Maybe Later.

I barely shut the door behind me before I burst into tears again,
Thoughts racing round my head without a place to put them in;
Every “ignored” phone call turns out to be a chance I’d been given,
To swallow down my fears and be the person I should’ve been.

So many days have left me without a spark of hope within,
So many lies spat onto me to get me to fall back line with them;
So many pieces of so many puzzles scattered across a line, so thin,
So many surfaced memories that I can’t push back and drop on him.

I barely shut the lights off before the tears begin to come unpinned,
I’m here – without the parts of a heart not properly sewn in;
And you’re there – without a clue as to where you’ve even been,
I just want to hold you while the world around falls in.

I hardly fall into a fitful sleep before the lights blaze brightly in,
And the alarm clock sings of misery and a day that will never end;
Waking dreams and nightmares of how likened you’ve become to him,
I had to cut my losses – before Life cut my throat again.


Come see me –

this night;

in my dark cornered dreams

I beg of you to make me scream;

Come touch me –

Once more;

sweat your saliva from my pores

cut the wire and kick in the door;

Come stay with me –

come closer; revive;

wake me up until I come alive

let me feed the carnivorous side;

Come with me –

come in; confide;

touch every steaming hot place inside

never look into my crying eyes;

Come ruin me –

this night;

see my body writhe beneath

Come tonight and leave me empty.

Children and (in)Justice.

A very fitting ending to my week might have been an explosion that swallowed my entire section of gridlock in rush hour – nowhere to escape to – no matter if you use your blinker, or not; another fitting scenario just as easily could’ve been something along the lines of having my limbs tied to four horses that were subsequently giddy-upped four different directions; or I maybe should have ended up asleep in some dirty crackhead’s tunnel inside of that horrid “sculpture” thing that I spent several days of last week staring at from a cush hotel balcony…that would have sucked.
The ten days leading up to yesterday seem like a dreamscape to me now, somehow – in a surreal and foggy kind of way; the entirety of the emotional expenditure on my part has left me drained, and sensing a question mark floating above my head when I try to think too hard about why that is. I have decided to let it roll off my back for now – all of it; it’s too diabolical and dramatic for me to wrap my head around, anyway. All that I know for sure is that I have lost my focus lately, despite my progress in therapy and my expanding comfortable environments (good sign!), it is suddenly clear to me that I have been quite “functionally” dissociated and detached throughout.
It’s the final “other shoe” that needs to be dropped before I can possibly breathe again like I used to. The tension and anxiety that are attached to Boo’s upcoming 18th birthday and release into a distant community, on her own and without any preparation or real world social skills – well…the underlying dread and fear have rendered me bassackwards on pretty much a daily basis for so long now that it has come to feel “normal”, almost acceptable on some days. But in truth, this ongoing stress factor for me has done a good job at riding me hard; and these days, I guess it’s time to try like Hell to put me away soaking wet.
The darkness that my life has gradually resigned to, as a result of the past six years of Living Hell in a Waking Nightmare that is directly attributed to, as well as executed by – the local courts and government funded agencies – remains as a hue that my words cannot possibly describe with any justice or worthy depiction; the needle went off the vinyl so many years ago and there has been only the hideous, brain-aching sound of the resultant scratching ever since. The professionals charged with protecting my child have collectively gang-raped me (metaphorically speaking) in succession for over six years – legally, and without shame. They have broken my pockets through repeatedly relocating my Boo further and further away in distance, and then denying me the agreed upon (prior to any of the relocations, of course) financial assistance with the lodging/traveling expenses required to maintain any kind of real “relationship” with her afterwards. These so-called professionals have been the CRIMINALS more often than not, the in the grand scheme of it all.
Yet – nobody gives a second fuck about it…because it is unbelievable right? It only happens to people on TV or in a different state than ours, right? Sadly, anyone you see in the news with similar stories is only even shown on the news because something irreversibly tragic and impossible to sweep under a carpet somewhere has happened to that person’s child(ren). I would love it if someone – ANYONE – could successfully show me any form of lasting justice in the Juvenile Court System, nationwide. I search and search these days for any documentation that sways an opinion in the direction of such a notion; one thought of Boo, and my blood starts to boil, naturally. Yes – Boo has FINALLY seen a small piece of the justice due after the Living Hell that she has been forced endure for the last SIX PLUS YEARS…but it’s hardly enough.
Notably, these crucial and trying years have been spent being forcibly separated from each other by the very same individuals and agencies that set Boo on top of the burner to begin with all that time ago. Notably, the tragic and disgustingly long line of events that have transpired as direct (and indirect) results of the Judge as well as the local DFCS’ initial fuck-ups through Failure to Protect/Failure to Act/Failure to Follow Procedure continues to be swept aside to all corners by every “professional” involved. Notably, anybody with any empowerment to have helped Boo receive said justice when it still might have meant something to her – as a child victim to a Pedophile on the county Payroll – has opted NOT to exercise such powers in the sake of a child’s fundamental human rights to be unmolested while under the COURT ORDERED “care” of an institution.

