Thursday, October 19, 2017

10-19 Freedom

I'm finding the freedom in my life. I'm making choices and standing by myself.

I'm playing the romantic, the optimist. I'm letting his words be truth. I'm shutting down the quiet voice in my head that wonders when, and how, he will betray me.

The words don't send quivers in my gut. His truths feel true. My internal compass doesn't twang and spin out of junction with what he says.

Time will tell.

I am ready to move to the next phase.

I am ready to wake up happy and excited. To go back to taking joy in everything. Little things that fill me with bubbles of happiness, like making coffee in the morning, putting gas in the car. A comfortable bed, animals on me. Books on the table. A small plant in the window. I never thought I would have these things and I will never not enjoy how much I have now.

It's time for the next step.

It's time to be strong and brave. To choose a life I want. To make my decisions with a voice that doesn't quake.

I'm ready to stretch forward. To take on more, to trust myself. To trust another. I play out fantasies in my head, in my new space, with a new man, with a new job, and they vibrate between beauty and terror until I halt myself and shake the shadows out.

I will try, and trying is good enough. I will grow, and growing slowly is good enough. I am scared, I am excited, I am elated.

I am ready.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017


The door is closed, capturing body heat and the pervasive odor of weed which strikes me as we step back inside and discretely - as discrete as we can be, walking through the center of a small room - make our way back to the table.

There's a strange tenseness in the room, a tight sense of connectivity that I rarely find. It's an interwoven intensity, people knitted together, healing like shattered tendons and bone, sending out hard calcified spurs to draw their pieces together.

I cannot see the speakers well from my angle, but I can see the room, and I am always more interested in watching the room anyway. Tables are full, the bar is full and everyone along the rail sits in the same half-turned position, elbows akimbo awkwardly behind them. From my location they appear almost interlocked. Vertebrae in a spine colored with plaid flannel, bowties, and flesh.

Some of them nod when the speaker unleashes their strongest words, some clap, some snap, and I feel a little silly, like I am sitting in on a scene that is not for me. I've stumbled into the 1960's and I am not socially responsible enough to join, not passionate enough, not loud enough, not creative enough, not unsure enough, or too sure, maybe.

But these strangers who sit at the same angle, their very bodies speak of connection, and I know I am not unwelcome with my cotton candy hair and quiet observations, because these are people who, in every piece of themselves from their skeleton to their tongue, want to connect to others. It's a vibrant room of grasping connection.

They give and take with words, with snaps and head nods, and their bodies encourage and support, fall quiet when words are strong, fall quiet when words are weak, and I feel their silent respect for the weak words because there's something to appreciate in anyone who stands before a room and drops words from their mouth that pull you into their mind. Neurons are flaring all around me, flashes of information transfer. He is sad. She is sad. She is angry. He is angry.

We sit and absorb the chemicals around us, taking in these strangers and becoming them. I become them and, strangely, I feel an urge to give them some of myself in return. I wonder if that's selfish, to hear their words and to want to return with my own. It's interruption, it's my overexcitement, it's a lesson I'm still learning - when to not speak.

But we are oozing into one another, and I feel that my voice might be welcomed. Appreciated for its own quiet strength. Me too, we say. We are all hurt, we have all been touched or hit or leered at or broken with words and now we take our own words and we rebuild ourselves. We are cells in a body that smells like marijuana and onion rings and unwashed hair. We are a teeming hive of organisms, a biome of sadness and suffering and rage that charges the air around us as our silent electric signals chase from one to another and we forget whose suffering is whose and whose anger is whose because we are all sad, we are all angry, we are all fighting the same fight.

The woman behind the bar has a beautiful face, thick thighs and dreadlocks, unassuming blondes with curled hair, there are men wandering who look homeless with their long beards but stand behind the microphone and capture the crowd, there are thin girls in lace dresses and dark-skinned men with newsboy caps and glasses, then there is me with my cotton-candy unicorn hair. We are all the same person. We are pulsing and surging as one and I forget to feel autonomous as I get swept up in the flow.

Monday, October 16, 2017


I woke up fresh and dehydrated from alcohol and chicken wings that burned my lips, already chapped from stress and chewing on them nervously, they're red and tender.

It's like a fever broke. I'm tired, my head hurts, but god, I feel good. I am almost Me again.

I cried again last night but it wasn't because I missed Dorian. It feels so good not to miss him. It's a feeling I thought I'd never reach, but here I am, and all I feel is a vague disgust and contempt. I'm still angry, I still lash, but it's not because I want to hear him come back. I no longer want to settle for hard words because they're words. I am not scrambling for his worthless meaningless scraps.

