spinning

this is how it is
with me
i go in circles
for years
convincing myself
i am on the right path
& where i want to be
following my own lead
believing my own gospel
until one day
like a light switch
i see the fork
in the road
& i take a new direction…
never turning back.

fickle? i like the word fickle. it rhymes with pickle.
in high school my friend dubbed me a “spigot of passion.” that works too. i pour it all out, all over the place. and then i shut it off.
i
just
shut
it
off.
but, in my own defense, all the times i have shut off my passion…i have done it in my own defense. i tend to trust my heart with ones who should not even be trusted with a lesser organ…like an ear…or an appendix. i give them my heart and they use it for an ashtray and eventually my self respect, my self preservation kicks in…and i just shut it off. i shut off my love. i close it away to somewhere safe(r).

this happened recently with my seymour saga. he finally crossed the line where i could no longer pretend he wasn’t doing a tap dance on the tattered remains of my heart & soul.

so i shut it off. turned it off.
he has nothing on me now.
he is nothing to me now.

does that make me calloused & cruel?
or does it mean i still have some love left
for me? after all i gave to him…i still have
some
left for me.

okay. seriously. “me & bobby mcgee” (seymour & mine’s song) started playing as i typed the words “so i shut it off. turned it off. he has nothing on me now. he is nothing to me now.” what the fuck, universe-that-insists-on-talking-to-me-via-songs-on-the-radio?? what the fuck? so i got up & turned off the radio & put on some amanda palmer on pandora. (oh do totally watch that video…it always makes me smile.)

 

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a lightening

it is a release
a relief
a fucking
lightening
who knew how heavy
i was
holding him in
my heart
my penance
my sisyphean love
i’m free
broken free
of the cage
i’d built
myself.

 

burnt fingers

why have i let them
why have i let men
have the best parts
of me
giving my everything
to them
apologizing
for it not being
enough
holding torches
that just
burn my fingers.

a short poem…a simple drawing. liberally using my white space.

i borrowed from my figure drawing book (expressive figure drawing) for this one.

grow

the last illusion
shattered
those straws you were grasping
have left you
empty
you are a husk
an emptiness
& all you can do now is
grow
up
& stronger
& towards the light
grow.

thank you to vincent van gogh for inspiration/material for this self-portrait. we probably would have made each other miserable, but i would have been better off loving him. i do like the gingers.

awakening

& then one day you realize
that the one
who you had convinced yourself
loved you truly
you realize that he
is just as big a
turd
cunt
fuck
as the rest of them
& you don’t know how to feel
because what does it mean
if there was no love
in your life
after all
no love
what does that say
about you?
did you hold onto him so hard
just to prove to yourself
that someone
could
love
you?
& what does it mean that
that proof
that validation
has now
vanished?
what do you do
now
that delusion has hardened
into
reality?

hold on tight, dear readers. this is just the first of several journal pages of the quick & twisty emotions found in this one when her hot turns cold & vice versa.

don’t tell…the last page?

have i finally exorcised this fucking ghost?

i hope so. i am tired of holding a torch that just burns the fuck out of my fingers. i want to move on and stop wondering which thing that i did wrong was the thing that drove him away.

fuck it.

it needs editing & more substance, etc. but the rough draft is available entirely for reading over at medium.

let me know if you have any suggestions for work that needs to be done on it. i am still pretty close to the story–i was crying as i wrote this last page. but i think in writing it, i am working out a lot of the bullshit that i was holding onto and calling love.
yay.

the journal page is from 1995 when seymour & i lived in austin, tx with peacocks on our front lawn .

feeling it

i kinda feel like
opening my wrists
& painting one last
picture
blood for ink
ink for blood
until nothing is
left
of me.
i know this is not
a healthy thought
a hopeful thought
but it is a feeling
i cannot
deny.
you might even feel it
too
if you were
overwhelmed
unloved
emotionally stripped
to the bone
& pretty much sure
you’d done it all
wrong.

another inspirational post for my birthday.
i have been looking at art on instagram & hating my art…again. so i did this one with a bamboo pen to mix things up a little. i want to be more abstract. but i am not sure how to do that. so i might have to start trying harder. i know it is hard to break those habits of realism. even for someone like me who barely lives in reality.

anyhoo. i am not out on a ledge. i am just having a really rough time. the usual suspects. four year olds & forty year olds.
and birthdays.
and…well…life.

but i’m not giving up just yet.