whiskey & fleas

is it the wind in
my leg hair or did one more
fucking flea hop on?

like grizzly man i
try to be one with nature
until the fleas feast

when the fleas knaw on
the tender ankles of my
kids…fuck it–it’s war

i will be feeling
fleas on my skin long after
the sun has burned out

i am pretty sure
my personal hell will be
flea bites all night long

yes there is whiskey
in my coffee but i am
desperate & sad

because i wanted to cheer up mike and his haiku of sadness
i was determined to do some “real time” haiku throughout my day…however, it quickly morphed into my own battle with fleas. so–maybe it can be a “well at least i don’t have fleas!” kind of take on loneliness & heartache?
strangely
having fleas does kind of put things in perspective.

stay tuned…maybe i will move past my flea infestation at some point in the day….

also–totally check out mike’s manic word depot–it contains beautiful, heart wrenching writings & does not have fleas.

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once

i’m in love
with the idea
of someone
being
in love
with me
it happened
once
i met someone
once
who was in love
with me
i know it was true
because
i could smell
that sad & desperate smell
of love
on him
i know the smell
i know it well
as it oozes
oozes
out of me
me
who falls in love so easily
it is laughable
my heart
is a chasm
that only i
seem to fall into
except
of course
for once
when that other guy did
the guy
who
frankly–since i divorced him
i really don’t feel like
having him
in my chasm.

i dropped the minions off with their dad and while driving home listening to really bad middle of illinois soft rock radio, i started thinking about how much i want someone to be in love with me. how desperately i want someone to be in love with me.
and then i realized, other than the random guy who i married just because he was in love with me…i cannot bring myself to believe that anyone has ever been in love with me.
i mean,
i have been in lots–er, my fair share–of relationships. and they all say, “i love you.”
but i don’t think a single one of them was in love with me…except, of course, for the guy, my first ex-husband..who, actually, is still in love with me…or is just desperate & sad & we both mistake it for love…sometimes it is difficult to tell.

so i sit here.
drinking whiskey & being eaten alive by fleas…reveling in my sad desperation.
more journaling to come, i suspect.

narcissus part II: echo & narcissus

he doesn’t know how
to be a person
so he pretends
to be
me
& i feel
sad
at his desperation
& emptiness
& i feel
turned on
because he does me
so well.

drawing dusty into this one, i realized how over the years, he even started wearing his hair like mine.
so weird.
he’s my single white male (movie reference.)
you know how the children of a couple tend to look like one parent or the other? well, our kids look like clones of each other. i realized, after they started popping out of me, that dusty and i basically could be brother & sister as far as our physical appearances go. therefore, our children all match.
so weird.
that’s when i realized how self-absorbed we both were. so self-absorbed that we basically married & mated with a replica of ourselves.

when i started researching narcissism, after suspecting it was a driving force in dusty’s personality and in his treatment of me, i realized that i also had some of the tell-tale signs of narcissism. well, not just me, everyone does. i even read one thing that stated just that. with society today, narcissism is just part of who we are.

and then
this morning i was having a dream about longing for dusty. in the dream i was texting him to lure him to me. i was offering to get high with him. to eat ice cream & watch a movie. i may have even thrown in the offer of a blow job.
trying to appeal to all of dusty’s base needs.
there was a time in my life, when i did throw myself at dusty like this. i don’t even smoke pot. i hate it. but i did it for dusty. to make dusty love me. to make dusty choose me. the mother of his (at the time) three children.
it was a sad & stupid thing to do, & i am embarrassed now when i look back.
but in my dream this morning, i was desperate for him…again.
i wonder what this is. my subconscious does it to me a lot, creates a desperate me in my dreams, longing for the dusty who is leaving me behind….

and then iggy woke me up to tell me he had fleas.

this is my day so far.

 

talk to me

obviously
i cannot come up with the
magic words
that will induce you
to talk to me again…
& maybe
maybe
you should tell me to “stop”
but i am pretty sure
my heart
would turn to dust
if you did
so i keep trying
some crazy stalker chick
to get your attention
recognizing
that you must know
my being ignored
only encourages me more
as i grew up
pretending
hostile silence
was actually deep
affection
a character flaw
i really need to out grow
& totally would…
but it’s you
it’s you
& i can’t stop
i can’t
please
please please please
talk to me
please
please.

it’s my birthday & i can obsess if i want to.
you know, if i ever did become famous…or infamous (really it could go either way with me)…if i ever did become renowned, this obsession of mine will make a great made-for-tv movie.

succubus

i’m so tired
of these feelings of desperation
these terrible
needs
for connection
what is real?
what is longing?
& what is just a big chasm
something intrinsically wrong
with me?
a hole in me
a black succubus of love
any warm body
will do.

desperation

i had a dream
which spoke it to me
dream me
said to
dream you
we did not come together out of desire
but out of desperation
i had had so so many relationships
giving myself away to everyone
you had had no relationships none
locking yourself away from everyone
both of us
desperate for love
desperate to be loved
you saw that i was desperate enough to love you
not desire
but desperation
when one of us would become desperate
to leave
the other would become desperate
to hold on
& we did this dance
we did this dance…
if only we could have stepped away
for a clear thought
to see
we would not have chosen each other
if not for desperation
there is nothing true
in desperation

crowded mind

it’s one of those days
that i have too often
where i don’t see the point of my own species
misanthropy moves deep beneath my skin
a part of me

i think about suicide
and my thought is,
“fuck the survivors. they had a chance to change how they treated her.
they had a chance to understand.
to offer help.
they had their chance
but now they curse the dead for dying
and bemoan their own pain.

‘if only i had known
i would have helped’
but you did know…
how could you have not known?
but, yeah
you might not have been able
to help.
it’s hard to fight the demons
that chew at a brain
a heart
a soul…leaving you empty inside.”

i think as i do the dishes
make the breakfast
knead the dough
wipe up the messes
realizing once again
that my children are innocent
and cannot be left unattended
in this fucked up world

“well, there goes that escape,”
i say to myself.

croweded1

no sylvia plath for me.

croweded3

it’s funny, exhusband#2 accused me of–well, i’m not sure what–he insinuated i was up to no good because i checked out some sylvia plath writings & biographies. i’m not sure what he was accusing me of.
“i’m doing research,” i told him. “i reference her all the time. i think i should make sure i’m not being reckless with my references.”
what was he accusing me of?
being suicidal?
researching my suicide via literature?
trying to be dark & depressed & desperate enough to stick my head in an oven?
is that something you would be nasty to someone about? their suicidal tendencies? but, i guess that is par for the course for exhusband#2.

croweded4

i am so angry at him. mostly for not being the person i had convinced myself he was. the person i needed him to be.  for being an asshole when i needed a hero. the anger helps. it helps to keep me from reaching out to him when i am lonely.
which is often.
it keeps me from reaching out to him when i am desperate.
which is all the time.
it keeps me from convincing myself that things aren’t as bad…that he isn’t as bad as i know he is.

sometimes anger is good.
sometimes anger has a place.
a purpose.