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?

Sinful Emerge

Suppose

I buried sin

here, under here, the dirt

and the breath of God.  would something

emerge?

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?

Short Skirt Syndrome

Girls

Who

Say cock

can count on

no one. remember…

One Eyed Prayer

Make me better
Make me light
Make me better
Overnight
Make me right
Might
Magic cure
Make me better
Make me pure
Make me whimper
Make me deep
Just protect me
As I sleep

Remain

Tired of being alone
In a back break world
Of people suffering more
 
What a watered wandering around
Salted earth worm death

What an old time feeling
Familiar kiss of concentrated sing-song prose

The pink pill dries your tears
The orange pill slows your fears
The white pill will kill you dead,
         Thanks a lot broken head
For such a bashful clash

Don’t reach out
When shouts
Craving to be the chased
Do without doubt
And death distilled down
To laced jar with a
Permanent stained refrain
 
Remain, don’t dry up
Don’t slope down
Or slide under
Don’t regret or tear asunder
Don’t compete
Remain

Remain!

Swallow As Gospel

While on
Scabrous loam

Grenade Pin
Drop everything abrade
To carry your pain

I will not give way
Gonfalon
Your cause
I will perch, a picklin’ insides
at the bottom of the archaic barrell
At the parting
Of the seas
chest high prayers to God
while pillaging the earth

Further down the road
Catch me, cavalier castaways
cavorting
In amaze of haze
I’m a masquerade without

proper parade

I don’t know why I do these things
Rouge rough cheeks

breakout cherries on beds of peach cells
Spindle pearl
In your fish net
Stalkings

Fleeting flouncing
Fleeing, then trouncing
Announcing
I don’t know why I do these things!

None of us do, dear…

Ram Bull

I’m sick of needing people, believing people, exploring theories, exploding mores, standing up for the weak, being abused, being addicted, being ugly, being a failure, being alone, being broke and broken, having been spoke to but never spoken, hiding in corners, hiding in a drawer, hiding behind fences, hiding behind lore, being comfortable with things transient in nature, caring what people think and do, caring what people think of me and do to/with/because/without/about me.
I can’t stop analyzing myself.
I can’t stop worrying about how I seem.
The next line I read could be the answer.
With the next words written, I could save myself.
Do you understand that pressure? I’m bench-pressing the weight of the world and if I drop anything, I die, my family dies, my life is smoke.
Smoke drifts and scatters.
I have no fortification I can grant.
I’m shouting, I’m screaming.
Nothing works.
I’m sedate, I’m silent.
Nothing works and everything hurts.
Spin me something, light it on fire and I’ll inhale and inhale.

Circling Birds

I’m really frightened of being alone. Especially at night. That’s when I wish I had that extra attention. And if it’s a man, looking to get off, that works. In fact, it’s a sure bet really. Isnt it? Not good for me. It’s good for me that it’s so much less. I don’t seem to have it in me anymore. That rush of knowing a new person, being pursued by a new person. I guess when you have a few bad outcomes under your belt, you aren’t as eager to go back. But then here I am. middle of the night lonely. And why does that type of lonely always settle in your pussy? If the pussy is happy, I’ll be happy.  My life is working really well with my love and Big Daddy. The medications are working. Some positive money stuff is approaching, hopefully. Sure, I’m smoking so much, its insane. And the eating. Dont forget the eating. The body aches, like a new injury every week. It’s so quiet. Sometimes the understanding is so close. Then, its gone again. (I’m scared I can’t write anymore because of my medication.) I told everyone is was a fluke. No one listened.  I am not a very good mom. I see a list a mile long of things I could be doing, giving them. I would rather die than have them think they aren’t worth every drop of my blood, every breath I take or word I write. They are everything. I hate being alone. Who needs these thoughts? Like, the sometimes man. Was that even real? Was that year of my life real? And Marian? Was she real? Is there a person out there with jewel eyes that really contains such a combination of whimsy and hard edge? I always make such bad fucking choices with abandonment, like being the risk taker is something enviable. I would give it immediately if it was worth getting. I wish I was 17 people and none of them did drugs to excess and ate to excess and hid from people and was lazy and cranky and short-tempered and slutty and glass wicked empty.  I wish I didn’t feel so fucking alone. I wish I didn’t question that a collection of molecules such as life even exists, I don’t want to care about which word is placed where and what should I wear and whats my next thing and whats my excuse and whats my rationalization and what more do I need, what reward do I demand, what price do I pay, what dowry do I come with? Can you see me wrestling with this part of myself? Or am I wrestling to beat the medication, my sickness, my demons so strong and engrained, God you could have at least made me beautiful since you made me so crazy, you could have at least made me successful in a career or a perfect mother or a social butterfly, but instead I’m just crazy. Its quiet. I have my fans, and my blankets and my babies sleeping tight in the other room. One has fine, blond hair and hazel eyes, the other, thick brown hair and brown eyes. There is milk for cereal and a bottle. My husband has more work lately, and he loves me. And I love him. I have Big Daddy. And I love him. I have my family, repaired friendships. Jesus Christ, where do I get off being such a sad sack? It’s this lingering, this nagging knowledge that what I have, others have more or better. It’s this feeling that I’m not where I belong. There is more I am supposed to be, or suppose to do. The wrong path, I don’t even recognize the planet I’m on. I’m an alien and I wandered into the wrong fucking place. But these are my babies, this is my life, stop this questioning for no reason. I can’t, what if there is something else I should be doing and I don’t do it and something terrible happens, I miss my boat, I die.