Sinking Me.

Have you ever felt its slice? …
Never seen the flash of light? …
Weren’t you there –?
a winding road up –
to absolutely nowhere…
indulge me with your disguise;
who is to say
stupid or wise? –
I’d made up my weary mind,
treading circles in square boxes
has been suiting you just fine;
I got up off my knees,
walked away
no goodbye –
I haven’t the energy, or time;
My darling, it’s gotten old,
tired and spent
like a tooth filled with gold;
soft enough to give with force,
and allow its form to shape new mold,
but too hardened at the edges,
scarred deeply
by tragedy –
carved in her skin in big bold;
the slice that you refuse to see,
the load you aren’t willing to pull
in turn with me,
You’re sinking me.

Since You Asked.

The very time when

you came lumbering in

the dizziness began

my head wanted to swim,

 

a spank on a slippery butt-cheek

swallowed by lust, immediately

happy to thrust myself on your feet

an instantaneous subservient deed,

 

I suffered fits of double vision

a drunken, poisoned intuition

intoxication of the madly driven

strained my ears to better listen,

 

I entertained thoughts of you and me

while I sat in the corner so quietly

watching how you were successfully

strong-arming me, telepathically,

 

I swooned at your easy speech

I ached for your hands to dominate me

I would’ve begged, just as easily

you struck me most exceptionally,

 

all I will as say to what we became

how I never tire of screaming your name

You’ve said I’ve proven impossible to tame

and that was no matter, it’s all in the game,

 

you know I’m fragile and broken to bits

it never stops you from handling shit

when it comes to me, you still so “do it”

there it is: I dare you to chew it up and swallow it.

 

 

 

Open-Ended Places.

I dreamed again last night
of your younger life
of visions I saw
when things were alright
when the future ahead
was laid out, bathed in light
and the time hadn’t yet come
to hold my own defeat tight
I dreamed of open ended places
where anything stood possible
in its own living right
I dreamed again of nothing
but bathing you in sunlight
and opening the doors
that you’ve kept closed in life
I dreamed again of motherhood
in a victorious bond held high
I dreamed of never knowing you
as you’ve come to slice my pride
I dreamed again of rescuing you
from the darkness where you reside
and redressing wounds, unhealed
wiping blood from those beautiful eyes
I dreamed again of your newborn face
and all the promise inside if your smile
I awoke on fire and screaming aloud
a visit from my long-lost child.

On Being Sad A Lot.

Dark sunglasses,
vascular molasses,
paper-thin translucence,
subdermal interference,
veiny designed limbs,
bear the marks of him,
carved perpetually,
onto the skin of me,
and in all likelihood,
my legacy’s no good,
Dark sunglasses,
treasure stashes,
overtaken gradually,
badly mistaken identity,
and, it’s true when they say,
I met defeat along the way,
doesn’t mean I’ll just lay down,
for the circus that parades around,
and let those feet,
stomp anymore on me,
I’ve had enough now,
I’ve taken so much somehow,
time for some peace,
time for some sleep.

Anaphylaxis.

The buzz was what caught my attentive gaze,
triangulated to my inner-left-ear,
I strained my eyeballs far to the right, without moving;
and, there it was – like a tightly wound, black cotton-ball,
dipping in and out of the day lilies,
a low-toned hum,
reverberating from its dark-winged fuzziness;
and I stupidly forgot…
my mind became invaded by other thoughts and memories,
I truly just forgot my own allergy,
how deathly allergic I am to this Blackbeard of Bees;
my thoughts were of you instead,
immediately upon the tone of the buzz inside my left ear,
the vibrating sound amidst the foliage and flowers,
I am on high alert naturally,
so fucking stuck in old ways, am I…
all I was focusing on in the moment as he flew closer to me,
was how very glad I was that he could not sting you,
that you are gone away from me,
and today this bumble bee will not drop your blood pressure,
not make you gasp and gag for your very breaths,
he will not shock you with anaphylactic,
he will not make you cry or hurt you –
not this one, not today…
and that was when he stung me;
and I lost pace with my heartbeat so quickly then,
thank the Gods I have that adrenaline pen;
truth is though, I was still victorious,
because he didn’t sting my Boo.

Shame on Me.

I put my hat on backwards –
to straighten out my crooked head,
it doesn’t always do the trick,
but it keeps me out from under the bed;

I ride my surfboard goofy –
because that’s just how I roll,
it’s too hard to break the chains,
to the habits that we know;

I drive around much faster –
than I am supposed to be,
but if I don’t, the masses,
will surely get the best of me;

I give much more freely –
than I ever really should,
I suppose this may be because,
of my collection of nickels made of wood;

I am not an idiot –
in contrast to the things that I may do,
I am simply surviving,
just trying to make my own way through.

