paper lives.

Each of us, just another cold body, 

Navigating the flow of traffic that sucks us through your lonely heart, 

And pumps us out the other side.

Even God is silent,

As He gazes on this desolate city with vacant eyes.

The only truth I’ve found among your hollow walls,

Is that aching feeling that I came here for a reason,

     If I could only remember what it was…

Maybe if I go back to where I started,

Something will remind me.

But Dallas only knows one direction:
Forward.

Movie crashers

One of the best things about Lubbock is the Stars and Stripes Drive-In Theater. In Dallas the closest drive-in theater is the Galaxy Drive-In in Ennis (which is actually only a 40-minute drive, but no ever makes it out there because just leaving your neighborhood is a daring feat for most Dallasites). Whereas, the Stars and Stripes Drive-In Theater in Lubbock is an easy 7-minute drive from Tech campus — because that's all it takes to get out of town and get an eyeful of the wide open, star-spangled West Texas sky.

My friends and I were pretty boring in college, so some of our best memories happened at the drive-in. We'd go early to snag a good parking spot and then blast music from our cars and snack on whatever food or drinks we brought along. Usually we'd go in groups of five or more. There are three screens at Stars and Stripes, and moviegoers pay to watch two features. 

One time a group of five of us went together. We wanted to watch the first feature on one screen and the second feature on a different screen. Guests aren't allowed to switch screens, so we took two cars and parked them in different theaters. 

Well of course after the first showing, we were tired of being cramped into one car, craning our necks to see around each other, so we decided to move both cars to the second showing. Three of the girls walked over to the car already parked in the second theater, and me and my bestie stayed in my car and drove it to the other screen. 

We had barely gotten inside the opening to the other screen when an employee came running up to us, waving a flashlight frantically. He told us we weren't allowed to switch screens. We were going to have to leave, he said — and not just the theater; we were being booted out of the drive-in altogether. I apologized profusely and told him I'd leave immediately. Satisfied, the employee started walking away.

My friend looked at me. "Too bad we have to leave," she said, disappointed, but I was still watching the employee walk away from us. He walked out the entrance to the theater and turned the corner, out of sight. 

I snickered. "Oh we're not leaving," I said. Before my friend had time to react, I kicked the car into reverse, slammed down the accelerator and quickly maneuvered backwards through a line of cars parked side by side in the darkness. As soon as I saw an available space, I whipped inside and killed the engine. Seconds later the same employee came running by, scanning the drivers with his flashlight. We busted out laughing and ducked down, sure we were about to get caught. 

But then we didn't. Flashlight Guy just kept running down the line of parked cars, shining his flashlight into every car he passed. He eventually gave up the search, and my friend and I shared another laugh and settled in to enjoy the flick. The best part is that that's the night we saw Remember Me, which is still one of my favorite movies to this day. 

So thank you, Flashlight Guy, for sucking at your job and failing to throw us out of the drive-in.

Remember the time.

I measured the seconds by the times your unseeing eyes flicked over me,
And the hours by the conversations we never had. 
I numbered the days by the TV shows we watched to distract ourselves,
And the weeks by the sermons we heard, side by side.
I counted the months by the growing pile of magazines on your table,
And the year by the dull ache in my lonely heart. 

Word play.

Your soul, it is the cynosure.

I’m lost in my affinity.

Your voice, a lilting song to me,

I hold my breath to hear you speak.

The shift, it moves first through my blood,

Into the heart that deeply loves.

First timorous, with trepid jolts,

The shudder that becomes a flood,

The spark, the flame that starts a fire.

Your body is the warmth I seek.

The flush that’s spreading from your smile.

I melt in your propinquity.

I want.

I want to travel the open highways of your mind,
    And get lost on the backroads.

I want to draw from the deepest part of your well,
    And taste the bitterness of your almost forgotten tears on my lips.

I want to wander through the shadowlands,
To temp the fires that burn in the night.
    I'll take my chances with the ghosts of your past.

I want to cover you like a blanket,
To wrap myself around you and hold you until our bones graft together —
   ragged and crooked with old age.

I want to kiss your skin with my skin,
Like a thousand tiny conversations.

I want to look into your eyes,
And see the fine print stamped on your soul —
Words that tell me who you are,
    Words that unlock the secret passageways of your mind.

I want to know the you that you love to be,
The secret part of you that hovers in the fringes —
Always watchful,
Always thoughtful.
I want to know what that you dreamt about when he was young and life was new.

I want to chip away the ragged edges,
And peel back the delicate layers.
I want to spend hours pouring through the boxes that house your mental chaos,
Boxes that are color-coded and labeled neatly.

I want I find the back room,
Where the files in the corner are messy and unorganized.
I want to put my fingerprints in the dust on their cases,
    Like "Brittany was here."

I want to find the stretch marks from when God grew you.
I want to kiss those ragged scars —
    Some fading,
    Some pink and new —
And say, "Good job, God."

[personality test]

•You thought
•You understood me
•And when
•I surprised you
•You took
•Me out of my box
•And put
•Me in another

The narcissist

I once loved a man
made of ice and stone,
who loved me for my flesh,
my blood and my bone.
He loved me to have,
but never to hold,
and if eyes are a window
to a stone man's soul,
then even his heart
was like a black hole.
He believed deep down
he had a heart like mine —
steady like a metronome,
pumping in time —
but if you are what you do,
he was only a mime,
going through the motions
in a grand disguise,
begging for applause
from audience eyes.