Roaming the Hallways.

 

These are things:
hidden meanings;
soundly maintaining
in between –
the likes of you and me.

The same goes for anybody:
structured similarly;
that functions remotely
close to –
any likeness to Yours Truly;

It becomes impossible to see:
your side of anything;
my heart does not hear or speak
the obsolete –
language of a Hollow King.

I ride lost in loss and strife:
the chaos of a star’s dying light;
the haunting of a dead man’s life
but why –
must you roam the hallways at night?

When I cannot comprehend:
the commands that your faded voice sends;
across the emptiness of the long-forsaken
echoes within –
the spaces and places of the ill-spirited gardens.

I cannot answer then:
a single one of a hundred questions;
the dialect has tumbled over the edge of extinction
you win –
but a world where you’re happy is hard to imagine.

Swan Dive.

I do not completely, and in every way fear you –

Not in the way that he threw a curse upon me to;

I still get warmed up by that appeal, so real and true;

A truth he failed to forever ruin with shades of black and blue.

I’m not so afraid of you – that I have no tendencies, no intrigue;

My body yearns for good sex to magically collide with me;

My brain gradually accepts and digests my life’s reality;

It’s a string of unknown variables: somehow bound to my own destiny.

What I find in a mirror – won’t let my brain truly perceive;

Along with so many pieces of my own history,

I’m a toddler again without a reason to believe;

My environment feels so profoundly abstract and obscene.

The good and the bad – patches of skin: paisley and plaid;

I spent so many tear drops that I now wish I still had;

To cry over the stabs at my womb and the kicks to my head –

There will be time to be held “hostage” when I’m dead.

Unrealistic, sadistic, chauvinistic lovers –

Sociopathic in the street and Pornographic in the covers

But then again, my position in the dark-lit corner;

Not really caring if you do or do not choose to stroll over –

I survived the same ways as anyone else alive;

I can only convey the things that my spirit and soul imply;

I have accepted the truth and jumped over the side;

welcoming the Unknown through a perfected swan dive.

Envenomed.

I see it slithering its way to the spot where I stand,

from a distance, with persistence it knows where I am;

 

I know it’s after any remaining peace of mind,

a new disaster if I fall for its lullaby this time;

 

it has this way of coiling tightly about my feet,

ratcheting and squeezing the life out of me;

 

it whispers the things I dream someone might say,

it tickles the most secret parts of my brain;

 

I see it slithering its way back onto my scene,

from whence I sent it packing for behaving cruelly;

 

trying to maneuver a snake-like body in ways,

that go by unnoticed, without causing any waves;

 

I keep trying to run but I can’t claim any real ground,

like a clown-house with warped mirrored walls all around;

 

like the jingling of bells – that sweet tinkling noise,

the rushing of wind and the river’s raging voice;

 

I see it slithering through sand, grass and snow,

it’s on my heels wherever I think to cleverly go;

 

I don’t want it near me, to touch me or hear me,

this snake they call “Love” lives too venomously.

Night Terrorist.

I don’t know,

what it means,

I don’t recall,

too much at all,

all that I know,

upon wakening,

both fists in a ball,

afraid of everything,

the walls feel like,

they breathe on me,

eyes are blurry,

skin is clammy,

a revival of buried things,

from a past most terrifying,

I can’t run or hide,

and I can’t scream,

he’s there searching,

out there lurking,

disfigured and bloody,

undead and muddy,

with a blade that keeps flashing,

at that moment,

another layer of torment,

I am sickened by the scene,

as I know deep down,

with certainty,

that eventually,

he will come find me,

slash his shiny blade,

right through my airway,

and there will be,

at least for me,

no way to escape,

this same old crime scene,

same old tragic psychopathy,

a crimson crown,

trickled down,

my face, but I feel no pain,

and I steadily drain,

terror from my severed veins,

my memories,

washing heavily,

down the gutter again.

 

 

 

Not In My Kitchen.

It’s hard to try to summarize, but in short – here it is: my roommates are each intelligent and dependable in his own right; they are unique in unique ways that are too minutely attached to the tiny details of one’s persona to ever take an accurate stock of.

In one of them (“Dice”), I can have complete faith regarding the maintenance of my car, for example; this same roommate would also be the one I would turn to with a jammed rifle, any kind of measurement, centralized heating and cooling issues, and/or the use or instructions for use of any power tool imaginable; I trust this roommate much more so than I trust 9 out of 10 human beings on a very generalized basis because of the years’ worth of water under our bridge as friends without any drama or bullshit at all; he is a kind person with a good heart, in spite of himself; his is also the sole hand that touches the BBQ grill in my household. We share things like The Walking Dead, LOTR, reggae music, good weed and being recluse in common. This roommate is Persian (Iranian) by blood, born in the US to parents who emigrated here during the 1960’s.