Dark Heart of Me.

I have these dawning moments when:
everything around me tightly closes in
tunneled down by a tornado’s spin –
and at end of the tunnel –
lies the booming realization;
I have these dulled down memories:
so very many once meaningful things
carved, imparted on the dark heart of me –
but I have let them fade away –
no new recollections to retrieve;
I know of some of the sacred divinities:
many thing shown to me by the elderly
drawn like a map amidst the Mysteries –
however, the mystery is gone –
what fills its place, tastes bitterly;
I live amidst a sense of danger and doom:
like a shadow cast by a permanent gloom
no matter where I go, it’s in the room –
it’s impeded upon a part of me –
not likely to change anytime soon;
I display a die-hard tendency:
hardens the hardness of the people I see
deepens the darkness of the world around me –
to lead the horses to the water –
and wait there until each one drinks;
I am modified by the things that I’ve survived:
skin on my body grown from cells that were not mine
ears pinned to my head like Frankenstein –
these things were never easy –
but they’ve sure made me feel alive.
I try my best to look ahead:
not get tangled up in any said and done webs
not worry about what he or she might have said –
no matter they say about the end of another day –
we’re all just one day closer to being dead.

Sinking Me.

Have you ever felt its slice? …
Never seen the flash of light? …
Weren’t you there –?
a winding road up –
to absolutely nowhere…
indulge me with your disguise;
who is to say
stupid or wise? –
I’d made up my weary mind,
treading circles in square boxes
has been suiting you just fine;
I got up off my knees,
walked away
no goodbye –
I haven’t the energy, or time;
My darling, it’s gotten old,
tired and spent
like a tooth filled with gold;
soft enough to give with force,
and allow its form to shape new mold,
but too hardened at the edges,
scarred deeply
by tragedy –
carved in her skin in big bold;
the slice that you refuse to see,
the load you aren’t willing to pull
in turn with me,
You’re sinking me.

A Different Line.

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.” – William Shakespeare

While you can be fine

there are still words left

unsaid, of mine…

I can keep going

into a different sunset,

down a different line…

And I can be good

with so many nickels

made of wood…

I can just disappear

and let you be

like I probably should…

So you can be free

away from the fear

that’s made a hostage of me…

and I can believe

that you’re coming back

to find me, eventually…

Then, you can be strong

the way you’ve always

remained, all along…

while I can continue

to drunkenly scream

the same ol’ love song…

As you start to know

that I’m ever come –

and never go…

and I fail to realize

that my key no longer

fits in the door.

Painful Pinches and Smiles.

Okay…

It has officially happened.

The Orphan is moving out – and I am so torn over it that I need to write a few things to hopefully clear my head…

Firstly, I am very happy for him, for his progress through his trauma and near-fatal divorce; with that said: I worry about him, he is ALWAYS in the cerebral with me…because he has become like family over the past half-year. Wow…

He has pretty much been gone all of the time anyway lately – assuring himself the right spots with all of the right people in the City, doing what he does best: rubbing elbows with Police Commissioners and Porn Actresses – and of course, surfing and swimming with sharks. I have already been feeling a hole where he used to be with me every day, all day – for days on end – before he had his own car and I was like his soccer mom…all of the shit that we got into when he first moved across the globe to come here and heal…all of the hours spent sucking down nicotine and coffee and bleeding our individual traumas all over each other. We were weird, our friendship is weird…but I love him like my own flesh and blood. And, I worry about my own flesh and blood – that’s just how I roll.

He doesn’t say

“I’m coming home”, anymore…he says,

“I’m coming over”….

It’s funny in a weird and twisted way:

The Orphan is a beautiful creature, inside and out (he could easily be one of those Greaser style models from Europe) but he sells himself so short in the realm of love and closeness…he has so very much to offer a woman someday when he feels like he’s ready to try that again, but I fear that he has turned cold permanently. His “new” persona doesn’t leave room for these things at all – robotic and frigid when it comes to matters of the heart (not towards me, but in general). This worries me, a lot. And it makes me sad and I begin to feel uncertain about his being on his own already, which I know is none of my business at the end of the day. But I can’t help but think that he might be just teetering still…and I do not want to throw him to the wolves before he can fend for himself completely…I am a worry wart, I know this….but I love him very much and he has come through so much recently…I don’t know…I just don’t know…

Strung Up.

It hurts me,
deeply;
to know of
so heavy a burden carried…
Feeling trapped,
aimlessly;
wandering through
an existence instinctively…
Feeling shamed,
persecutedly;
stripped and strung up
for all to come whip me…
Feeling disbelief,
completely;
so hard to accept
the truths I can’t help but see…
Feeling lonely,
thoroughly;
the bed sheets are
nearly as cold as me…
Feeling empty,
regrettably;
he’s at a pub writing
poetry to forget me.

