Kern Park Beckons.

I am smashing out my addiction today. I'm going to weave through the sidewalks, stepping on cracks and sunspots. I'll float like a feather in a Nico song, and walk through the doors. Those blue eyes. They burn me, burn into me. And they look exactly like mine. Maybe they are mine.

Sweaty skin to skin contact, an instant surge of desire and terror. I am so nonchalant in my wariness. But now, it is time to peel and open the cocoon. I have pupated. Like a feather in the sulfurous air of my neighborhood, next to the burned out and blackened car.

And the Cardinal Hits the Window...

I picked up Dusty first thing this morning, tuning and coaxing sounds from her tired strings. The window is open, and birds sing, and insects crawl about in my yard.

I thought of Jackie, and played and sang Casimir Pulaski Day, not expecting my voice to break and tears to fall.

Cancer of the bone. It stole her vibrancy. It robbed us of her presence. It washed her away like she never was.

Slipping..

My birthday is tomorrow. Another year shaved away, and I feel no different.

Gentle is a Foreign Concept.

I have a decision to make. Do I shut myself up again, close myself off like a painted vestal virgin? Or do I open my body, open it so wide it could split in two.

Cloistered in my bedroom, pacing and singing. Locked in, staring out and painting on suitcases. A safe prison of my own design. But a prison nonetheless.

But I've done this before. I know that I can slam the floodgates closed, wrap my heart back up in steel and tin and razorwire. If it jumps, my metal prickly fence will contain it.

But that is cowardice. To smile, to constantly pantomime.

I have no middle ground. My emotions run too hot, too cold. I can never be room temperature, never medium. My heart is beating, so I know I'm alive. And I hate it. I hate feeling my heart beat. It terrifies me. But I need to know I'm alive, and real.

I just want someone to see me.

Rip Us to Shreds...

Humans weren't born with talons. We did not evolve with clawed hands.

How is it then, I wonder that we are so adept at shredding each other? I feel like if we could see through people, most would appear as tatters.

It beats my will down every day. I smile at the woman on the street, and am greeted with a cold face and a vacant stare. I give my heart to a small shy man, and he casts it aside like so much garbage. I see a mother on the bus slap her small beautiful child.

It's a bog, and right now I'm sinking.

And I woke up screaming again...

No more twitches, little mini seizures gripping me. My throat is burned by the name I screamed over and over in my sleep, a name that I don't think humans can make with their mouths.

I dreamed of blood caked sheets, and slitted eyes. Being held. Being held down. I can never hit hard enough, scream loud enough.

Sometimes in my dreams I don't have hands, or a mouth. I wander like a vagrant, weeping for I cannot wail. These things should not spill over into my wakefulness.

And they take and they take and they take..

On some days I feel amorphous, and uncontainable. I listen to my headphones, and focus as hard as I dare in public to not dissolve.

I feel like parts of me slither off, like spiraling ghosts of negative ectoplasmic intention to suck the energy of strangers. I can feel them in my sphere, sometimes even taste them as I slide past. Sometimes, when I walk by certain people, and their pheromones hit my nostrils and slams up to my brain all I can think is HUNGRY.

Why does this unnerve me so? What is it from them I am hungry for?

It trickled down the bathtub drain, burping all the way.

Maybe it's age. Or the seas of alcohol and other things I find to use as life analgesics to wash it all away. But how can I shake it off this fast?

I am bothered, but not cowed. I'm not afraid anymore of pain. My heart chipped and cracked and shook loose like plaster. But now I feel relief. Even freedom.

Am I free? Or am I riding the edge?

I suppose we'll know soon enough.

A sociopathic lover, like a subtle noose...

Lure me with sweet words and soft feathery touch. Lure me with deep looks and slyly divulged secrets.

I've got to shake you off, wash you from my sheets and body. Let you pool and sluice off me down the shower drain.

How it must feel to you. Does it feel like victory? Or is it a bittersweet prophecy you force yourself to fulfill over and over again?

Thank you for sacrificing me on the alter of your callousness. I needed to be reminded. Wash those stars out of my eyes. All that's left behind now are the traces of makeup that tears couldn't flush out.

You. Fucking. Asshole.

Really, you think it's a metaphor? Naw.

A special type of man loves their toys. They shine and sparkle, they make wonderful sounds. These objects can bend and twist and gasp and twine around them.

And when the toy is done or tarnished, this particular breed takes as great a pleasure in the destruction and crumpling of the once cherished plaything as they did in discovering it's character and features.

I always pick the wrong pony.

The tides shift...

When all else is stripped bare and away and the raw nerve of it is all peeled back, I am still a child. Shivering and shaking.

Like a caged animal my heart starts to race, the fear grips me. To be laid open and exposed. To be stripped down to the bone. It fills me with abject terror.