The other roommate (“The Orphan”) is the one who I can query at random with a wide ranging interrogative and receive generally sound answers from; he was also my sky-diving instructor, so there’s a very weird kind of trust between this roommate and myself despite our sometimes volatile relationship; he is a surf buddy, a swim buddy and as some of you may remember – got here as my adopted orphan, who was a suicidal train wreck on the other side of the globe when we first became friends. He has been here over 2 years now, has healed his spirit well, got his citizenship, has a good job and a cute little girlfriend; and is doing shiningly in comparison to what he once was. He is also a former French Military Special Forces Paratrooper who has an uncanny comprehension of all things tactical and military. We share things like the Unsecret Death Wish, the ocean, raunchy jokes and coffee in common.This roommate is Corsican by blood (which is French by nationality), raised in Germany, and is a French National with German and American citizenship.

The three of us can happily sit around our kitchen table at a meal and discuss pretty much anything in an amiable, if not jovial, manner. Typically, this is the case. Tonight, things became heated between them during a (take a guess) political disagreement. I came out into the kitchen and said,

“C’mon you guys…really, you’re gonna let Trump or whoever ruin our BBQ?” in a joking tone to lighten the tension (because that’s who I am, the peacemaker), only to find out that they were bumping heads about the tragedy in France.

It was pretty disturbing to me, as I proceeded to listen to the Orphan vehemently arguing his point to Dice with true passion; such a final and decisive reaction he is having that he feels as if it has come to the point where mass preemptive murders via the military would be the only answer. To hear the guy whose military experience has unfailingly spoken truths upon truths thus far say such a thing was deeply unsettling; and left a nasty taste in my mouth.

Around.

You don’t know what my tears taste like,

because your lips do not catch their’ fall,

and the tendency to judge my actions…

well, you’re nobody to judge me at all.

You don’t have a clue what I’ve come through,

I don’t care where you think that you’ve been,

as soon as you’ve perfected your own shit…

maybe, come back and take a crack at me again.

I don’t need a single person’s approval,

and most certainly wasn’t looking for yours,

I know who I am, against your presumptions…

I stand for the steps you’ve never taken before.

People like you only shrink when compared to,

somebody with half of a beating heart,

I’m not sure why it shines so sure from your eyes…

a slice of humanity would break you apart.

Please keep your greed from my scenery,

if you own the slightest hint of a clue,

of how much I despise the habit of lies…

take heed, if you know what’s good for you.

Because, one day you will taste my teardrops,

you will feel the fathoms of my own grief,

despite all of your efforts at destruction and doom…

someday your reflection will look just like me.

My, Oh My.

 

It will someday claim,
All I’ve left of these short breaths…
My “anxiety”.

It pains by no name,
Bringer of a thousand deaths…
My old memories.

It’s whipped me to shame,
Jimmied my heart from my chest…
My own mockery.

It’s always the same,
Threatening to take my best…
My PTSD.

Memaphor.

 

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-blindingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bullheadedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

simple_beauty_by_velvetredbullet-d3cqn4d

Missile-Toed.

missile1As intriguing as the concept of quantum String Theory has always been to my hungry brain, I admit that the principles behind it mean little to me.
Space, in all of its profound glory, has remained much the same throughout life for me: The science-fictionesque backdrop belonging on Star Trek, a mystical and elusive place relative to scientific calculations and mathematical equations that I will NEVER understand in the slightest, creatures that do not look nor behave the way that our own species does (due to some bio-genetic adaptation needed to survive in the vacuum), and an underlying sense of feelings very close to unease and discomfort.
I went to see The Empire Strikes Back in the theater with my Dad, brothers and Papa when it first came out…I was awed and amazed by the various species included – and, it was sometime around then that I became infatuated with finding and kidnapping my own Ewok. The first time I saw 2010 Odyssey, I didn’t sleep for nights afterward…it was upsetting and unfamiliar all the way around. Since those early and wondrous days of life, I have become a “Sky-Watcher”. I am not the type of sky-watcher who owns a high-end telescope or anything fancy like that though; I am simply an observer who cannot keep my eyes from the night skies anytime I am beneath them. I have self-taught myself about the star systems and the solar system on a very generalized scale in order to understand things best I can; and, have grown up to grasp a very basic understanding of the “final frontier”.
In all of my years keeping watch on the stars that twinkle overhead while I smoke outside (usually with a good portion of my attentions directed only at the sky), I have only seen two incidents that I was not able to a sound scientific explanation for, afterward. The first time was two summers ago, towards the end of the season, when I was stricken by a very colorful strobe flashing from high the Easterly sky – very far away and high above any aircraft that passed while I watched. This strobe emitted four very distinctive colored lights in sequence of red – orange- green – blue repeatedly and seemed to be moving in an unnatural way. When I say “moving”, what I mean is that this “star” appeared to be centered on a bungee string that was being pulled from both ends on either side of it creating sorts of very rapid but short jolting motions, while staying mostly in the same general vicinity. I freaked out and called my former roommate to see, by whom my perception was re-affirmed and seconded. I never was able to find any reasonable answer for what we saw that night; although, NASA’s official reply to my inquiry (and I shit you not) was that it is an anomaly known as a “fireball”. As if such a label should have out all of worries to rest, somehow…
The second thing…the much more disturbing and unsettling thing I have witnessed happened last night, as I was walking to my car from my house. I saw in my peripheral, a large streak of what I assumed was cloud cover daubing the sky just to the south of me; but the size and general shape of it caused my brain to need a better a look. The instant that I shifted my full focus onto the streak, it was set ablaze with the brightest and most concentrated light I have ever seen in my entire life; the streak of what I had taken to be clouds suddenly became bathed in this luminous glow, and was connected directly to something that was silently streaming upward in a massive arc. I watched with my mouth dropped open as this cylinder of pure light/smoke/cloud/dust grew longer as the attached object made its trajectory, before it eventually positioned itself in line with the lower and twinkling stars midst the cloud cover. I stood there and watched it; it didn’t explode, it didn’t fall down, it just hung there like some far-future science project:

“Now, here’s how you hang your very own star in the sky, children…”

The shit was skin-chilling. I shrugged and got in my car to go to the store then. When I got out onto the street, everyone was pulled over to the sides of the road as if we had just been hit by an earthquake or something.
This morning, NASA is hard at work with the “California Missile Testing” story; something that they claim is a totally normal and common happenstance here around the valley. My question is: if it’s such a regular occurrence and it happens so often, why did it make any Californian who saw it pee themselves?

Scared.

I guess it’s good that I can’t recall the nightmares I have after I awaken from them; they are bad enough to often already have me in tears upon waking for the first time for the day – and I don’t mean like a few little snuffles either – I mean like full-blown

“I’m upset as hell and can’t stop crying and don’t even know why”.

I’m a fucking trainwreck
I’m a fucking headcase
I wake up in the morning and I’m sobbing and scared and the worst part about it is that I can’t even put my finger on WHAT I’m so afraid of or WHO. I just FEEL SCARED.

“The Other”.

I guess in all fairness, she lived here long before I did; this was her vessel for even longer than it has belonged to me (I pirated this shell a little over a decade ago now), she functioned within this skin for over two decades prior to my arrival. She primed the solid physique that I carry today, fed the body meals, and somehow managed to get it to where I came into the picture alive…well, barely alive – but alive all the same.

She was a weakling; a cowed and youthfully blind creature, a dreamer, a believer in good, a hopeful and ever-willing dumbass, a self-detrimental junkie and a self-absorbed human being…she was “the other”.

women killed…and she nearly got me killed that decade or so ago…because of the miserable and unbelievable situation she had found herself in in place far from home, friends or family. She went on ahead and had a baby with the man (her husband) who was beating her to a pulp regularly; a man whom she had come to be learn first hand: suffered from increasingly unpredictable physically/sexually violent tendencies towards her. This is an element of domestic abuse that becomes quite the double edged dagger later down the road; but in the beginning of such a notion, the draw is undoubtedly that of human closeness, tenderness and fondness for the DV victim…”the other” was eventually alienated beyond words. The baby linked “the other” to the real world just enough to keep her on head on somewhat forward-facing; the baby also created an entirely new element of fear within her day to day life. She began to care less and less about herself as a result, her safety became irrelevant in her own mind.1072960“The other” got her throat opened in her front yard one day at the hands of that same man; yes, the one who she had married and had children with – the one who she knew she had to get away from before such a thing took place…the one who’s sickness continues to rot away at my existence through the offspring we share. I don’t relate to her choices, that young girl who was slashed that day; I never have…

Since the moment that I picked up her nearly dead carcass and breathed my own air into its essence, she has remained an enigma of sorts to me with her pathways taken and where they led her. I pity her. I dislike her. I cry sometimes for her when I’m alone.

crying_woman_liquid_tears_crying_weeping_wallpaper-t2

My, My.

It will someday claim,
All I’ve left of these short breaths…
My “anxiety”.

It pains by no name,
Bringer of a thousand deaths…
My old memories.

It’s whipped me to shame,
Jimmied my heart from my chest…
My own mockery.

It’s always the same,
Threatening to take my best…
My PTSD.

Cupid’s Misfire II.