How does that feel, Dorian? Knowing I don't want you. You invite me over, you fickle faithless lover, and I have no compulsion to go to you. No hesitation, no memories of your hands on my body temping me. Only disgust.

But you're her problem now. She'll learn, as we all did. I wonder how she'll feel toward me, when she realizes I bled for her and wanted to warn her. She ignored it, you ignore her, and frankly, I could not care less anymore if you two spiral down and break. I hope you do.

I cried because listening to my friend speak my truth back to me both hurt and healed. It's strange to hear yourself from another perspective. To have someone you trust tell another, she has been wounded, she has been struggling, but it is good to see her growing strong again.

It's strange sometimes to know people See me and Know me and Understand me. I am so, so lucky that I have people around me who care to Understand me. That stood by me while I dragged myself and struggled for months, and who rejoice to see me standing again.

Their pride and their patience seeps into me and makes me warm and unworthy. I want to hurry forward and be myself again, so I can be strong and helpful and not have to lean, lean, on everyone. To regain control of my mouth so I do not push and snap at people who do not deserve it. I was patient and warm once too, I was calm and sensitive.

I've been broken since I met you but you took no pieces with you, and I am rebuilding. I will be more vibrant, stronger, and less inclined to fall for a fool child's bullshit.

I'm not there yet, but I'm close, and I'm so, so ready to be done with you and your mind games and the childish contempt and attitude you always seem to draw me into.

You made choices. You'll go on in life to blame others always, to excuse yourself, but you're rotten at the core, you're spoiled meat and a portrait in the attic and the Devil with a kind face.

You love, or loved me. That's the truth you'll have to accept one day. Go seek me in others, go break their shells open and sort through their yolk and leave them sticky and broken on the ground. You'll never find me and you'll never have me again. You chose that. You're the worst of all fools, trying to escape loving me. I have others who know that I am someone to love with pride and care, not fear, not distrust. You shut the door on us and I think one day you'll be hammering to come back in.

While I used wish I could watch you break down, I don't think I care anymore. You've captured yourself in your own web, and I won't be looking behind to watch you slowly desiccate.

And god, that feels so good.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

10-15 Early Hot Mornings

I'm rolling in heat

Hot blankets and warm skin

Humid air through the crack

Between the window and the sill

Leaving beads of atmosphere

Over my naked skin

Mingling with salted wet pores

Saliva from your tongue

Melts into the moisture

In the curve of my neck

In the skin on my thighs

There are pools in the deep curve

Of my spine and hips

Sticky warmth under my breasts

Catches your moving fingers

Arresting them

A blessing/ a mercy/ a curse

To my burning liquid form.

To The Men Who Love Me

To The Men Who Love Me

Do not come to me
With half-formed ideas
Of love and romance
And trust and honesty.

Do not lay your hopes before me
Misshaped balls of clay
Pressed into what you assume
Is some semblance of what love is
Or could be
Or looks like.

Do not ride my wake
While crying out
That I move too fast
I am too hard to follow
My waters are too rough
As you dip under.

Do not come to me
Thinking I will calm my nature
To meet your needs
To help you grow
To show you things
To take your hand and walk you
Through this lovely world
And stop to point out
The names and leaves
And stars
And colors
And tell you
How to trust and love
How to take me honestly
How to follow me
Or lead
Or be peaceful where you stand.

I am not here to teach
I am not the one
Who holds your shaking hand
And makes it still
Who takes your childish
Uncertain thoughts
And gives them substance.

I am the fast waters
I am the bright sun
I am sharp grass
I am lessons learned
I am not your soft tutor
I am not here to give
My time
To you
To help you grow.

Men who would love me:
Love me strong
And fearlessly
And take some care
Because being strong
Does not mean being hard
Walk beside me
Walk behind
Walk afore
You are a man
And I do not care where you walk
I care where I stand
In relation.

Men who love me:
Challenge me
Give me words that are
And kind
And full of depth
And meaning
And honesty
I will glow bright
With my own light
And that light
Will shine on you
I will grow and bloom
Beside you
And you will grow and bloom
Beside me
And neither one of us
Need feed
Off the other.

Friday, October 13, 2017


My limbs are limp. There's a loosening between my shoulders.

I'm not sure how to take it. It's a nice feeling. It's an awareness of my body I'm unused to sensing. Something has been unwound. Pieces within me, tight and sharp, that barbed wire in my spine, are relaxing.

I think it might be nice to be touched.

I don't recoil at the idea. I think maybe I would not shy away from hands right now.

