wrecking ball

There were times that I thought I would have to leave you both, unzip and step out of myself, go back to Florida, start over. What a silly incoherent thing I was. Not just in my journal, but in my head as well. If I had heard the word polyamoury at the time I would have drawn nasty parallels to polygamy. I would have denied the fetish of emotion.

My mind since has stretched, again and again. 

I broke your heart many times. I think each ruin tested the same vein. I love her. I talk to her with the voice you want to hear. I make her coffee in the morning. She brushes my hair anytime she wants, and I let her watch when I brush myself. We are a we. Right from the beginning, solidly prepared for the weather, rooted in wet ground, bent from swaying, like a tree. 

My love for my wife to be is not a rejection, nor is it a restriction. It makes me stronger, it fills me, it frees me to give. My love for you is not an infidelity or a lesser feat. Nothing in this immensely powerful, fucked up world will ever break my heart bonds. You and I have tried. Her and I have tried. Love in its many forms will not let go. 

The best kind of life rests in the patina of our communal decay.

I am not here to knock stones together forcing rain. That only makes us bleed. The gorge of day to day details, inevitable judgments, wounds, triggers, frustration; all of that has lead to craved explosion, burnout and the press of the knife point further within. I'm hoping we can spare ourselves by focusing on what we want. 

I want exquisite rawness. The poetry that draws a map most mysterious. I want you to accept my love however and whenever you feel most comfortable. I want my lover back with mutual commitment and a defined set of expectations. I want as many other voices with me in the dark as I can earn. I want to dance into the floor, muddy and thick with our words. I want rules and sweet punishment. To be the color in your cheeks. 

For all that I want, I am eager to give. Tell me how to be your good girl.


I was told to slow down. It’s not that I disagree with this advice, I just don’t quite know how to stop a reveal once it has begun. Restraint can never be part of my promise, but this conversation will be reassuringly long. 

I remember watching you wade into the sea on a day that was much too cold in what seemed like ten thousand layers of black robe. It was like a scene from interiors. It was like toes in the sand were a map only you could understand. There were plumes of black at your waist and I swear to god your legs were joined to a fin. It was strangely beautiful, yet made me incredibly sad. 

Sometimes I lie in bed limp and face first into my pillow, and I bellow like a fog horn. Like a ship. Black waves crashing on blue. Lurking. Your ship, possessing every ounce of cargo that was feared lost. Contents extremely flammable.


The door is closed, but made of paper. I had this silly idea a few months ago to fold one thousand paper cranes. Somehow, in my fucked up head, having enough of those would be enough of everything I felt was lacking. So far I've made three.

Not sure what I am lingering at. Everything I am feeling right now can be reduced down to shades of regret. Even the future already feels like the past, because I cannot get out from under my original sin. 

I want to write something so cathartic that it will make it okay to be us now. Something so strong that it will pluck the shards of twinge from our memory like a magnet. Something so sweet that it will tickle our throat like candy as we swallow each new mouthful. 

Consume me, because I said you could do anything and that is what you chose. I will hold your napkin in my lap, and then later, in my mouth.  



I burrowed a hole through my nose with my finger. That is not poetic strife, I literally mean a hole in my septum. I don't want to get verbose about this, but I really feel like this little sliver of me that can never regrow was holding me back. I'm sort of glad I destroyed it, but keeping this clarity is a bloody daily task.

My nose is incomplete now, outwardly matching my inner deformities. In public I'm constantly wondering if people can see what I did. And if they can, what do they think of me? And if they are thinking about me, how can I possibly protect myself with this hole in my nose?

I wish I knew what day the hole became a part of me, or rather replaced a part of me. Shredding myself apart deserves historical observance.  Sadly, it happened long before I noticed. I got so used to the habit of blood on my hands without consequence. The rhythmic pleasure of gnawing.

Such is love.
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