He just had to own this girl;

had to find a way to tap into,

to get her to submit to him –

and his inclination to subdue…

 –

his fingers yearned to touch her,

such fair and young, unbroken skin,

his mind was attached to the image –

of her face: full of disgrace and chagrin…

 –

everything else blinked out of existence,

his sights set on lock-tight, and reeling tight,

a matter of time until he dropped the hammer,

and happily violated her every last right…

 –

She was just right to fall for his rouse,

she bit right into the bored, disinterested yawn,

never saw through the showy façade,

until it was too late, and her freedom was gone.

A Fast Quake is a Bad Quake Around Here.

So…I was just sitting here being a good, little tax lady and working hard when we had a super heavily jolting earthquake.

It was fast and strong, which makes me think it was likely the Loma Prieta vein of the fault line San Andreas (my local fault line – and the infamous slip-shift display section of the fault line). In the event that it was a jolt from this section, I am scared; that would translate into what we call a “precursor-shock” (as opposed to an “after shock”) because it’s a slight slip of the fault line’s enormous energy – a baby-spoon taste of the pressure built up in the slip-shift fault line, and now that much closer to letting loose. When our Loma Prieta builds up too long (a period of time which went well passed, like ten years ago), the release of the fucking massive amounts of energy, in combination with the type of fault line we sport, is catastrophic on varying levels, depending on the neighborhood and its position against the fault line.

Eeeesh, that rattled my cage….

At Least “Miss Muffet” Ran.

tuffet2

“SPIDERS ARE EIGHT-LEGGED TERRORISTS.” – Americana Injustica

My CPTSD is in abstract form; surprise, surprise…”complex” is an understatement, at best. An “absolutely unreasonable” fear of spiders woke up with me in the hospital after I survived the Ripper; a strange manifestation indeed. It made me sick with myself; I remember how disgusted I felt by my own feelings and behaviors surrounding the fear I SUDDENLY felt of arachnoids. I didn’t understand it, couldn’t find a way to understand it, it just simply took over entire areas of my persona without my having a say in it. The arachnophobia took over my existence at first; and I found myself reshaping that existence to fit around the presence of the affected fear. I began to worry constantly about spiders falling into my hair from ceilings; I boycotted going outside, altogether. I even put a mosquito net up over my hospital bed for a while because it somehow offered me comfort (though, in hindsight – a mosquito net only could’ve translated into a huge, prefabricated home to any eight-legged creep lol).

Point here is:

I did things, felt things and perceived things very differently from the way I had before the traumatic event/injury. I mean, I earned my stripes at age 6 by hatcheting a baby rattler snake to bits while it was still inside the bottom of my sleeping bag – reflexively. I was never afraid of nature, like I should have been – until my do-over. And then, suddenly – I was lying awake at night on the lookout for Daddy Long Legs. Therapy didn’t help much at first, either…the therapist was a hippie, and preferred to go outside to the lawn for most sessions…I eventually stopped going at all and allowed myself to become rather incorrigible to the nursing staff upstairs. They likely had the BIGGEST party imaginable when I was finally released to leave. If I were any of them, I would have undoubtedly found a bag of spiders into the “goodbye” gift bag that they assembled for me – to begin with. So time went on and I went “home”.

The spider thing became an instant family favorite with my brothers and friends, none of them comprehended that I was truly terrified beyond of description of them now. Prior to this experience, I had never actually been stricken by the inability to move my feet when I was hit with fear; after I woke up in the hospital however, I was dumbfounded to learn that such fear DOES exist – as well as to regularly experience the associated “lock-up” pretty much on a daily basis. Being too afraid to move is a terrible, terrible thing: it humbles you beyond comparison; it limits your entire perceptive realm down to a teeny hole that you have to lean close to in order to press an eye against to see anything. It not only immobilizes your body – but your brain also chokes and defaults to idle; the only thing that is there is the fear.

I still struggle to put it into words that cast true light on the convoluted nature of the “arachnophobia thing”, all I can say is that you may as well put a rabid and ginormous dog with razor-teeth in front of me when I see a spider…my response is the same either way. I know, I know…it is lame. I have been to psychotherapy, hypnosis, etc. to try and un-fear spiders…to no avail, thus far, at least. But I have, at least, come to harbor a deep understanding of its roots, which in turn has empowered me to some degree.

In my former life, as a perpetually violated female body, I spent a lot of time in semi-consciousness as a result of physical violence; a sad amount of time, if I am being honest here. After a few times of getting my ass handed to me, the numbness began to kick in and I eventually evolved to survive via “dissociation”. I spent the majority of my time alone in solitude and helplessness (outside of the Ripper and my then baby daughter); I was a blank page, so to speak. During this era of my life, I would often awaken somewhere I didn’t fall asleep, or have things turn up missing often (when there was nobody else there to have taken or relocated them). Sometimes, I know it was the Ripper who had moved me while I passed out unconscious; but other times, I know that it hadn’t been him.

