Stardust

I’m not shiny, I’m not happy,

I am hurt and damaged

Most days I want to slice myself open,

Rip out my heart, tear apart my soul

And throw myself into a deep dark pond because

That would be easier than figuring this shit out

That would be simpler than asking myself

Where the fuck do I go from here ?

How the hell do I find happiness in this shithole called my life?

That’s most days.

Then there are some days where I remember,

I stand outside and stare at the night sky

I let the darkness surround me and gaze at stars

I tell myself that I am made of fucking stardust

And anything is possible

I tell myself that I am smaller than a grain of sand on a beach

I am atoms, and molecules and energy and life

And I can just be

I can just breathe

Because I am fucking stardust.

Dust

the thing that tugs at me from my  last relationship is not the fact that she and I didn’t work out, because, bless her. I mean, bless her. Hell in a handbasket that one, but the emphatic way in which she professed her love for me. Then just shut it off. Which if I’m honest, I shut mine off too. I tumbled head first into love, because that is actually, not a thing I do. I am meticulous and I analyze and this time I didn’t. I didn’t think, I just lept, and I’m not sorry for it, I’m not ashamed of it. What I am sorry for is that I let her speak in absolutes. I let her tell me that she would always love me. That she would love me forever. She didn’t even love me for a month. I’m smarter than that. I’m wiser than that but I let her. And here’s the thing, the whole time the smarter, wiser part of me was raging against it, part of me believed her. Part of me thought, maybe this gorgeous, lively, drunken mess will love me all the days of her life. And here’s the part I resent, pay attention: the part I resent is that I let that possibility creep in, and it didn’t work out. And now, it has fed my complex. I have an unlovability complex, you see, and she fed it. Piled it high with sticks and brush, poured gasoline on it, dropped a match and walked away as that motherfucker burned.

My mother gave me up for adoption when I was a baby. Gave me up. What the fuck kind of a phrase is that? Then, people are obsessed with adopting things, pets, railways, freeways, elephants, things. I’m lumped together with a fucking freeway and I wonder why I feel less than. Why I feel unimportant. Then I wonder why seeing people as carbon copies of those they share DNA with makes me want to grind my bones into dust.

I was given up for adoption when I was a baby. A woman who was supposed to love me forever gave me away like a pair of jeans and a girl who said she’d love me forever didn’t even stick around to watch me turn to ash.

And it’s not about her. I don’t love her. That’s not the point. The point is that I have an unlovability complex and I am ash. I am dust. And I need that fucking shit to change. The point is I share a category with a fucking freeway.

That’s the fucking point.

intimacy

i miss letting people in

i’ve never done it with lovers

only friends

and i haven’t done so in a long long time

people get confused though

because i share details of my life

things which some people would hold

so closely to their chests, never to spill out

i dump all over the floor

i do it for me, not for them

i am purging myself of my pain

but that is not intimacy, it is not closeness

 

not for me

 

to me, intimacy is when i lay my head on a lap

when i share a bed with someone and we let the night drift around us

the lights are out and we send our voices into the darkness

carrying whatever hope or fear or thought held within us

knowing that it will be caught by the other person

intimacy is knowing that even if all you are greeted with

is soft, even breathing, you are still heard

still loved

i miss that.

it has been years.

i want to find it again, in a lover

 

and a friend.

Time Heals

It is said that time heals all wounds.  A trite statement, to say the least, yet as time wears on, I find more and more truth hidden within its depths.  To say that time heals, is perhaps an oversimplification, let us say instead, time allows.  Time allows for things to move, for us to learn, grow, evaluate and evolve.

Today, I did a thing which I expected to rip me open, expected to tear the flesh from my breast and expose my beating, battered, heart.  I re-read an email I had received from a woman I used to love.  Or to be more precise, a woman onto whom I had projected ideals, and having done so, fell in love with who I perceived her to be.

We had a falling out.  To be more specific, I professed my bleeding, broken, baby queer love and was slapped down, like an upstart kid.  Rightfully so.  But fuck, did it hurt.  Like salt in a wound I throbbed.  My entire being throbbed with the pain of rejection, of confusion, of denial.

I raged against the idea that I could have possibly misunderstood the aspects of our relationship.  I raged against the thought that my perceptions, the lens through which I viewed my life and the people I let into it, could possibly have been clouded by the circumstances of my past, rather than the perceived reality of the present.

Thus, a period of discovery was entered.

I wrote and wrote, poem after poem, rant after rant, pages and pages and pages and pages of text. Of hurt, of pain, of longing, of lust.  I recounted, I recanted, I remembered, I misremembered, I raged. Months and months and months passed.  Years passed.

I do this thing, which my friend thinks is crazy; she thinks it is just begging to sink me into the deep, dark, depressions which are so often my truest lovers, my dearest friends:  I re-read my journals. Often. My pages and pages and pages of text.  I rip myself open again and again to see.  To see what can be seen.