Maybe this is me moving on.

I ask my cards if I'll ever recover and they say no. In no uncertain terms.

It's disappointing but not surprising. I loved once. I always knew I would be a woman who only loves once.

I would have preferred to be a woman who never loved.

I ask if I'll love again and it's not optimistic.

But there will be others. I'll let him touch me. There will be more. I'll let them put their hands between my scapula bones and stroke and release the tension there, let them touch my jaw and my hair but not my neck because the memory of hard hands on my neck will always linger.

It may not be the wild, strange, angry overwhelming love I felt before, but I think that will be better. I would like a love that does not burn me out, lighter fluid on coals, a flash, a flare, a violence that leaves me cold and empty.

I remember how loving him made my lungs tight and my body tense with panic and anxiety and so much angry love I didn't know what to do with it so it solidified within me, and I do not miss that. I am loose now. I can bend and adjust and move, and I can form my body around another. I was ice, I was bronze, I was cement, and now I am fluid like a slow-moving river, muddied but determined.

Time heals wounds but so does willingness, and I want to heal. I want to flow on and drown that poison love in my current.

Thursday, October 12, 2017


I can't sleep again. I'm becoming that inhuman person who is always tired but can never rest, the ones people worry about. People are worrying about me lately. I don't know how to say I'm just soul-sick and a few good nights asleep would help, a few days of nothingness would cure me.

I take four pills and hope for the best, quietly wondering, in that distant it-won't-really-but-what-if that constantly lives in my brain, if they'll kill me. I wonder what they'd say on finding my body.

A youngish insomniac with a foul mouth was found dead this morning, lying in a pool of her own dark roots and multi-colored hair. A preliminary search of her computer found an excessive amount of half-finished novels, photos of her pets, and an uncompleted brewery tour itinerary. Her employer called her "quiet," in fact too quiet, perhaps even anti-social, as he stressed the importance of networking. Her close friends and acquaintances say she was frequently in an exhaustion haze and canceled plans often. One lone sex toy and an unused condom were found close to the scene. No foul play is suspected.

The pills do the trick and I sleep (I do not die - or perhaps this is my purgatory, continuing on to go into work in the mornings, continuing to write with uninspired determination, continuing to find a mixture of neutrality and annoyance and contentment with my existence). I can't wake myself up however, and I find Dorian in my mind.

I think he's been lurking again because it's her turn to hurt. You left your mess for us to clean up, Dorian. She has picked me up and sorted through my trash, and though I still cringe and my stomach clenches because she makes it real, it's her chance to come to me. I have to fight my instinct to plug my ears and wish it all away, because I am a creature of fairness. It's her turn to heal and I have to try harder to help even if it makes me feel sick and dizzy. How selfish you are, walking away from the melted fractured messes you make of good women. How lucky that good women want to reach out and help others. You choose only the highest quality of hearts to break.

You're there in my dream and your friends are speaking for you. Forgive him. He's sorry.

They don't know what all you've done, and I scream it at them, in high notes, but it's a dream so my voice is strong and does not break and I do not cry, but I tell them what you did, and they're horrified (they deserved to know the truth). But they say, look at him, look how sorry he is.

I know it's a dream because you are sorry. I've never seen you sorry before. It's always been my fault to you. My madness, my anger, my unjustified discontentment, you've pushed them away from you and handed the burden back to me. But in my dream your face is red and anguished and there are tears on your cheeks. I thought I was forgetting your face, but my memory has the details down, and I'm disgusted that I've missed that face.

You're sorry and so I let you follow me, I let you kiss me like you mean it, and because it's a dream, I forgive you and we can start over.

But because it's my mind, and the truth is buried in there, it becomes real again. You hide things from me, you pull away. You kiss me to make me forget that something is wrong. You blame me. I dream of cutting hot peppers that burn my hands while you sit at my grandmother's kitchen table, twitchy and angry, and tell me I just need to trust you, while your lies are strewn all over my grandmother's linoleum floor and spill out of your phone and your mouth and your eyes and my fingers are on fire.

In my dream I leave and come back again, leave and come back again, and I'm reliving the living nightmare of how you broke me slowly but surely.

I wake lonely and cold and drugged.

There are white teeth and warm smiles waiting for me. There are patient hands and gentle words. Arms that want to wrap around me, but give me my space, because you destroyed me, and I need to be fair. To myself, to love.

I swim in and out of the medicated state, desperate to wake up, determined to leave your face behind me in the unconscious where it will lie forgotten until the next night I'm unlucky enough to be haunted and wounded all over again.