revolver

I feel that I am in a very dark space.

Life is not fun.

Life is not meaningful.

Life is not living.

I feel

today

like I am just another body

washing

waiting

for something better than

whatever the fuck

this is.

I need things to

change.

I need to feel,

I need to be better.

I hate the way my brain keeps

working

not working

who knows.

The variation in day to day life,

microscopic.

The good days versus the bad,

a losing battle.

  • 9/12/16 – 3:30PM
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more – circa 2013

But it was one of those days that people don’t talk about, when God created imagination. And with that He created pens, and paper, and set them before us to write our own way into history. To dabble with our thoughts. To get lost in pools of artistic ideas and meticulous wording. To write everything, from grocery lists to tales of lives we live in our heads. He gave us wonder. Exploration. Creativity. He gave us ability, and, with that ability, He gave us power. Power to think. To breathe. To be. God gave us options. To love or be loved. To walk or to run. To live the life we were meant to live, or to wander off the path and tiptoe blindly, with our hands behind our backs and our hearts tattooed upon our sleeves. Waiting and wanting, always something more.

So God gave us more. He gave us wind, and water, and wishes, and war. He gave us growth, and memory. And the ability to feel. He gave us more. He gave us divorce, and loathing. And the ongoing numbness of dreams.

But He also gave us time. Time to forgive. And forget. Time to learn. Time to love. Time to finally figure it all out, and pick up our pens and our papers, and re-write our history.

America’s favorite passtime

You pull your shirt over

your head and reach for the button on

my shorts.

You are hungry.

Rushed.

You pull at the edge of my

baby-pink-panties,

rip the lace from my breasts.

Your hands are cold and to

you I feel like

summer sun.

Your body is all too fast

while mine lays

still.

I can feel your heartbeat in the

crash of your lips on

my neck,

ribs,

hips,

body.

A connect-the-dots

that leaves my toes

curled.

And suddenly,

I am yours.

Our skin swallowing each other.

My body

on fire with yours.

All noise and limbs and mess.

My favorite natural disaster

tearing through our bodies

creating

destruction and chaos and uncontained

inescapable

pure

energy.

And suddenly I am falling in love with this

feeling

all over again.

And suddenly we are one body.

Ebbing and flowing.

Tick-tick-ticking.

Until I feel Nirvana with your

hands on my skin, your

breathing synced with mine, your

body letting go

giving its all

free falling

into mine.

 

 

snippets of The Great Lost Love

There was a stillness in you, that I’d always liked. A stillness that I’d already fallen for. It was in the way your eyes focused. How your fingers had touched mine with such tender intention. I saw it in your interactions with my family; the way you’d sat through dinner with a hand on my leg and a line of conversation and a small smile that brought my blood unrest. You’d proved it when you’d held me on a lazy Sunday as I told you nothing in life was ok and I’d wanted release. You’d counteracted my wild with your calm, cool, collected. And I think slowly that stillness found a way into my voice and my heartbeat and my want for you. We became the rested souls. But maybe that was too little to live with. Maybe that stillness had settled over the burn of the way that I thought I’d loved you. Maybe that intentional touch became unwanted and the unrest too permanent. And maybe I’d found that release in the stillness of your body, but maybe that was the problem.

I am woman.

Her body is not something to be taken lightly. It is hers and there is no changing that. She may give it to you, she may not. It is her choice. She may adorn it with ink or metal or vanilla scents. She may cover it or she may not. She may scar it and make it bleed or take the perfect care of it. She may do anything, and it will always be her choice. You have no control over her skin or what’s beyond. You control your actions, your consequences. You may do what you want with her choices, but you may not make them for her.

liquid sunrise

I had this big window in my room when I was little where I liked to watch the sun set after finishing my homework. And as the seasons changed those sunsets changed and I think I began to change with them. The navy of winter gave way to crimson in spring, and with it came the year my heart was broken. And when spring became summer the sun set a little later so eventually I set a little later. Homework turned to broken curfew and nighttime only brought nostalgia and hunger and urgency. So when daylight gave me distaste in the fall of the following year I fell back into the rhythm of the suns goodbye. Watching out my window became watching from some strangers bed; and rather than falling in love when the sky permitted that childlike yellow and those sorrow-less reds, I fell apart. That was the year I found God. But God had a funny way of ignoring my midnight plea’s so I changed a little more. I found comfort in the wrong set of arms and solace in the pain-prescriptions. I discovered Jesus with your hands around my neck and felt reality in the weight of my own heart. My window stayed locked and often my homework undone; so when the sky began to suffocate and I flunked out of school I blamed the changing seasons. I’d never asked to fall in love with the tragedy of it all. Never wanted night to become my best friend and most viscous enemy. Never prayed for summer to end or spring to move on, or the sun to steal my innocence. These were the years I let go. These were the years I found myself. Carved and refined and worked on my rock until I became a David of modern day. These were the lessons. The years that changed my life.

relevance

I got lost in the ocean once. When I was six I found myself in a place where my toes couldn’t touch the sand. I wanted to breathe in the color of the waves that crashed in my hands. I tried and I panicked. The water didn’t want my body // I worry now that you do not want my body. I want to breathe in the blue of your eyes and the wash of your love. I can no longer touch the sand. Please do not let me drown.

the grand theft of the heart

Your thumb brushes my bottom lip and suddenly I’m crying in earnest. The palm cradling my white hot cheek is rough, worn-in. Your fingers are reaching for the base of my hairline, holding the bones of my spine in place. I love you here. Forehead to forehead, waiting while my body breaks within yours. We are the love they talk about, here. The grandeur and the painted picture and the good honest truth.

You look at me the way all women want to be looked at by a man. You press lips to the skin between my eyes, say ‘it’s ok’ with your fingers down my back. Here, I am vulnerable. I am a target that I know you will not shoot. Here, I am all yours.

I hold your fingers in mine. Let myself feel small. Trace the life-line, heart-line, fate-line of your palm. I think about us inside those lines. Suddenly your body yanks at mine. Suddenly we are two people once again. But as you wrap me fully in your arms and squeeze just tight enough, I know I am safe as myself. Head tucked into your neck, arms instinct-X’ed over my heart, body rebuilding; I let the tears hiccup and stop. I can feel the smile in your chest, the heat of your happiness. ‘Enough for us both’ I (always) think.

You tangle your hands in my hair, distance us and watch. I let a smile tease my lips. You let yours fly the coop. Then you kiss me. But you don’t just kiss me, no. This time is different. This type is different. It’s the type where you know you’re in trouble. The type you’re already an addict for. The type that people write books about.

It’s the grand theft of the heart, and no one is around to catch us.