eye pockets

eye pockets
are one of my very most favorite
of facial features
i love them so much
that i used to pump up the muscles under my eyes
hoping that the bulge
would somehow add contour
to my own face
add some character
to my “girl next door” blah
except
when people asked
i told them
that i was working on building up my under-eye muscle
so that one day
i would be able to close my eyes
from the bottom up
like a frog

this is one of those random things about me. something i think is hilarious…but that is probably just me.
i thought of it because i have been watching terriers on netflix and michael raymond-james has the yummiest eye pockets i have seen in a long time.
i want to marry his eye pockets.

granted…i am lonely as fuck…but he is hot.

and i am lonely as fuck.

sad & lonely & thinking about eye pockets.

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in my dreams

he is still in my dreams
& i want him so badly
it is pure pain & longing
something i used to feel
when i was awake
with him
without him
that crazy desire
my skin on fire
willing to do anything
anything for him
…but what he asked of me
it killed me on the inside
killed my burning desire
leaving me empty
& new
but still feeling the pain of it
when it shows up in my dreams
& i wake up crying
for love lost
& cruel reminders

smoke in the air

he lures me outside with a cigarette
he wants “to talk”
he always wants “to talk”
except when it mattered
years & years ago
& years not so long ago
when i tried
& tried & tried & tried
to get him to talk to me….
he’s leaving again
i’m making him leave
again
& he is sad
& i try not to let his sad seep into my soul…
once the talk is done
(for now)
we come back inside
& as i remove my coat
the necklace that he gave me for a birthday long ago
falls
falls from its place around my neck
a broken cord
…how much more symbolic can you get?

this self-portrait got away from me. i ended up looking like my mom…again. or tom waits…and what the fuck is up with the coloring?

with all of these journal pages, i think i will re-do them as a finished piece…one day…if i like them enough.

maybe then this one won’t look the way i feel inside.

(or is that a good thing–art wise?)

while doing this, i also did a collaboration with misha who wanted me to paint the hand she had drawn. i like the way this one turned out. i think we should print it up and sell it. misha can do all the sales though–she may not speak coherently, but she has oodles of personality & charisma…probably inherited from her dad 😦

collaborationwithclementine

no fucks left to give

i think i have developed a callus
on my soul
…or is it that i have completely run out
of fucks to give?
it feels
liberating
i feel
free
like the calluses on my feet
the callus on my soul
allows me to run
skip
dance
where others must
tiptoe
& crawl

today, my trump supporting little sister who now lives in germany with her army husband, sent me a big box of german chocolate.
today i accepted a friend request on facebook from a fellow homesteader…and then saw a pro-trump post by him.

and i was all like. whatever.

that was it. no anger. no need for vengeance. no blinding need to light a match & burn that bridge…

weird. i still hate trump. i still want to see him impeached and all of his cronies de-throned…
i still will continue working towards equal rights for everyone and will never stop celebrating diversity.
and i have no intention of stopping my efforts towards resistance & rebellion….

still, all i could muster was a “meh.”

am i de-sensitized? numb? overwhelmed by the bad news sermons of dusty? (seriously, he can put an apocalyptic spin on anything!!)

or does the callus on my soul simply allow me to process without becoming overwhelmed, numb, and de-sensitized?

desperate to be heard

desperate
desperate for adult interaction
desperate to be heard
i share my thoughts with him
only
to have him
wad them up in a ball
& hurl them back at my
head
my heart
my soul
…crash

this may be weird…or maybe not, but whenever i touched my pen to the page to draw the lines of my face, i started crying.
drawing pain.
i used a mirror. i don’t usually use a mirror. but i needed to see where the lines fell.
those lines made me cry.
there is a lot of pain
in the lines of my face.

turn out the gaslight

he drinks from my glass
instead of getting his own
he says he would be in a good mood
if not for me
he accuses me of “gaslighting” him
& i wonder
or do i know
that he is gaslighting me?
he hurls words at me
words i said
stories i told
when i–in a state of delusion–
trusted him
he saves up the words i give to him
like ammunition
to strike me with
as his mask falls off
& he embraces
the person
he claims he no longer is….

yeah. things are not going well with dusty being here. two weeks now. every morning i am grateful for the help.
by nightfall, i hate him.