Those sweet nothings the broken hearted always hate on are under rated. No, we are not simply in love with the sweet words said, but they are a salve on a tired heart after a long day; they are the water at the end of a dessert. They are not nothings, as they are often called, but rather the small pieces of glue that hold this precarious relationship between two imperfects together. I am forever grateful for the sweet nothings whispered in my ear every night, even if it is over the phone and he is there and I am here.
Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody has those days. Everybody knows what I’m talking about because everybody gets that way.
Nobody’s perfect, I gotta work it again and again until I get it right.
Nobody’s Perfect Hannah Montana (Miley Cyrus) 2006
It is not I who will be able to save you from all of your crying
It is not I who will be able to stop the evil world from trying
It is not I who will be your superwoman and kill all the bad guys
It is not I who will confront all the bullies for I am shy
It is not I who will buy every tub of ice cream I can find
It is not I who will be irrevocably or consistently kind
However, just like the Beatles, I will hold your hand
However, I will give you a box of tissues when the days are mean.
I will take a good beating with you until we are black and green
I will stand beside you, quivering, when you tell off the bullies
I will stay up late with you after break ups and eat all the goodies
And I will swiftly apologize for every mean word and slight of hand.
I will love you the only way I know how:
Not perfect, but genuine.
“They all go through their little ruts, but they end up alright in the end”
Although this is a quote from my better half in reference to the Walking Dead series characters, I believe this is true of the characters in our own lives. My mother went through a divorce in 2014 and now she is back with her husband. I was not sure how I felt about this. I wanted her to be strong enough to be by herself; I wanted her to be happy in my own definition of happy.
I was holding your hand when the whole world came crashing down
I was listening with a pained heart when no one was around
My heart hardened when you found another man to caress
My ears were turned off when you said you knew best
Lonely nights you spent alone in your bed
Fearing the future with scary thoughts in your head
I tried to convince you I could be enough
Knowing the sweet nothings were too tough.
How telling retrospect can be
It is now that I can finally see
You were just going through a rut, a crevice if you will
A huge dent that looked as if it would loot and pilage and kill
Yet you have risen again, my beautiful Phoenix bird
As long as you are happy, I care not that all of the lines are blurred.
“But I’ll be okay.
Is that what you want me to say?
It’s called break up because it’s broken.”
The Last Something That Meant Anything by Mayday Parade (2006)
I believe there was a stretch of time when I reached out for you continuously
I am quite sure I once breathed solely for you to take my breath away with sweet nothings.
I am certain I once looked forward for you and only you to see me.
I come alive at the thought that I no longer have to wait for you to wake me up
In order to live.
It is today, today alas, that I believe in me,
As I also still believe in who I used to be,
I am only growing in my knowlege,
As I take a lapse from college
I have begun to sing my own lilt,
I have an intriguing dance with an interesting tilt.
I will rhyme to my own rhythm and my own time,
I will become who I was, who I am, who I will be with a slow and steady climb,
I sit here with my tea and coffee and journal and laptop in hand,
And I write and whisper welcome as I imagine up a foreign land,
That again, alas, I have begun to believe in little me,
And little us, and our little infinity,
And I am pleased.
I am the favorite lines from your favorite movies.
I am the bubbly flirty girl you remember from high school.
I am the quite ponderer, the ever thinking brain
I am the passive aggressive girlfriends
I am the writer who loves to read more than write.
I am the writer who must write due to all the birds in my head.
I am the crazy atypical writer who is probably bipolar.
I am Bee from Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants; confident like crazy
I am Bee from the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants; quietly broken.
I am a bright young woman, sick of swimming, ready to stand.
I am a five year old who wishes to be a mermaid.
I am the loved and adored; I am the rejected and the ignored.
How intriguing it is that only 104.6 lbs of me contains all of these thoughts and feelings simultaneously.
We all have become a movement; a fight for our own cause.
We all want so desperately to forget about the nights that give us pause,
I want to believe in the words that escape from us as we begin to wake,
I want to erase the words that remain from the haze of anger, but they won’t shake
You hold my little life in your huge palms, as I wonder when I lost sight,
You hold my hand and coax me to admit, coax me to stop the fight
“How are you?”
“Actually, I’m not doing so well.”
And with that small confession, I walk willingly into your arms.