Honesty and accepting the fact that you might have fucked up a bit is hard. Sometime it is hard because of who you have to apologize to and sometimes it's hard because it means admitting to someone else you care about that you breached a boundary which wasn't yours to breach. I am more of the duck and run variety, the quiet passive one who smoothers everything, avoiding conflicts and shrapnel at all costs. Yet there are those of whom I cannot avoid the call of truth with something about their nature that compels me to break down walls and let all of the dirty hidden things be seen. If I stand before him naked in more than just the obvious and he doesn't run does that mean he might be one of the chosen ones? With shattered hearts revealed and selfish actions all layed out across the table I stand waiting for judgement. Part of me knows that you will not leave but that dominate part of me worries that you might. This radical honestly and love thing is not a cakewalk and yet I find over and over again in certain spaces I am driven to engage with it. To be solid. 

i am learning something i should have had from birth...love and confidence in myself. some how along the bumpy buggy ride that was childhood, these key thirvival elements were thrown out and submission and insecurity came in as survival tools to fill their place. it's funny really that a woman of my years should still be bound by the lacking of her five year old self. that she should be so parched for love, encouragement, and affection that she almost fears their entry into her well, abet misshapen, life because her need might overwhelm everything. yet with tenderness and vivid imagining i am slowly repairing these cracked pieces of my heart and mind.

the other

My lover stands before me divided. Caught between the unraveling and the new season..I wonder as the sorrow and grief cloud his bright eyes if I will make it into the newly constructed life after the old is dismantled?
 Am I long term or a bump of regret on this journey's road. I want to have staying power, to be vivid and bright enough to shine through, having weathered the storm to enjoy the sun's return. Alas I fear it may not be.
For far to often my story is that of secondary character...the one of vague remembrance. And as this realization sinks in, the realization that I mean next to nothing to this man...my heart cracks a bit more than I intended it to. So tomorrow again I will be alone contemplating the absence in my heart and bed, the unfilled void of desire which still stands empty and uninhabited after twenty years of wanting. Is my path to always be the forgotten other woman?

attempting to walk away

I lied to you, told a little fib...it was this, it didn't take days or weeks for me to like you...I like you was interested the moment I met you. But we ladies aren't suppose to want or admit our desire so something in me held back, truth be told again something in me still holds back. I knows or says it knows that you are not capable of being present with me, that you my dear are not here. But I ignore that voice to a point and keep barreling along breaking and hiding the tiny pieces of my heart, hoping for the movie ending instead of reality. The reality is that really for now at least this should end. I want to much and you have little to give...and that coupled with all the other chaos in your life, means it breaks you for us to be like this. Even as I hold you or you hold me that tenderness sears you deep. Your chaotic heart and mind can't process the love or whatever you call it that I could offer. Too raw is your untangling, too close to the source of it all. Do you know that I would split and do split myself for you, try as be as I can to be a harbor. Even still to your night-vision eyes my harbor looks as vast and consuming as the ocean. So this then should be set down. I should give up the fight and walk away. 

Flannery

She's one of those authors who sits in the back of your head waiting until something needful bursts open like ripe fruit and your heart is ready for the beautiful and gut-wrenching experience Flannery has to offer. I recall the utter heartbreak I had reading her story, "A Good Man is Hard to Find" as well as the abject wonder of grace briefly revealing in the horror of death. The element that catches me in her work through is not so much the horror O'Connor presents but the absolutely powerful belief in hope that gives context for her stories. She tells these at times hard to encounter stories because Flannery with her whole being believes in a great hope so powerful that the tiny seed of faith planted by a sincere murder victim can be part of that which leads him out of distorted versions into the true calling of prophet. It is this hope which cuts to the deepest core of my broken and battered heart. She inspires and encourages me to tell stories to reveal that kind of hope to call forth truth and to live the divine in to the day-to-day. 

the need and the failure to keep it in check mark my desperation. the cool calmness is a barely held mask and it breaks my heart every time i have to fake it. too much and not enough and never what was actually wanted, these cross sections of my shattered self ravage whatever is truly good. so it will forever be i am afraid. the empty bed, the empty heart, the gaping hole of me. so there we are you have seen only the tip of the iceberg and it's beauty and wonder just isn't enough. doesn't matter the why or the reason it's gone to bed for ever and ever again. there is no lover's kiss for this sleep beauty forever in a coma will she be. always looking from the outside in....

sucker punches

My heart is cut with a swift knife.  The unintended image on the flickering screen in front of me viscerally draws a fast unmitigated reaction. I grieve for that which you are not even aware enough to sorrow over in yourself, so blinded by the warring factions which want to eat you whole. Is it my long healed broken heart that cries out or the prophetic voice which somehow sees you in a purer form?
This punch to the gut comes out of nowhere and leaves me so oft kilter that I have to unpack it's root and origin. I wonder if that matters, we are ages and miles and thoughts apart and yet hidden ties and tethers still hold us in loose connection. And so because I love you I am moved and hurt, for love whether the kind that leads to two people rolling around in the sheets or whether that of mother and child, requires suffering and sacrifice. For love costs because asks us to offer up part of ourselves. So I bare the ache and mark because love reigns and love wins...

a broken thing...

i feel like a broken thing. a china doll that has been cracked deep within. seemingly so strong and yet so fragile. there are days when i feel as if maybe i can conquer the world and over come all the chaos that swirls around my brain...and then comes a day like today where even the smallest of tasks seems insurmountable. on these the dark days i sit stuck for hours with piles of work that i want so badly to do and can't. and those lovely things of life like friends, love, sex, art, music, and everything else that bring the vividness of technicolor to the day to day can also send this alice down the rabbit-hole. a missed called, a forgotten curtsey curtisey on the wrong day and the fragility of my mind get's shattered into a million little pieces of darker reality. i hate these demon days that rape my productivity and creative motivation. 

"I want you so much but I hate your guts" Daughter "Landfill"

this is the feeling after the first one walks away. disappearing into the sunset without so much as a wave. she stands there watching long after he has fallen away, wondering why they all leave quickly that way. i'm the common factor she says it must be me and racks her brain for that elusive and fleeting thing. the one that turns the heart on a dime and causes all men to walk out faster than a two-step time. like the mat that no one wishes her to be, she stands heart in a bowtie box ready to hand off if he were to return...something she know's will never be. still she wants him and hates him with each quickening heart beat.

....

blame and guilt roll a cross my mind, flattening any other known truth. this hurts but i can't figure out why? it shouldn't, it should just blow away wish seeds in the wind. does it hurt because it crushes that seedling of hope? does it hurt because this tangling between us involved more than bodies and sheets? thoughts run like moths to light back again over and over and over again. they are not content to stay safe, no rather like a fool they seek the burn. maybe it's because when your are light on fire at least you know you are live. flesh and heart are seared and scarred but for a brief moment the pain, oh god that pain, awakes you to the sensation that yes you are actually still alive. it's like sex with a stranger or lover or friend...that feeling of connection that brings momentary life to the dead. can one fuck themselves in to the half alive Frankenstein monster? that which needs so much but cannot figure out how to give?

the need to scream and break plates comes in wave form, but it's just fruit for the deeper need the one for understanding and connection even so now in the aftermath of the one who ravaged my heart.