During a session of group therapy about two years ago – the memory was resurfaced in a matter of moments, the one that undoubtedly bore my arachnophobia on a subconscious level, so long ago. In the desert, there are all kinds of insects that we NEVER see in the city – ALL KINDS. It was June, a month when you can’t safely open your doors and/or windows, in spite of the insane heat, due to the multiplied masses of newly hatched and hatching generations of bugs from every genus. The Ripper had broken out three of my front teeth and kicked me so hard in the chest that my ribcage was stabbing me from the inside. I recall laboring to breath and the heat and dry air didn’t help. I got my ass kicked again at some point for being hurt, and wound myself up in HIS garage (actually, in a “secret room” he had in the very back of it – shiver).

He wasn’t in there when I woke up, luckily; but I could not move for the entirety of the time I lay there in near darkness. I think I must have either been temporarily paralyzed due to some freak nerve damage, or in physical shock or something…not sure, but I was literally stuck like glue to the dirt floor rolled on my left side. During the therapy ah-ha moment, I remembered that a spider crawled out of my mouth that day, while I was unable to move or scream or even spit. Most likely because of the more pressing and immediate life-threatening circumstance that I was bound to from day to day back then, this instance went right out the window with other “mundane and meaningless bullshit”; only to rear its delayed reaction after I was no longer in immediate danger at the hands of my husband. Just a little food for thought on the issue of PTSD/CPTSD, and it’s ripples…

The High Speed Wobbles.

Anybody who suffers from an “anxiety disorder” will know the wobbles well, most likely.

It happens to the very best of the best of us; no matter how far into ‘recovery’ and/or treatment we may be – it never completely leaves us for good, it always returns to remind us again…we have no control. It happens on a good day, a bad day, a day you never even make it out of bed at all.

For me, the wobbles tend to come out of nowhere, typically blindsiding me into submission to an emotional tsunami of anxiety, malcontent and paranoid fear. This seems to truly wash over everything – the thoughts in my head and heart, the feelings I harbor in general, my level of energy, my attention span, any motivational element in my life at a given time; I become consumed very quickly and completely by the anxiousness when this occurs. I become paranoid of my surroundings and the people in them; I lose any sense of reason. In turn, what usually happens, is that I trigger my own reflexive fight or flight response through the sudden increase of adrenaline and serotonin coursing through my body – and I react as if I were being attacked in a corner.

I know, it’s fucking disturbing…but true.

I have a roommate, I’ve written about him and his lack of understanding surrounding the details of the things that I struggle with from day to day, in regard to constant fear and perpetual edginess; he likes to scare me. He finds it amusing, which in all honesty, makes him NO DIFFERENT from 9 out 10 dudes that I know, unfortunately.He likes to hide in the shrub near the front door and wait for me to walk passed in the dark after work…he likes to pop out of random closets and spaces that I’d never be expecting him to pop out of. It’s unfortunate.

AS, IT’S DOES NOT AMUSE ME.

When I am startled by someone, in the moment, I do not see. I do not recognize you in the slightest, in spite of being only inches from your face and looking dead at you, I do not see you. I am not there. Somebody else must be; because it is during this slice of time after being startled by someone that my subconscious should recognize but doesn’t communicate such to my conscious mind, that my body honestly seems to just take over and do what it thinks I need to be doing in the moment that I get startled. As my roommate is learning  slowly, but ever-more surely – my typical reaction to being startled isn’t to run, after all…shocker! I’m a fighter! And apparently, I go for the eyeballs and face…we are mapping a pattern.

He doesn’t (and by all rights really couldn’t, anyway) get angry with me for physically assaulting him when this happens, he didn’t even hold a grudge four times back – when I pepper sprayed him, reflexively…

He cannot say that I haven’t warned him, and he cannot say that at this stage of things either – that he doesn’t have a good idea of what he’s looking to get into every time he shimmies himself between the shrub and the drainpipe when he hears my car alarm beep beep…so, I no longer feel in the least bad when I have to eat across the table from him when he bears a smeared nose or scratch marks into the corners of either eye. He asked for it.

Mushy.

I’ve sat down so many times –

to write to you, to your heart –

to get through,

to tourniquet the bloody parts…

A curse of mine that you’ve come to

so well-define – in the dark,

a partner in crime

painted in timeless hue

fucked-from-the-start

in every lifetime…

But, I’m still blessed –

through a curse, every time

by my bond to you;

So when I try

to sit down and describe –

with any words

or piece of alter-ego art,

exactly what it is,

that’s happening inside of the wound

from which I pulled your dart…

The words do not come

in accordance to

any drawing or poem

or hardcore theme song –

and I’m always brought back

to the sentimental fact,

that you couldn’t have known,

but you’ve always known

everything, all along.

