that last pregnancy

you didn’t love me
for that last pregnancy
for that last seed you planted in me
you didn’t love me
for a year & more after he was born
you didn’t love me
until i let you go
then
only then
you returned to me
like a no longer dormant venereal disease
hellbent on a rampage
love
some warped thing
that doesn’t even make sense
anymore.

i don’t think i have had good examples of “love” in my life. with my folks it was fucking or fighting. with my exes it would be crazy passion followed by extreme rejection…taking turns on the passion & rejection until one of us gave up for good. i am not sure i even know what love is supposed to look like. or how to do it.
i have to remind myself of these things, even if it is painful, because i do not want to get stuck in another fucked up relationship.

but would i even recognize a healthy relationship?

devoured

i saw the wolves
shortly after i made my wish
to be devoured
“i wasn’t serious,” i told the universe
in a bit of a panic
wondering what message i should get
from a moon waxing gibeous
as a wolf stalked before me
behind me
beside me
three wolves at dusk
under an october moon.

odds are they were coyotes, but they looked like wolves to me. and i had just thought how nice it would be to disappear–devoured by a werewolf….
i am used to coyotes being slinking yellow things, but these were tall & bold. i was walking my dog after having a fight with my children. i heard the rustling & turned around expecting deer, but instead a wolf/coyote ran across the road several yards away. another started to follow but stopped when she saw me. i stood tall; she stood tall. and then she disappeared again. as i turned to leave, i saw yet another one running on the hillside next to the road.
i believe in signs from the universe.
maybe i am being told to be careful what i wish for?

always

i’ve always loved the wrong men
giving myself away too easily
now i wait (im)patiently
for a true love that i am pretty sure
i will never find.

with babies’ birthdays to remind me of abuses past, i found myself examining my bruised & broken heart once again. my ex was not an easy man to become a parent with. i often felt like he was punishing me for becoming a mom.

heat me up

day 141
at madness manor
i turn on the heat
using my fancy-dansy
ductless mini-split
on exactly
the same day
i have the cast iron
radiators
hauled away for scrap
meanwhile
with a yard full of stacked wood
& a woodburning stove
squatting on my porch
i am still
navigating
the adaption of my capped chimney
into a working
heat source.

i keep hoping the woodstoves will be installed before the snow comes…but every day i wonder if that is a pipe dream. it’s a bit chilly in madness manor, but i have four lovely minions to keep me warm.

from my crow’s nest

it took him years
to pull apart
the fabric of my joy
i guess its a credit to me
that the cloth was strong enough
to hold my joy
through so much sorrow
i must be like a crow
stowing away
bits of glitter
& strands of sparkle
weaving them into a nest
to hold my joy safe from all the hard stones
of pain
& isolation
some strange crow
in a fantastic nest…
now an older me
a wiser me
is tasked with collecting my joy
back to me
once more
rebuild the nest
reweave the cloth.

my ex is in my thoughts a lot with two of our children having birthdays in october. i am trying to give myself credit for surviving him. i did survive him after all.
also! in an attempt to value myself, i have decided to start submitting poems, stories, & art to magazines & whatnot. i haven’t actually done it yet, but i do have a list of possible periodicals to pester.
once upon a time i had the hoo-ha to send out novels & novels to publishers…back when you had to supply an SASE with every mailed manuscript. it’s been awhile since i have had the backbone to put myself in the line of fire for rejections…. but, i am working on it.

ps. misha suggested that this was an inking of the sun & the moon 🙂

smooches

the man jogging past my house
told me of his off leash dog
wandering towards my yard,
“he wants to smooch you,”
…that’s the most action
i’ve gotten in a long time.

just a random page–the first page–in my newest journal. i have written many pages, but i am slow to getting my drawings done while working on art for my etsy store.

unfinished

i grew up in a house
that was never
finished
a house that was never
whole
the house was built
before i was born
but remained
always
unfinished
incomplete
through my entire life there
after i left
they built a sunroom
remodeled the prison cell style
bathroom
carpeted
the basement
but still left the house
unfinished
incomplete
i cannot imagine
the house i grew up in
as ever finished
but as i look around the unfinished
house
i live in now
i can clearly see it whole
if not
finished.

so how much did it affect me to grow up in a house that was never finished? was it a reflection on my birth family? my parents?
it kind of drove me crazy. two large rooms in the house just became a parking garage for crap. they could have been finished. they just never were.
what does this say?
now i have my madness manor which has missing floor. missing walls…. & i wonder, am i just socialized now to accept an unfinished house…or did i buy an unfinished house so i could finally finish the unfinished part of me?
does any of this make sense?
(it totally does to me)

this is the last page of my art journal started on april 6th of this year. while i was trying to ink my monarch woman, i watched a monarch butterfly flit around the flowers in my yard. seemed kismit at the time 🙂

value impaired

i don’t value myself.
why don’t i value myself?
how do i learn to value myself?

case in point. yesterday i realized i had no idea where i had left the box full of my books i have available for sale should someone want an autographed copy.
i searched for over an hour, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
i eventually found the box being used to prop up my daughter’s doll house.
nice.
so how do i learn to value myself? why do i continue to make myself the lowest priority? the last person i will support?
fuck me.
(wait! don’t fuck me–be nice to me! believe in me, goddammit)

reading for me

am i searching for signs
of me
in every book
i read
pleasantly surprised
when i see
myself
in a character
in the reflection
of another writer
so i can whisper
“i am not alone
i am not a complete
anomaly.”

i have been reading a lot lately. you can check out my fickle reviews on goodreads (i think there is a link on my sidebar?) i notice that i gravitate towards writers who remind me of myself, either in style or in the characters they create…or in the message their works seem to have.
being crazy empathic, i also disappear into stories sometimes, actually taking on the grief or anger or joy of a character. sometimes i wonder how healthy this is. especially when my kids need me, & i have vanished into someone else’s work of fiction.
if i am on a writing streak, i can also disappear into my own fiction.
i feel like maybe i need to ground myself more when characters are running amok in my head….

i’m glad i’m me

“i love myself
i’m glad i’m me
there’s no one else
i’d rather be”
goes the storybook
i read
to my children
& it’s true
even with all my self-loathing
there is
no one else
i’d rather be.

but i really am not happy with this illustration. oh well. some days you eat the bear. some days the bear eats you.

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