Thursday, April 26, 2018

Reclaiming

I'm reclaiming things - scent sights and sound
I thought I'd buried in the ground
things that haunted still my mind
I felt that I should leave behind
but I see now there's no sense in blame
you never truly made the claim
and no they were never fully lost
I myself just paid the cost.
So I collect back these things which give me joy
and a lesson which I'll now employ -
nothing's gone one cannot steal
the mind's a trick, loss isn't real
and if I make the choice to fight the theft
I'll find them right where they were left.




Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Stay

I'm learning passion isn't love
and I'm not so glad I tried it
because it showed the worst in me
and I'm not someone who can hide it
but I picked up all my faces
and I hold them out, palm open.
this life has brought me many places
but I'm slowing down and hopin'
you will see all my blackest truths
and you will not turn hard away
and that I go slow is my proof
I may be hoping you will stay

Monday, April 23, 2018

4-23

The remains of the sun paint the water in roses and yellows, and the cantankerous geese hoot gently and swim in circles, black silhouettes against the sunset. Bats dart through the air, collecting dinner.

It is nice, it is calming, and I forget I'm exhausted, I forget to be chilly for a few minutes.

What a careful navigation of a new person. Finding the new lines. Treading so lightly.

But I am glad of the light movement. I am still easing myself back in, evaluating. I need to be ready to put a terrible love behind me and move forward without dragging haunted pieces into the future.

So we stand quietly a little apart, and watch the birds and the bats, and I am curious about the possibilities, but I am also so tired, and my heart is a little bruised, and so it feels good just to stand there wondering without the pressures of expectation.

Saturday, April 21, 2018

The Coldest Soft Person

The dogs are playing a silly game under the deck, popping their heads out at one another and barking, growling, like little soil-covered trolls. I want to muster up some scolding for them  - they're filthy, they're teasing one another and snarling and snapping,they've dug a crevasse where there once was straight lawn - but I know it's an outpouring of energy from being left all day, and it all seems in good fun, so I let it go.

Robins are calling in the trees above the yard so I watch them, rotating through the branches, and wonder, like the dogs, what sort of conversation they are having. I note, also, that somewhere in my life, I learned to differentiate the calls from a robin among those of other birds, and I feel a very vague, very small sense of accomplishment for this small bit of knowledge.

I drink my Michigan wine which tastes very much like grape juice, but I live in wine country now and I want to adapt, and I let the sun slowly move downward. Now and then I get up from the deck and pick up old cigarette butts the previous homeowner cast aside, soft and feathered with age. I've been doing this for months now- they seem to burrow up from the earth as spring comes like buds.

Lucy is in a strange mood, and I wonder if Ryan has set her off. I think she is cured, I have fixed her, until I see her interact with others. She bites at me as I bend, too calm and tired to be angry with her, and, deftly, I watch her moving like I would watch a fly landing on me - hand moves and I snatch her scruff in my hands and flip her onto her back. I sit on her body until her frantic tail calms and the spell has passed, and I return her to the yard, herself again.

What a strange life.

I sit upstairs alone, a kitten down my shirt, its tiny tiny ill voicebox the softest rumbling purr against my skin. Her face is caked with milk and food, crusty and hard; I pick hard pieces of the fur around her eyes where infection has oozed. She is strong today, and comfortable against me, and she's calming me, whether I know it just then or not. I look down at her small closed eyes and my chest wants to swell, but I won't quite let it. I think of all the beautiful little kittens I have loved, who have lain on me just so, who died unexpectedly, or expectedly. I will give it time, and a little piece of love, and see how it progresses, before I let my heart open all the way.

He seems to understand. I am opening up, a little piece at a time, about myself and how I feel, and I am relieved when he doesn't pull away from it.

I am the coldest person in a room of melted ice cream people.

How have I become cold? Or am I just feeling cold by comparison?

And someone, always, must be that person, right? Someone with a mush heart must still make the hard choices.

I remind myself, looking down at the small breathing thing comforted by my heartbeat, curled against me, reliant on me for food and warmth and care, that I may feel so, but I am not cold.