Memaphor.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-bendingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bull-headedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

Dirt Naps in the Desert – PART 1

This wasn’t a new feeling, this heart stuck in the middle of her esophagus feeling; she had grown disturbingly familiar with the pseudo-lump in her throat by now…just a little over a year’s time. Her thoughts drifted hazily back through time, trying to confirm the accuracy of her perception of time passed since she first became this way – since she lost herself in the midst of an existence under the control of a very angry, pathologically violent, faultily hardwired and precariously unstable man…her husband.
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It had, indeed, been over a year, she silently decided with a slow shake of her heavy, down turned head; she was shocked to realize that she had let it get so far out of her own ability to act – to protect herself – to survive. The very notion of survival had taken on a new face in her mind these days. The recurring raccoon eyes, especially in combination with the non-healing broken jaw and collar bones that she still painfully lived with began to seem like a cake walk, in comparison to the things her husband often did when he was on a psychopathic bender.
Mr. Americano’s unacknowledged, intrinsic rage and deeply seeded hatred towards ALL women on Earth manifested differently, depending on the type of bender he was riding out; but the manifestations most certainly always involved degrading her, physically and sexually assaulting her – no matter the way things played out. Lately, he was obviously escalating quickly to a level which he’d never gone before; the terror and tension she now endured from one moment to the next, waiting like a nervous burglar near the front picture window in the darkness – searching the yard for any sign of movement, fearfully anticipating the headlights rolling over the pane of glass behind which she sat like a scared animal, stiff with fear.
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He had been highly upset over Christmas; his anger had oddly been deflected off of her that time however, and he had gone on a rampage all over town to supposedly “collect” what people owed him.
“It’s bullshit that I don’t have no money for Christmas gifts for my girls while they [by “they”, he meant several of his longtime friends who were each struggling much more than we were, financially] have cash to celebrate and shit…”
He had grown increasingly irritable over the few hours prior to finally leaving that night, the night before Christmas Eve, to go “take what was his” from people who he had known since his childhood that supposedly owed him money (she never knew that part of it for sure, though). He left with a handgun in his door panel, and he was out of his mind with this fit of enraged anger over money owed to him; the entire blow-up seemed random as Hell to her, but nothing really made sense anymore.
He had returned early the next morning covered in blood, beaten half to death and looking quite defeated. He looked like a zombie walking up the path to the front door, literally – clothes torn to shreds in some places, one shoe falling apart with every shuffling step he took towards her, the other shoe missing altogether. His face had been smashed worse than he had ever smashed hers; his eyes were both nearly swollen closed (she wondered how he was able to drive home in that condition, but said nothing of it).
Her heart had fluttered at the sight of him that way: broken, bloody and betrayed by his own cockiness and temper; such a short-lived glory plummeted just as quickly as it caught air however, upon the chilling reminder that she would ALWAYS pay the price for the mistakes others made when it came to her husband; she had always bore the burdens of the stupid things people would say or do to piss him off and make him passively violent the instant that they were behind closed doors.
It was with that thought that she snapped back to the present moment: heart still planted firmly in her mid-esophagus, fear still flash freezing her every particle while she waited for Mr. Americano to return tonight. She had no idea where he’d been or who he’d been talking with – there was no telling which off-the-wall fancy he was going to bring home with him this time. One way or another, she would get the wrath for whatever had him so balls-out angry again, she was sure of that much. At some point in between an onslaught of the panicked breaths her body was reflexively forcing her to take and the all-consuming terror and anxiety attached to the anticipation of his homecoming, she actually fell soundly asleep from emotional exhaustion.