Let’s Go Home.

lets go home

Kimberly and Me say “Fuck Xmas!”

Scrooged Out Poetresses

Scrooged Out Poetresses

That Way is ‘Up’.

2014-12-02_22.17.44It is December 5 today; 20 days away from the worst day of every year. In twenty days, I will spend another Christmas holiday alone, without anyone considered as family – without anyone who really cares one way or the other about the status of my presence – by 20 days from now, I will again be wishing for death, fast or slow.

All of the days leading up to that day will be filled with bad feelings and experiences, triggers and recollections that make me on edge and cranky as Hell; not a single day between then and today will leave me feeling even semi-complete, as I shop for gifts for the normal people in my life who celebrate the holidays like normal people – pretending.

All of the nights in between Christmas and last night will suck just as badly as the days, no rest for the wicked…or broken-hearted. I will dream of things that will never be and never could’ve been – wake up with that gut-empty feeling and feel afraid for three straight hours with each sunrise – never learning to put my finger on the source of these feelings to stop it, despite my frustrating efforts.

And Christmas Day, itself:

I will sleep as late as I can in an indentation at the edge of my cold bed – between it and the cold wall – I will force my tear-singed eyes to remain closed for as long as I possibly can because I won’t want to open them on that day, I promise. It feels as if the vicious cycle of my existence always gets close to erupting at this time of every year; everyone knows to leave me alone, everyone knows that there’s nothing they can do for me – there’s no solutions to offer or insight that’s worthy – everyone knows.

If I were stupid or lonely enough to expose myself to my extended family on that day, I’d regret it rather quickly; and eventually wind up saying something fucked up to a member of my own family in an over-anxious, depressed and defensive state, before storming out in tears. Been there, wrecked that. I call this entire song and dance “The Circle of Holiday Death” – it happens over and over and over and over. Each time that my heart, mind-state and blood pressure begin to “normalize” after the re-opened wounds, it’s Christmastime once again, and it all starts over.

People will ask me if I am okay until I will begin to respond with anger and irritability; they will not understand. Even my closest friends will avoid me because they simply CAN NOT offer me comfort in any way and they know this (the friends who have not already become totally overwhelmed by my reality and disappeared, altogether, that is).

I will seethe will anger at certain thoughts during this time of year: the people who have created this Living Hell for Boo being able to happily celebrate around a table with their own loved ones, their own precious children; my baby spending the day alone in a locked cage while being told that she’s unimportant and that everything that’s happened to her is her own fault.

IT HURTS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME DERANGED…

And through it all, I MUST keep my grip on composure; for I am NO good to the (Gods willing) older Boo if I end up in prison or dead before she turns 18. I do not plan on abandoning Boo ever again – – no matter how fucking bad it hurts me to follow through with. SHE NEEDS ME; even if she doesn’t know it yet. I have long been aware of the fact that I can’t undo whatever it was that did Boo; I can only build from where we stand, upwards. Our “relationship” is so far gone that I don’t feel as if it’s even possible for us to grow any further apart anymore.

So I guess there’s just one direction to go with it all, when it comes to Boo.

BLUE.

Blue.

Blue.

My “Misery” Doesn’t Love Anything.

A Gauge of My Levels of Combustion at Present.

Some Insight to My Levels of Near-Combustion at Present.

Misery Loves Company, No?

I sent the Orphan to the beach alone twice, no three times in a row last week…he’s not deserving of my current state of shittiness…so I have spared him out of love and respect.

Why….?”, He wondered the last time I mumbled “Rain-check” to him with my back turned – not wanting to make eye contact at that very moment for my own WHACKED-OUT ANXIETY/PTSD-esque reasons…(he never pushes); he eventually left for the blue without me again, with a locker-room throwback slug in my arm on his way out the front door; he makes me grin…

I sent him a text message about an hour later that read:

“Idk how else to express myself other than to tell you that I’m trying to spare you, Killer…I feel like I’m gonna explode…”

A statement which is very accurate in description; a lifetime spent in the open spaces – arms reaching upwards towards the Gods in the thunderstorm – demanding that the other shoe be dropped on my fucking head already…’cause I have been on edge, waiting with nervous anticipation for it since I can recall anything about my own sense of anxiety,

I am ashamed of my social and emotional shortcomings when it comes to meaningful relationships with the male persuasion;

I am afraid of most males with whom I share any context of a confined physical space with, reflexively – no matter how hard I fight the fear that swallows me;

Men wonder why I am such a “stuck up bitch” or if I am “on mute” or if  I “feel superior somehow” to them, as a result of my misunderstood, standoffish reaction to their fucking pheromones in my environment…

I wonder why I am so broken; and why I’ve been so far: unable to just STOP the anxiousness,fear,paranoia and passive-aggressive rage that has been part of the Survivor Me – The miserable parts of being a Survivor…the mind-fuck, night terror shit you can’t wish on your very worst enemy.

