sharp stick

my cruel
subconscious
that two-faced
cunt
has to know
what a mess i am
(it has a front row seat
to my pain)
so
why does it wait
until i am
asleep
vulnerable
to take a stick
&
poke me hard
in the tender spots
with dreams
of you?

nothing like a fresh obsession to get the journal pages going again.

while i wait for my latest case of obsession to pass, i am thankful that i am not really able to ride my bike past his house three times a day as he lives three states away.
and i have a houseful of kids
a yardful of critters
depending on me to not jump in the river of crazy and swim away.
so there is that.

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strong in the force

i can feel you
in my bones
like a nostalgia
you can wear
snug
& warm
comforting but suffocating
i can feel you
& i watch
for you to
somehow
wander back into my
life
while telling myself to
knock it the fuck
off
i can feel you
in the tears
i can no
longer
cry
but
still
do
i can feel you
like an impending
thunderstorm
the smell of rain
anticipation
hope.

it has been almost five months since i have looked at his instagram. but i did look, after the dreams started. and he is in illinois. chicago, at least.
and i can imagine him coming to see me.
i can imagine it so vividly.
the look on his face
what he would say….

there are just two men whom i have actually, truly loved out of the dozens–yes dozens–of men whom i have known, you know, biblically….
once loved…always loved. that’s how i know the love was (is) true.
how do you forget something like that?

you don’t.

it pops up in your dreams to haunt you & you find yourself doodling him as the leia to your luke. (before it was known they were actually siblings)

haunted

in my dream
i was on a blind date
i knew it was not
going to work out
but i ordered pad thai
anyway
& tried to make
conversation
when
suddenly seymour
you were scooching in
next to me
your arm slung
over my shoulder
whispers
in my ear
in my dream
you filled my senses
& my date
was forgotten
of course
i left with you
& when i woke up
i was left
without
you
but i clung to the dream
the feeling
not letting it fade
i held tight
like every other time
i dream
of you
i clutched it close
& wondered
if you knew you were in my dream
& wondered
was i in
yours?

is it because it’s christmas-time? is that why my brain is torturing me? or is he thinking of me & i am so fucking empathic that i can feel it three states away?
or is he closer? home for the holidays?
oh my god. i was barely thinking of him. i thought i had let him go.
is that why he is back?
fuck a duck.
i had the dream sometime during the night. it was not the only dream he was in, but it was the one i held tightest to & kept with me until morning, etched into my brain so it would not fade away.
when i got up in the morning and walked into my kitchen, of course the time on the clock was his birthday.
7:28
how many times do i see that on my clock and try to pretend it means nothing?
well, merry fucking christmas.
i got a haunting.

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.)

 

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 .

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