When she made the mistake of resting her head with her “good ear” (the one that he hadn’t beaten the ability to hear from) against the mattress or sofa cushions, creating the encompassing silence appreciated only by those with true hearing LOSS, it was inevitable that she would drift off to sleep every time. She loved quiet time; she loved it more with each second of her life that flew away in the wind; it was the only time she was able to think at all, the rest of her time felt like it was spent on a different planet with an alien companion that made bi-polar disorder look like a week-long bachelor party in the Glades.
More often than not, she found herself stunned to uselessness, unable to comprehend what was happening at any given time, as it was 9 times out of 10: an exceptionally unforeseen act of violence (often torture) against her, at the hands of her monstrous husband. It was during these times of sheer Living Hell that she became numb to the physical damages being done to her body somehow. During the most painful of instances, she would will herself to stand up again – over and over and over until her feet and legs refuse to follow her brains command to lift her up once more. The rest of the time though, she unfailingly did nothing but to sit in a daze and focus on the unspeakable levels of cruelty and sadism that the man who fathered her only child enjoyed to watch her squirm beneath.
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She had been through all of the stages akin to this type of a female domestic hostage: denial, enabling, disbelief, self-loathing and guilt, the defensive, the law, and lastly – resignation. It wasn’t long ago that she had realized she would die this way, in this house with her years’ worth of blood stains soaking into each bedroom’s every plank of wood; she understood that this had been her fault, the decision to marry an illiterate, psychopathic giant with ZERO self-control. That was her bad choice and she owned that much of things; it was about all she owned, and she held on to it fiercely.
The night he had come home beaten and defeated, three of his “friends” in three different locations had surprised him with self-defensive responses to his bullying tactics; one had overtaken him with a club from a dark corner in a garage, one had put up the fist fight of his life and eventually got the upper hand when his two brothers showed up and joined in on his side to knock Mr. Americano unconscious. He finally proceeded to go to “Rooster’s” house (this had been the genius who introduced her to her captor/husband a few years back) and pull the gun he had stashed in his truck door as he had left the house on him in the front yard of his house.
Rooster told her at a later time that Mr. Americano had, indeed, chambered a round and aimed the gun at his face before attempting to shoot him dead then and there. The gun jammed and Rooster was close enough to grab for it. After a short scuffle, Mr. Americano found himself at a disadvantage – already worse for wear and without his gun. Luckily for him, his longtime friend has better morals and standards than he ever could have cultivated or maintained, and let him get away without further incident. It was because of this insane incident that Rooster wound up coming to the house just a few days after Christmas to speak with her while he was at his father’s with the girls to exchange gifts etc. True to his imposing notoriety, he just walked right through the front door and came in to where she was folding laundry on the sun porch out back, first startling her and then, scaring her beyond words with his story about the night before Christmas Eve and the terrifying implications behind its events.
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“Look…I know things are bad for you now, but if you stick around here much longer, things are going to only get a lot worse – really fast; if you don’t beeline for it soon, you’re gonna take a dirt nap somewhere in the desert, girl…”
Dirt naps in the desert were sadly a common way for a bad person to get rid of somebody for good; she knew that. Her husband had commented about this several times in the past in reference to other people who had crossed him. She often wondered if he had already buried anyone in the Mojave out there. Miserably, it would not have surprised her to learn that he had.

All she could do was shake her head and stare at the floor as Rooster summarized a dread warning of life or death to her. The thoughts flooded in once more: the pathetically redundant cycle of possible escape plans, the law, and any trustworthy individuals who would not give her up if she ever actually got out to safety and away from him; it was a hideous, dead-end display of her paralyzed state of mentality. After several minutes, and without lifting her gaze to make eye contact in any way, she simply said:
“You better go, Rooster. If he comes home and finds you here while he’s gone, my head will roll, you know?”
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Her husband had continued to behave more and more erratically and unpredictably over the few months between then and the present; disappearing for hours without word and then returning livid and explosively violent towards her. She staged a “visit” for their daughter up north with her parents, a desperate attempt to assure the baby’s own emotional and physical safety. He had never laid a hand on the girls, but that was liable to change at any moment now. One night, while she sat terrified in the front window, waiting for him to return and beat her until he grew bored and tired with the effort it took, she decided to go through with an escape. She had finally realized and accepted the fact that if she did not act, she would die…and likely soon.

Comes Around.

You don’t know what my tears taste like;

Because your lips do not catch their’ fall,

And your tendency to judge my actions –

Well, you’re no one to judge me at all.

You don’t know what I’ve been through;

I don’t care where you think you’ve been,

As soon as you’ve perfected your own shit –

Maybe, come back and talk to me then.

I don’t need anyone’s bullshit approval;

And I most certainly wasn’t looking for yours,

I know who I am, against your presumptions –

I represent steps that you’ve never taken before.

People like you; seem to shrink when compared to:

Anyone with even half of a beating heart,

I’m not sure why it shines so sure from your eyes –

A slice of true humanity would break you apart.

Please keep that ugly face from my scenery;

If you have the slightest hint of a clue,

Regarding how much I despise – the falseness and lies –

Take heed now, if you know what’s good for you.

Because one day, you will taste my teardrops;

You will feel the depths of this grief,

Despite all of your efforts at destruction and doom –

Silly you, someday your reflection will be me.

TwiLight Zoned.