Postcards From Freedom #3 – Finally, For Tee.

Bat Cave Notes From "Tee"

Bat Cave Notes From “Tee”

Ahhhh, this is monumental…a monumental day…this postcard from Freedom holds super extra special meaning…it’s one I’ve been waiting FOREVER to be able to “send out” into the Universe with a big, fat “FUCK YOU”.
Some of my readers might remember, and even themselves, follow “Tee” here on WP; she one of the founding members of the Cut Throat Clubhouse Blog here with me also; she is someone special to me and always was – since the very first contact we had through writing – when she shone her spirit at me like a cop shines his light in your eyes, catching me off guard, and making me feel like a chump for ever having allowed anyone to call me as a “battered wife” – she is kindred.
Tee is an awesome and inspiring writer (a fellow sailor mouth who doesn’t spit horse shit), she has dropped off of here completely over the past few months as a means of simple survival…but she did it, you guys.
Until VERY VERY recently, my dear friend and sister has been in the grips of her own domestic captor – – –
This postcard from Freedom is that one that I had in mind when I first began the series – the one that I have been dying to create under the inspired circumstances of Tee’s actual ongoing Freedom and Safety. And tonight, I got to do that. This has made my month. I want to share Tee’s note with any of her other friends who may read this post, because it’s so fucking….ahhhh….no words…
“I feel like a new woman now that I’m away from the ex…safe and secure…”
If anyone deserves to be safe and secure, it’s most certainly my sister in survival, Teela Hart – currently enjoying FREEDOM AT LAST.


The Orphan came home this morning…after three days and nights away.

He announced his arrival by sending me the following text message first:

“You know…it’s called a wetsuit for a reason, not a hang up dry suit.”

Basically, his way of provoking me into going to the beach with him…


I do not prefer to spend the day with anyone out of a sense of pity they may be feeling for me, but he means well. When he actually got home, I told him it’s too late for surfing today, by the time we got there the sun will be starting to set – and he is not keen on nighttime water activities so much…smart guy. Anyway, he told about his latest endeavors and I told him I had nothing new to report; we drank over-strong coffee and chain-smoked together, a default comfort mechanism that we have always shared in common, and I eventually just asked him straight up:

“You trying to take me to the beach ‘cause you feel sorry for me?”

He doesn’t miss a beat before replying:

“That’s the ONLY way you EVER get to follow me over there…”

The Orphan boasts the biggest, whitest, most Un-American looking choppers I have ever seen in person…his smile is unmatched by any dude that I know, and when he cracks a joke prior to cracking that smile, he does this funny thing with his neck – the combination of the three together is instant comfort to me, regardless of the situation; one of his most endearing physical displays, in my opinion.

“I don’t do shit with anybody out of pity, you dumbass…”

The words seem to speak directly to my heart as he says them at me.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself…”

He’s standing, staring down at me, still smiling – but his eyes are afire like he’s possibly bordering angry as he retinal-burns me with his line of vision; waiting for my response.

I am caught off guard by his calling me out, and it apparently showed because his expression softens itself immediately before he adds, “Jackass…”

I stood there temporarily stuck on stupid, not sure what to say back to him, thinking about how right he actually is with his point.

Okay, Killer…I will.”

His mouth is hanging open slightly across the table from me, as we sit under the now-naked pomegranate tree out back; he was not expecting me to agree with him, no doubt.

You’re right…”

For someone so wet behind his little (sunburned) ears, he can be pretty wise when he doesn’t want to be, sometimes…


 I want it all…
Not just a little bit of whatever you think you are;
I want every tragic memory, every victory, and every scar;
I want only whispers in between where I am and where you are…
I want you to leave your boot prints on the floorboard of my car,
I want it all.
I give my all…
Never once need to question anymore, once I was yours;
Anyone who knows me knows I’m different from before;
You’re trying to dip a pinky finger in my snow then walk out my door…
You’re a big boy; you’re grown, but when you leave me just KNOW:
That when you try for these thighs, that door won’t open anymore.
I gave my all.

Sold Out.

How much did my heart end up bidding out for?

That day when you auctioned the final valve out;

How many times did I have to beg you to stop?

Before you even realized what I was begging about.

And, when the snow fell in around your barricaded world ;

and no one else cared to come dig for your face…

that final shot – the one that stole your last sane thought –

must’ve come to you just as I set fire to my own face.

I still find your child-like, crumpled pieces of note;

an ocean of lies with each word that you wrote;

I still scream teardrop stains that streak down both cheeks;

Alone and afraid to swim through the bullshit you speak.

The doctor says the fragments of your blade will soon be gone;

my back will heal up and he’ll sew my wings back on…

so that I can take flight just one very last time –

in order to die with my grip on what’s mine.