How to Be Little Me

I will never forgive you for making me feel stupid. I will never forgive you for being so great. I will never forgive you for lifting me off the ground when you hugged me. But mostly, I will never forgive you for making me feel something for you.

Actually, to prove my absolute idiocy, I will forgive you countless times. I will run right back to you. All you have to say is, "I miss those kisses" or "I miss you" or "God, you're so beautiful." And hey, you've got me back. So I do understand why you are the way you are. You can afford to be a complete asshole to me because at the end of the day, I'll still care even if you don't.

enough is enough.

She looked in the mirror, and broke down everything she saw.


She wanted to know what qualities made her unlovable, like able, desired. A year ago, she lost everything she liked about herself in the compromise of love. She tucked back a strand of thick auburn colored hair, the strand that always fell in her face and wondered  if that was something quirky he had once liked about her. She stared at the curves of her body and questioned if he liked the way she wasn't petite, but very much full figured. Her big, brown eyes which once promised love and happiness, now was a pool of insecurity and doubt. When they would tell her she was beautiful, the words bull shit sprang to her mind. For she had once had a broken heart, something she never really recovered from. All the empty words, the blank i love you's, were finally taking a toll on her. Her body was wanted, but what about her mind and her heart? Men left those things untouched. Maybe she gave love away too easily? Maybe she didn't give it away enough. She touched a scar on her right knee, given to her by a shard of glass when she was eight. She remembered his lips kissing it as he spoke "I'll never let you fall down without helping you back up." Where was he now? The one who promised to always be there? Was she not beautiful enough to be more than a man's lover? Tears streamed down her face, all the things she hoped to be just seemed like aimless dreams. She wanted to be something so much more than what she felt like she was. She suffered in the name of love, but nothing she ever did could suffice to make anyone happy. Was she unhappy? Not entirely, for there were those rare moments where life felt like fire to her. When she talked about her passions, you could see it in her eyes and for a moment she could feel happiness. But when she was alone, her mind wandered to the men who had left scars in her mind. All of them, treating her like she wasn't good enough. 


Enough was enough.


She loved the way her hair fell in her face. And her big brown eyes? They may not promise love and happiness anymore, but they did promise passion and trust. Her body was her own, and she loved every curve and bump God had graced her with. Every promise broken, every empty word, was a weight that had made her stronger. She was beautiful. And not because society told her so, but because she believed that she was. Every heart break, every phone call that was never returned, was something that would make her appreciate "Mr.Right" in the long run. She smiled, a real smile for the first time in a long time. 


I am good enough, for a relationship and for love. 

The True Confessions of Darya Movitz

My parents: my mother, the glorious sun, whose rays I long to bask in and my father, the stoic moon, who gives light to the darkness. I am a product of them. My thoughts are products of their thoughts. All my actions are products of their actions. I decide nothing on my own for they are a part of me. My mother’s hands guide my figure through numerous ballet positions; I feel them at times pressing lightly on my back. I feel her feeble attempts to make up for her inadequecy as a mother. My father’s arms ensconce my universe; I feel safe and unaffected by anything. I sit in my ivory tower and watch blurs. I know these blurs are people, places and various objects but I cannot separate them in my mind. Sometimes I hear things like, “Darya, the blue dress or the red one?” I usually say red. Sometimes I feel things like when Dov puts my hair behind my ears. Sometimes I see things like the two little girls flying kites in the park. Sometimes I say things like, “govno” and “yebatsya” just because it feels good. Sometimes when I miss my mother, I dance. I dance, I escape, I let go. My body takes over and my mind becomes a tabula rasa, which is something Dov taught me. I dance as hard and passionately as I can. Until my lungs burn and my body aches, until I’ve forgotten about everything that hurts and sometimes if I’m lucky, it works. Sometimes I smoke and drink. Sometimes I stand on the edge of the bridge and slide my toes as far off as I can. Sometimes I forget I am supposed to be perfect and I slip up and be myself.

What I Haven't Got

I used to think that writing something could fix anything, that I could build bridges out of words so that our lives could keep intersecting. I used to think that I could create a happy ending, which would be an ending that we deserved. I used to think that words meant more than anything. That they were finite and substanstial. But I never thought that they were small and inconsequential. I loved words and they failed me. What does that teach you about life?

How To Tell Time

You know, Dar, your hair was always so dark at the beginning. I used to use the color as my hourglass: the lighter it got, the less time we had left. It would evolve from a coffee shade to a dark caramel and although each shade was beautiful, I found myself becoming attatched to the darker hues. I used to shield you from the sun, towards the end, as if I could somehow prevent the next color from appearing. I thought I was so clever. You used to say, but Dovick, it's so pretty outside can't we swim or go to the meadow. I would argue that those adventures would be more enchanting by moonlight. Sunlight, I used to say to you, was to harsh, obnoxious even.  You tried everything you could to convince me. Once you even began to undress. You said with such perfect frankness, come outside and we can make love in the warmth of the afternoon, beneath the birch trees that border the river. I tried my best to avoid your eyes. I was still a boy then, nineteen. Dovick, you whispered, give into me and I did, of course I did, you were seventeen and sure and I loved you.

I thought I could freeze time. I was young. You would go for walks with Cova and Tali and I would chase after you with a hat in my hands for you to wear. Let Dar walk in the shade, I would tell them. I used to suggest that you begin your walks at sunset. I wanted to preserve your ironic fragility, the paleness of your skin, the way your indigo veins were visible, a characteristic that always clashed with your vitality. Dov, darling, can you at least crack the shutters? I just want to feel the sun, for just a moment, you would say. Or it's night time, open the windows. No, I can still see the sun. That is the moon. It is the sun. I swear it's the moon.  You're silly, Dar. No, really, listen, I hear an owl. That is a lark.

I finally had to explain it to you after you asked me, Dov, don't you want me to be happy? Of course, I do, but I also want you to be sad. Why would you ever want that? Because I am sad. You are not sad, you are smiling. I am still sad. Why? Your hair changes colors did you know that? No I didn't know that, but Dov, I don't see how this relates to what we're talking about. When I first met you, your hair was a deep brown and now it's more of a caramel. Dov, you're not making sense. It symbolizes the passing of time; your hair getting lighter means that we are closer to the end then to the beginning. Now, who said anything about ends, you asked as you touched my cheek. Stories end, you said, rather ambigiously at times but they end. But love isn't a story; it doesn't have to end. Why are you so wonderful? Because I love you, that's why; you make me wonderful.

It was in this fashion that we lived together for two years and I know if I tell you that it was perfect you won't believe me, because in this life we are constantly told that things can never be perfect, but it was, it really was, and I'm not just saying that because I loved you and you loved me (that is just a minor detail like all of the thousands of dots of color that make up one of Monet's watercolors). I am saying that because it truly, honestly, unabashedly was a series of 730 pefect moments and I have never been happier or sadder since.