So..does my own Misery Love Company, after all…? I think not.

 

Misery is a Contagious Disease That I Don’t Wish To Spread.

 

Tears.

 

I’m crying a lot again lately…the Holidays, I assume…

the point of my post is not to gain pity from anyone reading this, it’s simply an observation that I’ve made over the past week about my own tears and the way that they seem to work.

I blew my nose this morning after a disgusting sneezing/coughing fit (yes, I have the creep and bronchitis still…), and was somehow given the cursedly magical flashback of a time during Boo’s earliest years alive – she was probably around 3 or so; she inherited her mother’s schedule-bending allergies, and I flashed upon the time she was learning how to blow her nose. I was overcome by the memory of holding a wad of tissues to her little button nose and directing her to blow from her “booger holes” as hard as she could – and the experience that followed my instruction – the one in which I learned how well my only child can mimic me; she blew with all her might into the tissues and never had a runny nose again, to my recollection. People always used to trip out about the way my toddler regularly retrieved a tissue and blew her little faucet nose, without being told to do so.

She was such a miniature adult, always….

I cried for about an hour after I finished blowing my nose.

 

Next, were the stupid Candy Corn Rocks in the box of Halloween decorations that I begrudgingly pulled out at my roommate’s out-of-character request (wtf???)

The year before she left my life, Boo and I painted some river rocks that we had started collecting right after I came home from the hospital; the collection had grown over the handful of years, and we spent a lot of time and attention on finding rocks that were specifically reminiscent of Candy Corns, because when we started out with it, she was too young to differentiate shapes very well and it was one she could easily identify. It had been her random idea to paint them in time for what would become our very last Halloween at home together. When I see them, I feel both endearment and bitterness; one of my hands wants to throw each rock as far away from me as I can manage; the other hand wants to somehow wrap each one up and protect it from anything and everything because it’s Boo.

Sometimes…

Sometimes, when I’m walking alone in the blur left behind by trails of light that belonged to you and me, I think I see a glimpse of you behind a shadowy tree trunk far off in the distance; but unfortunately, I always find that I ‘d been mistaken.

counting starsUpon experiencing this self-imposed mind-fuck (the most stimulating of experiences that I can call my own these days), the last drops of any driving forces seem to drain out from my over-worked body completely, and I can do nothing besides drop to my shaky knees in the mud, and cry.kissesUsually, after several moments of ponderous sobbing to myself, I become quite disgusted by the sound of my own misery and vast emptiness…and the sound must stop immediately – or else I will intentionally drown myself within the newly created ocean of tears.

long way home bleedingEverything before your most recent resurfacing into a current place and time – had been hollow and cleaned out like a bone on its way to perpetually rest inside of a museum’s display; the emptiness was real and had become part of who I am, was, will always be.

 farcaster2

Everything since your long-awaited re-appearance (and re-disappearance) has felt as if a fire were being held against my very heart inside of my ribcage, and all of it has marked my spirit with scars of past battles and smiles of past warmth. The affected state of being is what I am – is all that I can ever be.Sometimes, I wander through these hallways of bloodied wallpaper and chewed up dream-scape; sometimes I think long and hard about whether you even allow yourself to remember creating this place with me so long ago; sometimes I just refuse to recall your words to me because to do so only makes the world around me go totally dark once again, and I can’t handle the darkness very many more times alone – Father Time will not allow it.

imagesSometimes, when I write you letters that will never be sent, I add lines of lies and empty promises; just so that I can see what the words look like on paper, in writing, solidified somehow…unlike us. Mostly, when I see you around the webs we have woven together, I feel broken and lost from my “home” somehow – unfulfilled and uncertain of all and anything I touch my mind upon. Mostly, when I remember you…it hurts.

If You’re Going Through Hell…

If You're Gong Through Hell...

Keep Going.
-Winston Churchill

Resolutions

Funny:

My very first New Year’s Resolution was in 2014 – to quit smoking cigarettes finally, after having been a smoker since the New Year’s Eve “party” that I attended back in 1994.

I’ve never been big on empty promises or ideas, can’t stand sitting around and talking about stuff with no intention of following through; can’t stand the people who do that shit, either…

saying something, doing nothing

I am still smoking – actually more than I ever did last year…my nerves are shot as hell and I am on edge like it’s sport and I’m the fucking champion…

I just want my daughter back; then I’ll be motivated to stop smoking like I was before her disappearance; then, I’ll be able to carry on with existence again. I am very sad; I am very alone and isolated and afraid of my own future – or lack thereof.

I just don’t know wth I am supposed to do.