When Dragons don’t Text Back

‘Would you rather be a dragon or a unicorn?’

I repeat the question my sweetfriend asked the night before

‘Oh. That’s a good question!’

‘Well?’

‘Dragon. Definitely dragon.’

I text my friend too much. Sometimes she responds. Sometimes she doesn’t.

I know she loves me.

She makes me feel safe, absorbs my madness and spits out rational thought in her sleep

We talk about sex, fuckery, and the magic of extra biscuits

I am learning this is what friends do

Practicing the art of leaning into my sexuality isn’t a joke

Especially since I tend to extremes, abstinence or Lilith on fleek

These are my settings

Fate and the Universe have sent me on a side-quest to balance

My friend is my inspiration, guide, and also the dragon who lives in old, dark caves fucking with nearby villagers

Weary traveler, exhausted from my quest, I approach the village

Naturally, recognizing my warrior status, the villagers solicit me for assistance

I oblige

Slowly I trek up the mountain to the cave where the dragon sleeps

My approach wakes her. I find her to be perfectly lovely, if a bit surly

She explains that the villagers often climb through her caves and interrupt her sleep

To ward them off, occasionally, she takes to burning one or twelve of them to a crisp

She says they taste wonderful with salt. I laugh

This is how our friendship begins, the warrior and the dragon

I came to slay, but stayed to play

Anyway, I’m texting my friend

We are talking about sex and trips and food that makes us come

I eat a canna-chocolate and write one last message before sleep pulls me under

Typing it, I am glad for her, her fiery mouth and her ancient wisdom

The text is word vomit in the form of late night poetic mania

I know she will not respond, I send it anyway

When she reads it I know she’ll think I’m ridiculous,

Smiling to myself, I think of where we began

Ridiculous, isn’t that what dragons think of man?

These Women…

I’m attracted to women the world says are broken.

They drink plenty of water, out of bottles and jugs. They’ve lived a hard life. Know what it takes to make themselves get up in the morning. I’m attracted to women who see their scars as blessings. Who fight daily to survive. To exist.

The world judges these women. Calls them reckless, lost. They’re not. They’re on a quest to find themselves, searching in cracks and crevices rarely visited by daylight. Turning over rocks and pawing through the damp, musky dirt, unearthing broken seeds, and crushed rotting leaves with insects dancing across them. These women sit and watch life, in all its forms. You’ll find them on bar stools and in alleyways staring at the stars, if they can find them though the din. Always watching, looking, a passive sort of quest.

black madonna.jpg

The world which was shown them was harsh and cruel, and attacked at such a young age that it forced them to retreat into themselves, crawl into the haven of their minds and close the door. Lock it shut with barricades of chairs and dressers and books. A haven from the world they were too young to escape, one which guides and weaves them through life as adults.

Adult children, refusing to grow up because they don’t want to become like their teachers. The ones that lied to them, and abused them. Misused them. The ones called safety. Family. Adults.

See, they have learned not to trust what they have been taught, because they have learned that the people who taught them cannot be trusted.

So they make their own rules, go by their own code of conduct. These women laugh the loudest, dance the biggest, love the hardest. I’m attracted to them and won’t never ever stop, because these women?

They are on a quest to find what it means to be alive.