He reminds me that I am not cold. And I admit, it feels good to hear. But part of me says, he is new. Maybe, over time, he will decide that I am cold after all.

As Dorian said.

But Dorian made me cold. Never, before him, were things so black and white in my life. He has changed my perspective. I am not, and I do not think I will ever be again, so forgiving as I was.

The kitten wakes and crawls back to her siblings, and I sit on the floor beside my bed and wonder with a little bit of fear, just who I am now.

Thursday, April 19, 2018

PTSD

I'm pushing every boundary right from the get-go. I move things on the table to gauge his reaction, I toss my head and let everything spill out, my attitude is bubbling and overwhelming, my tongue sharp.

He laughs, he absorbs it. His energy feels good, he is curious, interested. Even when I purposefully push him too far, there's no undercurrent like Dorian, no electricity that sets my stomach on edge.

I wonder if it will last.

I don't want to be wondering all the time. I never had to wonder before, I took people at their word and their actions. I promised myself I wouldn't hurt anyone by punishing them for what he did, the terrible things he taught me.

I wonder if I'm ready.

I think I am. My hard edges don't feel so sharp these days, and I miss the feeling of tucking my head into someone, breathing, hiding for a moment from the world. Taking a secret beat for myself.

I hope he is patient.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Open doors

I think I'm finally ready.

We shall see.

I haven't dated since the Good one, the one I thought, oh, this makes up for the last one. This is what it's supposed to be like - minus the lying and cheating and overall mental warfare.

I've had lovely women ask me how I find these good men (this was before, of course, the best one turned out to be an entire complete violent mindfuck wrapped up into a handsome outgoing selfless package - who knew a hotdog was mislabeled as sirloin? I remember a woman asking, is he just the most wonderful boyfriend? and that strange moment I paused and reflected and had to say no, no, he's really not).

You know how, my lovelies? I wait. I screen. I pick and choose.

Even the pretty slim one, the one who made the same mistakes only maybe even worse with the mind-killer, because he loved me (I suppose) and he fucked her, she's said it too- where do I find them.

I find them the same fucking places y'all do, I just work harder. I have more patience. I sit with my god-damn hand in the water wriggling my fingers until they go numb.

Now is the perfect insert for a finger wriggling joke but I'll hold off.

I discard willy-nilly. I trust my gut. I don't give in. And, in the end, there's usually one, maybe even two, who remain in the pool.

So, somehow this feels like a major event. Moving on from the one that did me real damage. Onto the first one since the one that showed me a glimpse at potential. At what love might be. I'll always thank him for showing me that love doesn't have to be a gaping chasm of self-doubt and depression.

Ambitious as fuck, smart, outdoorsy. Cute, at least I think so.

Chemistry? We will see. Probably he's not a manipulative monster out to ruin me, so I just won't be interested. Such is life.

But we'll see. I think he'll benefit me in the long run regardless, based on similar interests and an overall violent striving to make something of ourselves. And, excuse me for saying, but I think I can benefit people in the long run too, if they choose to respect and make use of me.

This feels like a major event.

Ducks are lining up. Things are happening for me. Life is happening for me.

I don't know if love is in the cards. I always thought for me there would be one, and always, for me, there has been one.

I just hope to God I was wrong.

Excuse me for saying, but I'd hate to think I was wasted on him.

I always knew in my gut for me there would just be One.

Time will tell.

4-17

I'm not sure I want Bonnie and Clyde
There are more options than just die or ride
Passion was something, but where did it lead?
I'm left here alone with wounds that still bleed. 

Make me coffee when the dawn comes up and sit by my side on the deck
Let's enjoy silence while bringing in morning while other lovers are making a wreck. 

I'm getting too old to want my heart broken
I want me a man who means what he has spoken
I want peace and comfort, someone on whom I can lean
I want to know where he's going and hear what he's seen. 

I suppose that it's boring to dream up a dream where everything is just what it may seem
but my life has been chaos and I'm ready to find a man who will hold me and soothe my poor mind