And that is what I did.  I read and re-read and skipped some sections and went back and read those sections and became so infuriated with myself.  So sad about myself, because I had been – was still so lost and deluded and sad.

I had projected so much onto this person, this woman.  She was never who I thought she was.  Nor was I ever who she thought I was.  We were merely sets of ideas and experiences and thoughts and emotions coming together and drifting apart and coming together and drifting apart until the drifting was all that was left.

She told me this thing, which has stuck with me, to this day…so many days later, she said “I am not who you think I am.”  I didn’t understand what she meant.  It took me years of writing and reading and knowing myself to understand, a bit, of what she was saying.  I didn’t see her. I couldn’t see her.  I was looking through glasses which were so thick and hazy that I couldn’t even see myself.

Until I ripped myself open.  Until I let the wound bleed.  Let it fester and sore and puss and run and dry and crack and heal.  I looked into myself.  I sat in silence and knew myself.

Parts of me were hard to know.

Parts of me screamed in pain and anger and pain and anger and rage and pain and anger and rage and hurt and betrayal. But I began to see myself.  I read and re-read my writing and I ripped myself open and I discovered something.  Something beautiful and surprising.  I saw the distance.  Saw where I began, and how hazy and clouded and dripping with pain and trauma my perception was.  I saw how I had been conditioned, opened up, made ready to be broken.  And I was broken.

But I learned about myself, and learned how to begin to love myself and learned how to love others well and true.  Or begin to.

I retraced my steps.  Listened to music I loved when I was younger, watched television shows, read books, read essays.  Delved deep down into the psyche of my past self and wandered through the corridors of my mind.  Walked and walked and walked until I arrived at that moment.  When my beating, bruised heart was broken and went further.  I walked until I met myself.

And I did the thing.  I did what I thought would break me, what I had been so averted to for so long, I re-read the e-mail she sent me.  The e-mail that deluded me.  That I clung to with some distant, tenuous thread in the farthest reaches of my subconscious.

I was not averted.

My vision was clear.  The haze which had clouded my view for so long had lifted and I thought to be angry.  Thought to rage at myself for clinging so long to someone and something that was never meant to be mine.  Then I realized that had I not, I would not have the perspective that I have today.  Would not have been ripped open and so would not have written and written and read and re-read and arrived here.  I would be elsewhere.  Still battered, and bleeding and broken.

Shattered.

Because I did, I am mending, healing.  Learning and evolving and no, time may not, perhaps can not heal all wounds, but it certainly allows. That is a lesson worth ripping myself open for again and again and again. It is a lesson I will never tire of learning.

Tell Me More

I remember kissing you,

Rolling over and pulling your body into mine

Inhaling the musky, earthy scent of you.

Somehow, I worked up the courage to

Look into your eyes and you,

Lovely you,

Gazed back, unflinching, unmoving.

Tentatively, I ran my fingers through your hair,

I touched each strand,  and let them fall through,

Weave themselves around my fingers and watched

In wonder as your eyes drifted slowly closed,

Contented.

Your smile sent warmth directly to my soul

I lived to see that smile tug at the corners of  your mouth,

Watched as your lips ordered me to kiss them,

Swooned while your eyes begged me to love them,

Wrapping my arms around your body

I buried my face in your neck and felt

You open to me, welcome me.

You spoke to me in the language of my heart

A language I had thought only I understood

But that first night, I looked into your eyes and

From the moment our lips touched

You spoke to me, fluent and clear,

Whispered your understanding,

And I heard my heart say,

Tell me more.

Mayhem

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My insecurities haunt me

Echo through my mind

move in maddening ripples

On and on they cry:

Insult

Insult

Failure

Failure

Endless chatter

Mindless worry

When can my breath be steady ?

When will the mind be silent?

On Drinking After Midnight

She listens to burned cds in her car
they sound like old records
Ella sings tales of her heart
voice crackling and sizzling
begging my soul to recall Audre’s days
of scratchy records and smooth
cigarette smoke curling into air
naked bodies dampened with
sweat and loving, splayed exhausted across thinly cushioned day-beds

Windows crack and a cloud of knowing
hovers around us
we welcome it into our lungs
with deep intakes of breath
tongues loosened with liquor
we talk of the ways we’ve
lived out our days
reflect on the many
roads our walks have taken

We are moving
fast and impassioned
fire in our hearts inflaming our path
cigarettes clutched between our fingers smoke trails behind us
we don’t know where we are heading
until we do, and we are sitting
on a bar stool

Her eyes wide, she explains
a piece of her soul
leaning into her tale, hands
become her dancers moving and
interpreting, punctuating her points

I get lost when I talk to her
access that place in my mind
reserved for meditating, paper and pen
I pluck out pieces of myself and
spill them at her feet

Knowing that although she may not
know their meaning
she understands the part of my
mind I am speaking from
sees the hard fought wars and
Honors them, welcomes them

Accepts them as my truth.