This weekend has been rather odd, to say the least…
My Twilight Zone Weekender technically began on Thursday – when the Opportunist sent me a super out-of-the-blue succession of “apologetic” (narcissistic and self-serving attempts at control) text messages; and it only got more strange and fucking out there as the weekend rolled on.
Friday, my doctors told me that my heart is technically failing; “but it’s a lot more scary sounding than it actually is…” my thing regarding the failure of my heart is simple: my father, a Nam Vet – a tough, tough guy – a survivor in his own right – was dropped dead by Congestive Heart Failure when I was thirteen years old, he was 42…I’m now 35 ½ years old. Dun dun dun!!! Anyway, despite the fact that I have lived through the most extreme of the extreme in terms of medical procedures and what not, the heart thing terrifies me. And so the journey through mindphuq – bodyfuq began.
Saturday morning, my heart woke me up again; hurting…hammering…stealing my breaths from my lungs and forcing my body temperature to freeze, inappropriately. I was sick several times during the early morning hours; but then the nausea subsided, and my right shoulder/chest began to throb and stab at its own insides, instead. I gave up the uncomfortable tosses and turns around 7:00am, and rolled out of bed to the unwelcome change-in-routine of ‘no coffee’. I was queasy, so ‘no coffee’ wasn’t so bad after all.
I was stupid enough to open a letter I’d received the night before from Boo; a feat in itself, seeing as how I normally create a huge issue over (my own bullshit psychological road-blocks) before pretty much forcing myself to begrudgingly rip open the envelope covered in her teenaged girl bubble letters, hearts, and arrows. I don’t know why I didn’t experience this inner-boxing match with this letter, but either way – I opened yesterday’s letter without a second thought for the most part…it’s been so long since I had any interaction with Boo at all; I guess I was just hungry for her words – no matter venomous or otherwise. Her letter was likely one of the most hollowing I’ve received from her since her return to the facility where she is caged out of state; she is so detached and dissociated – going through the motions – writing the letter she thinks she is supposed to write…she’s so sad and depressed and says several times that she misses me; she talks about how she’s been on lock down for over a week because of the illegal actions of other girls who reside there.
Getting mail from Boo is always a chop to my windpipe; I admit that I have so much anxiety surrounding her upcoming 18th birthday in May that I sometimes feel like I literally might spontaneously combust.
I can say that I have a very deep understanding and respect for the saying: “Being eaten alive by guilt.”
This is why dissociation has become part of my day to day survival, and possibly that of other specific individuals involved in Boo’s tragic experience under the “care” of the Juvenile Courts and the Department of Family & Children’s Services; without “psychological escapism” – I would not be able to survive. That is an unquestionable truth in my Life, as sad and lacking of stability as it may be.
When I think too long about shit regarding Boo, when I get slapped in the face and am reminded so vividly of her pain and suffering – suffering that goes coldly overlooked and disregarded by anyone close enough to reach out and hug her or even just sit with her, even not say fucked up shit to her that makes her questions of herself spin out of control – when I think too long about any of it, my chest feels like it’s caving in, like it’s been sprayed with liquid nitrogen, or my lungs have been sprinkled with solvent – the tissue is dissolving slowly with a chemical burn sting. I was struggling to get my breath; my draws would not allow me to inhale completely without shooting a bolt of lightning through my chest cavity. My shoulder continued to pinch and stab throughout the entirety of the day; I fell asleep with my arm slung up over a body pillow wrapped back over my head, looking and feeling very much like a pretzel. I slept like shit; but woke up with considerably less chest/shoulder pain, and the ability to breathe much easier.

And…today went on to be also oddly out-of-the-ordinary…
I spent the day today with The Opportunist (kind of). The quick run-down behind this circumstance is as follows:

1. It’s Sunday (male chauvinist football day in the U.S.)
2. I live in what would otherwise be a Bachelor Pad, given my absence in the household.
3. The Opportunist and one of my roommates (“The Good Bunkie”) go all the way back to childhood together.

I’m sure you can do the math there.

Apparently, his failed attempts at contacting and connecting with me the other day didn’t fix his monkey; because here he came today, tortilla chips and salsa dips under one arm – and I shit you not – an array of MY very favorite things under the other, ranging from flowering cacti, to flavored rolling papers, to Granddaddy Kush. Wow…I accepted his offerings with a smile and a nod before disappearing into the safety of my hallway that leads me away from the “man cave”, with a stiff “thank you” in passing.
Of course, me being the NON drama queen that I am (and yes, I am bragging…this is one of my favorite things about myself, in comparison to others I know), I never the bombardment of (pretty pathetic) text messages that The Opportunist sent the other day to the Good Bunkie because, well, why would I? He would only feel the need to be defensive for his lifelong friend, and it wouldn’t be a comfortable position for him to be in…so I don’t say shit to him about his lying, opportunistic, shit-talking, two-faced friend. Not my place to do so. Coming from a woman who grew up in a household full of men, boys and – me, you better trust and believe that I know what time it is when it comes to the old “Bros before Hoes” scenario. I don’t stir that pot.
Anyway, my day actually consisted of spending no time with The Opportunist, unless being in the same square footage vicinity counts. He WAS INDEED sitting on my couch all day, watching football…just like old times…but the only way I knew he was here was because once in a while his cry-baby whining voice would drift down the hall into my domain. Otherwise, I spent the day either doing yard work or in my own quarters. But still…a very weird day…a very tiresome weekend.
Tomorrow’s another day, ya’ll.

Bashful and Insecure.

Um Bashful...

Insecure.

Nope.

Nope, still too shy.

Nope, still too shy.