When I say you, I mean me

When I say you, I mean me.
I don’t write for you, I write for me. I don’t speak for you, I speak for me. I don’t collect for you, I collect for me. I don’t create for you, I create for me.
Like pages to a diary, this has become a digital map of life, lessons, yearnings, and needs. It has its certainty and siphons with uncertainty.
Sometimes these words are torn from my bound journal. Sometimes they start here in this text box. Sometimes they end up on folds of paper, a box to collection of passed notes, like days of classroom.
These are my words.
Sometimes they trigger.
Sometimes they chase.
Please know this.
I don’t write to trigger you, I write to trigger me.
I don’t write to chase you, I write to chase me.
If you’re feeling something within you, that’s within me, realize we are the connection to the correlation bound between the shapes of letters taken to screen. The invitation is to go inside of yourself in order to see. In order to feel. It’s this recognition within me that is within you. #wordiness

stephanie birch

In heat.

In heat.
I move to be moved.
I don’t follow enclosures of safety. The stuff that keeps securities at bay. If you’re rising to the occasion, it will be at times you get shaky. It will be when you feel tinged of resistance. It will be unsure. It will be questionable. The intellectual will poke the scars, give nay-say speeches, and bullshit excuses. You’ll suffocate and fizzle only to gravel at the sameness and ease of comfort. If you tread the superficial you’ll turn to the crowd-pleasing ways and net your worth turned over to a system. Like a production line to serve half-truths, not enough-ness, be like him, be like her, the unattained. Numbers, production, paychecks, signatures of exclusions will tether you to molds of society.

Stay pretty and skinny.
They say.

Don’t speak too much.
They say.
Don’t write words, like “fuck” or be too emotional.
They say.
Be you, oh wait, not like that.
They say.
Taken to a cookie cutter, tastefully, for the delights and fantasies for others. You’ll have to assert yourself and penetrate the superficial.
This is the game.
You can walk off the field and set yourself on fire.
This is how you come into your own. There are few to exist here, one at a time, you rise. It won’t always be agreeable. It won’t always be light. It will be fucking real. And. That is where you are free.
I am fire. On my own.
I am chaos. On my own.
I come alive. On my own.
I am love.
On my own.
The ownership of me.
This is how I give myself to you. It’s all within, not the drop of another
 I’m inside of myself.

stephanie birch

I am the lover. Not the needy.

Perhaps what scares you most about me is what you love most about me.
I am the lover.
Not the needy.
Strong-willed and often hard-headed. I’ve been known to cut ties with the biological. I’ve always been this way.
I make good use of ties roping together new ways, new stories, new experiences. I brace myself through blistered palms, hook and pulls into the unknown. Counting on myself. I do not tether one over another. This is how I understood the world. This cutting. Like a switch to a blackout, some no longer exist. They’ve vanished into the black.
I’ve been known to cut ties from the biological.
In and out, somewhere in the middle, sometimes sharp, not trusting so easily.
In all this cutting, I’ve kept mum. Understood my peace and ease in releasing those in their own wild. Some have returned. Some have amended.
Looks can be deceiving, so soft and light, curves that invite. The deceit of sharp edges. The sharp conditions. The sharp history. The unwanted, the abandoned, the too-soon, the never meant to be, the accident.
It has taken this much of a life to understand it all happens the way it’s supposed to.
Perhaps what scares you most about me is what you love most about me.
I am the lover.
Not the needy.


i'll not return to my old, lessening ways

It wouldn’t matter if you walked away from love.
I would still love you the same. My love does not come in favors, disguises, or trades for keep. I give it free, bubbled to the surface and drips, like blood, as pierced skin. You say I love too hard. I know not any other way. The world quotes I feel too much. I say too much. I am too much. I once followed the norms of silencing and hushing my aches. I’ll not return to my old, lessening ways. I was numb once (then).

A time when spreading legs for others came easier than holding your hand. A time when tasting unknown tongues gave false security and esteem. A time when the words, “I love you” translated into, “I’ll leave you.” I knew not of intimacy back then and took gratifications in fast sex, elixirs to blackened memories, and proclaimed self love as a detachment from my body, my self. 

I know different now, I kiss different now. I don’t rush it, this intimacy with you. Us. Myself. I serve myself now. No longer releasing my body for others to penetrate as their own. I let my body feel and trust my emotive pressures. I let myself roar out from my belly. I do not fear the ways I’m being watched or how I’m being felt. I do not hide the very aspects of my nature. I stay in this place, raw and seen, in flesh, to paper or screen.

Quietly-loud and sometimes raging, in my way.

I was numb once. I’ll not return to my old, lessening ways.