Lay back, I tell myself. My fists ball tightly, and I pace my wooden floors. I examine my books, my shells, the items in the tiny boxes I hide away secretly for myself. Just let go, I tell myself.

I have freely given the ability to hurt me away, and now I have to wait and watch and see. Can I hold up under the intensity of my own scrutiny? I'll push this time. I'll fight for what I want. I won't hide my face away. I won't smother my passion. I won't run away.

FUCK IT.

Throw your arms up girl, and jump. The falling is the best part. Do it for once.

I lay down my life again...

Will this be a pantomime? I can wear a mask so well....

I have a firm resolve, but resolve is easily obliterated by emotion.

Could I pull forth from this wrecked and untidy tragedy a usefulness in heartbreak? Like a seed. An intangible piece of freedom could uncurl, force the razor-wire off of my heart like ivy breaks down chain-link fences.

Rollercoasters can be exhilarating too, but they have always terrified me. Maybe I just need to fling my arms up and say fuck it. I do believe it is time to take a ride.

Some sort of snake moan....

I want to combust like a column of fire. Hold my hand and we'll burn. Pull my hair back and sink your teeth into my shoulder blade and we'll burn. Burn and scream, and be cinder and smoke and ash.

We can melt together, screaming pleasure into the dark, scratching and gnawing bursts of ecstasy and oblivion out of the sinuous thrust of my hips blistering all of it away, until only a scorched patch of a moan remains.

This is what I want.

Turn the light on inside of me...

I tossed and turned last night, my sheets trying to strangle me. But I didn't wake up gasping with an arched back, or wide-eyed and sweat soaked.
No, I woke this morning to an overwhelming sense of control. My will gets stronger and is evolving.

Soon I'll be standing on cold gray sands, surrounded by crackling cold and cascading waves. I'll scream at the ocean with my breath fogging like crystals and she'll scream back at me, because we understand each other. All of those foaming breakers wear down my pain, they suck the seething salt from my belly and the low heaviness of my womb away. I'll lie in the cold damp grit, and all of the darkness will ebb out of me, pulsing with the tide.

I roll my hips when I walk again, and smile at dessicated leaves as I stomp my way through the concrete paths of this city. My face automatically curves towards the sun, exposing the line of my throat. My breast rises towards the beams of light like it would to stroking fingers.
I had forgotten this aspect of femininity. I can be soft and yielding, and the surrender in it makes me feel weightless.

Steven, don't lose heart.

Did I scare you little one?
Did my honesty bite and pinch?
Even though I have to look up so far at you you are still small like a child to me.
With your beauty and crystal eyes does no-one ever confront you with honesty?

Chafe under the yoke of your convictions, but don't expect me to share the weight of your burden.
Rattle the bars of your cage with those long-fingered hands, but don't expect me to set you free. Because my prison is just as hard and tight as yours, but less visible.

My precious one, how the hurt in your eyes mirrors mine. I wish I could lay my head on your chest and hear your heart beat to make sure it hasn't been too cracked or broken, and you can tell me mine is whole.

Maybe we can't be friends anymore. Because we can't lie to each other, or to ourselves as well as we could before.

Food for thought...

“Do you take pride in your hurt? Does it make you seem large and tragic? …Well, think about it. Maybe you’re playing a part on a great stage with only yourself as audience.”

— John Steinbeck, East of Eden

Crush, Crushing, Crushed.

And I try why? Biological imperative? Human Condition?

Pretty soon I'm going to saw through the bones of my skull, find the part that makes love and emotion, and just start slashing.

And now it's too late.

Be careful what you wish for, because it usually ends in tears.
I would prefer carnal savagery to this wounded thing I see before me. This thing I used to love...

Bone China and Cleansing with Fire.

Humans are fragile little things, scared and small and shaking.
The more I know myself the more I know I am not one of those things.
One of these things is not like the other...one of these souls has busted loose the tether.

I feel strong, and full of fire. Something is shifting, the tide is rolling back from the shore. And it's revealing smooth obsidian will. My will is stronger than my pain.

Fuck you, existential crisis. I have you in my clawed little hands this time. Let's see how long it lasts, shall we?

And the dance begins.

Just let me see your eyes widen, my love.

As I lay drifting in and out of wakefulness this morning, the soft skidding sounds of early morning commute beginning to rouse me, my hand ran along my own flank.
I was so startled that consciousness rushed back to me like the bed was spinning. I can feel my hipbones again.

My collarbones twitch under the skin now, and I saw a rib poke out the other day.

And it terrifies me. To my very marrow. To the molecules that make up my marrow. Can I be good? Can I be pure and sane? The urge to crush and dominate is so strong in me that I fear without a layer of fat and ugliness to separate us that I shall become a callus cruel thing again.

Sharp like glass, cold and lovely like diamonds. But dead all the same.