Much More Beautiful

Wow.

Big Daddy was right. And SO quickly.

One thing that makes me really happy in life ( something I was reminded of today) is that I can say whatever the FUCK I want.

That’s right.

Right here? This is my place.

And I? I can say whatever I want.

That’s glorious! Big Daddy never asks me to censor myself. He is secure in who he is, naturally dominant. He knows that words are the VERY most important thing to me. And to restrict them would be death.

I would die inside.

And I want to shine.

I am much more beautiful when I shine.

Missing Thing

Kind of see
some
thing missing

some thing seen
some
missing thing

saw and un-
seen
missing thing

The R Word

Rape.

It’s very difficult for me to say that word.

I was raped.

Even more difficult for me to say that sentence.

I was raped, stalked and abused for three years.

Impossible for me to utter that sentence.

That is, until recently.

I have been working very hard with my therapist, although this issue has not been the topic of conversation for a long time. It’s almost as if it permeates everything.

I have a new friend whom I recently told the story. My therapist has encouraged me to practice saying it, practice releasing the story, so maybe eventually, it will float away, not hold its power over me.

I’m trying. It was easier this time.

I was raped. That’s why life isn’t a birthday party.

The Actress

Trying to balance
The doing
And the writing
About the doing
 
Not many
Stories left
That I can
Tell myself
I love being anyone else but me
 
Maybe I need to change a dose
I pull tides of bitterness
Like an evil moon
If I chance submersion
You chance
Being exposed
To my new form
 
Demand the moon
Get the cheese
Please God
Please say
I’m like no other
 
Cracker jack idea
When we’re all alone
What’s my prize
For digging down deep
No cereal box treasure map
To happy
I’ll make something of nothing
And get back to you
 
All new plans
Point at and laugh
The old new plans
Couldn’t I exhale and be better?

Erosion

Shortly before reading this post by Uneven Stephen, I had a very bad dream.

I tend to have dreams where I am at the ocean, usually on the beach or on a cement boardwalk overlooking the sand and the water. These dreams usually involve the ocean rising, washing to unknown high levels, eroding the beach to a steep precipice. There is falling in, there is a realization of the ocean towering over me, washing me away, washing me under the curl. Or worse, someone I love.

The recent dream was much the same. I sensed my father there. We were on the cement boardwalk and it was understood that my Meme ( french for grandmother) was sick, and had been placed at the edge of the water in a beach chair to absorb the sun. Reclined and sleeping, her snores reached me above her. Then before my eyes and in slow motion snap shots, she starts to slide into a now high, calm tide. She is slipping and snoring. I am terrified. I cannot just let her go, I have to save her. I see her face resting on the ocean chomped edge of sand while the rest of her is already devoured by the surface far more lake-like than ocean. She isn’t under yet. Between then and when I jump in, she slips down and through my fingers. I cannot find her.

It’s still so much that I need her. She died a long time ago.

Anyway…the dream has been bothering me. I’m lonely. Can it all boil down to being lonely, that I ache for that unconditional love?

For He Whose I Am

The bus had been 19 hours and 12 minutes of wasted time.

“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I obviously wasn’t thinking, judging by your reaction.”
“Go home.”
“Okay.”

She was now seated on the bench at the bus station, under the pretense of waiting for the next bus. In her hands, she held the pocket watch.

“That one.”
“This one? Miss, this one is an expensive watch.”
“I know.”
“Ok. Cash or charge?”
“Is it extra to engrave?”
“No, Miss. It’s complimentary. I will get you a sheet of paper.”

For he whose I am.

Counting her money again, she hesitated from buying a ticket. Why did she think he would come and stop her? Just because she came so far? Held back this long, her tears were heavy, overripe and finally fell like devastating bombs on the dry skin of her hands.

Feeling better after her cry, she stood up with purpose to buy her ticket and return home. She would write the whole thing off as an experience, an adventure, and fodder for her work. Maybe she would even get a book out of it…

“Violet!” Then, he was there.

I Variable

Obviously
no luck
keeping girl friends

Draining Sense

My brains says
He is
Gone

Dream I

She would run from the house, lifting her rough skirts to increase her speed. To get there. The shouts of the sisters would echo, but she would ignore them and laugh, casting her eyes up to a blue sky. The sound of the tall grasses played drums on her tall boots. She would get there, she would. Defying all the rules, she would make it to the place, the illusion he had bloomed in her earthen mind. She would search the forest, wondering if it was all a Victorian fairytale, had she burned her bridges in a free fall for no reason, no promise.

But in her dream, he was there. His clear eyes darted to the side and she saw the carvings. And then he was gone again. She felt with her fingers tips and the wood still hummed and burned with life. She read it like a map and was off.

A new course charted.

Superstitious Me

Oh shit.
Did I just say that? Did I just say that aloud? If so, was he listening? You know, he? God. Or it. You know, it? Fate. I’m a cursed, you know. One asking for more challenge, more strife. I did not say I was happy, feeling good about myself or safe. I’m not feeling chosen or proud. I will not admit to feelings of confidence and ease.
I know how these things anger you, bring me to the forefront of your sight, a vicious spiteful spot light encouraging divine destruction, knock me down a peg, put me back behind the eight ball, between that drowsy rock and angular hard place.
Make me work harder and harder, I’ve barely scratched my debt, the tally grows nationally, what sins I must pay for, indulgences I must speak to, slights and hurts I must establish a trust for, long term care, life time maintenance of what is sour and what is curdled.
Did I really say I was happy? Did I admit such a thing, taking down the WANTED sign of the store window, could I be content, call off the dogs, cancel the hunt, put the axe on moth balls, put the whole thing on ICE.
But what if? What if everyone walks away, every source without sip, every port with ship?
What if it was
Just me.
Just me.
Just me.
You should never admit you’re happy.
That’s what life has taught me. As soon as you do, its over. You crack an eggshell under heavy boot and its all gone. So much to befall, I should have stayed far below the radar.
I never should have wondered, spoken of happiness. Now I am waiting. The count down has begun. This facility has gone XXX many days without an incident.
I think I can back shrink.
Get smaller, shrug up the pack, one heavy load. Coming up. You won’t notice me, I have ways of ruining the best things or sinning extra. I love to fuck myself in the end to quiet the anxious monster. At least if I cause it, I’m in control. I can’t stand the unexplained, the unjust bad-things-happen-to-good-people bullshit, that mentality that it was all a lie! All that rah rah pom pom shaking school lie, that college maturity discovery, that adulthood ram and swallow, that thirtes grim sweet wallow and finally, the promise of the acceptance too late.
Then you can forgive me. Because I am very superstitious.