heartbreaking

my heart breaks
so easily
it’s ridiculous
you can make me
cry
so what
anyone can
you aren’t special

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out with the old; in with the new

i’m trying not to be sad
today
i’m trying not to lose my mind
today
i feel music in my soul
today
not quite drowned out
by the screaming
crying
sometimes playing
sometimes fighting
children
my artist’s soul
& my mother’s heart
trying to live together
in my troubled
self.

october 26, 2016 is the date inside my old journal. the day i started it. today is the day i end it. there is one page left…but i have already spilled some angst onto it and now just have to illustrate my own pain.

the first page of the new journal, also, is already decorated with thoughts fallen from my head.

i love being productive. i love looking forward to a blank page. i love writing down my silly, sad, sentimental, and sordid epiphanies to ponder with pen & ink brush.

ha.
i am not a poet though.
i thought that today when i could not think of the word for what some of you might call my “poems.”
i am not a poet.
i just vomit emotion, often & as colorfully as possible.

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?

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.

my hero

I am trying to learn
to heal
to not focus
on what kind of amazing
incredible
super
hero
i would have been
with the proper
normal
natural
parental love & nurturing
…it’s a new day
i am who i am
i have what i have
which is a shit-ton
of strength
& determination
wicked smart
funny in my own dark way
& chock full of imagination

 

crap basket

i for one
am glad to live in an era
when it is
at the very least
acceptable
for a mom to curse like a sailor….

it’s the little triumphs i have to celebrate.
i am watching alias grace on netflix and wondering at the idea of a proper woman not being able to go to a pub by herself without it being a scandal or an invitation for mens’ attention…
but now that i write that…would i pass for a “proper” woman? being that i am outspoken, open-minded, and believe i am in charge of my own body?
and–wait–do men today still see this as an invitation after all our so-called progress? i mean, i used to work in bars, and in my off time i would hang out at the bar, writing or reading, because i am that special kind of socially awkward introvert who craves being around people…but doesn’t want to actually talk to them.
nevertheless, my being in a bar, alone, occupied or not, was seen as an invitation. and, more than once, i had a man get angry at me for not giving him my full attention when he initiated a conversation with me.

maybe it’s no wonder i curse so much.

and i just had a conversation with dusty–who is still here because my back is still fucked up and i still haven’t convinced him to leave again….
i mean, was it yesterday i swore i would not talk to him anymore about anything other than stuff to do with household?
alas…but al franken and my understanding that probably the majority of men have done shit like that or at least laughed and encouraged other men to do shit like that…
i accidentally started a conversation
and it quickly turned into what women had done to him…which–yes–should not be discounted–but not used to counter what millions (billions??) of men are doing to women daily and with no public or personal backlash?

it’s no wonder i curse…& drink….

sigh.