7/6/14

long drive

I often wonder if you are trying to tell me something about yourself or how you’d like me to be. As an artist I thrive on the quandary of interpretation. As a mere human, I think more often than not, I choke on it.

I am leaving for New York a week earlier than planned.

A 16 hour drive may do me some good. It’s probably not going to help me through this in between time. It’s definitely not going to help me shake your reach, because I carry you on the inside. But, I am going to go and live and be loved by my city. 

I was very much looking forward to going on walks with you in my ear and revisiting some old bookstore floors. The floors I sprawled on and fell into muse with you. The island internal and full of hope. My voice mouthing the words home.

6/2/14

into the sea

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.

5/9/14

worms

You asked me to write my thoughts on us so far. To collect. I want to do that for you, but I can’t shake the feeling that a can of worms will slowly start to pour out into a mound. Soon to start a swallow. Hungry for deliberate signals. 

I knew what I wanted back when I let my words well up and over the banks. I wanted a confidante, a play partner, a creative workout buddy of sorts. I’m drifting above and below the surface which is the only way I can process all that has happened. I am working on the assignment you gave me, but I want to do it right. Not perfectly, just worthy.

I miss my words, too. They’d have something deserving to say about the peeling burn on my back. About Karma. About floods and washing waters. They would not have missed the metaphor that the internet is a mask. 

I like that you are not so available these days. That I’m genuinely in butterflies all over again. That we won’t ever talk like we come from the same river. That the moment has passed. That language won’t arc in front of us, or turn on her knees.

To that I strike a match, and suck harder on the caramels this girl I know sent me. Do I know her? Does she know me?

5/2/14

reality

I feel disjointed and unmotivated today. At least creatively. 

I keep rewriting the same lines. They are all gripes about going home; the anxiety of a big lonely house, the disappointment in myself for puffing out, fourteen hours of long road, the tension of my new plans about to explode. Again I have to set what I love free, and wait to see if it returns to me. There is just no more time left to hide out from reality in New York. 

It’s Summer. Time to start a garden, perfect my vegan sushi skills, scale my business efforts, get back in the gym, find more pieces of myself that fit in my empty spaces. It’s Monday morning. Time to look myself in the eye and get it together. 

No apologies necessary. I imagine you must have traveled the spectrum in reaction to that news. Probably still traveling, and that is okay. I think peace is a journey just like happiness. It’s all about mindfully enjoying the process.

There were pictures last night. To that place my mind wanders.

4/29/14

the ceiling



The hotel room was nice. Spacious with a low ceiling. The second I walked in I knew I would find a way to get my hands on it. We were there for a bdsm convention. It was our first one, and kind of a last minute decision. Our best decisions come like a train — Monday: this life sucks, Tuesday: let’s move to Nashville — and this was no different.

We got snowed in the day we were supposed to leave, and that is how the photos came to be. Lilo and I had three suitcases between us. Half an hour into her taking pictures the contents of all three were strewn across the floor. I changed a lot. My thoughts wandered from feeling lucky, worshiped, content with my body, excited to put myself on display.

When I stare down a camera lens I am looking at everyone I have ever loved. Scenes flash of all the times I have walked a moonlight mile. 

The entire weekend was full of extremes, both high and low. I touched a stranger’s boobs but did not get comfortable enough to show my own. I felt incredibly sexy and empowered most of the time, and I eventually forgave myself for taking so many hotel room breaks. The classes were the best part, and the main reason I am excited to go to my next con over the summer. 

My kink journey so far has truly changed my perspective, even on you. The second I could see the silences and disappearances as more than an abandonment, as a form of bondage, I started to forgive you. 

Perhaps that was not an intended design, but I cannot discount the power of our subconscious. If you look at our relationship as a whole, the many bursts of neon would not exist without the grey expanses. Because of grey, I became a deeper more focused writer.

You pushed my limits as any good dominant does. Out of respect I have given myself permission to enjoy you again. Reframed, that door will never close.

I’m also a switch so I understand, but I think it might be fun to play within defined roles sometimes. Maybe for a weekend.

4/24/14

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.

4/23/14

bay

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.

4/21/14

cranes

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.  

yours


4/20/14

excavation

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.

4/16/14

heartache in reverse

I spent all night with you even though there is not much to show for it yet. Pulling myself out of boxes instead of packing.

There is a lot I want to explain about how I got here. How my toes on the brink led to my full body centered and on display. How understanding myself helped me understand you. The threads are bare beneath my shadow. They need a little more time to regenerate. 

Your mix has me floating in pools, sun burnt and glistening. I almost picked some of the same songs, which made me smile. As I listened I sucked on salted chocolate and I took breaks to watch pieces of secretary. It is beautiful how honesty begets acceptance, creating a glowing ground for love. You know about luminescence, tell me what tools to bring. A typewriter or a fist full of red sharpies? 

I’m feeling inquisitive and afraid to explode without permission. Because, one shard is all it used to take to turn you away. 

Yet,

smooth is boring. A rusty nail takes longer to push through and scrapes away everything that is weak and going to fall off anyway. Sounds like a heavenly clash of flaws. Streams unified and flowing to come.





I’m getting tired of the whim of weather. A few days ago I was barefoot on pavement wearing a red checkered skirt, flaunting my haircut, thriving on the attention of the skeevy little ballers that pass our building. Now I need boots to take a walk, but I already packed them.

It is hard to think when your feet are cold. 

I am in draft today. Scattered. Flicking my tongue without tasting. Searching for a wave to catch. Impatient for the rain to trigger the muted scenes in my head to a fucking color I can paint with. I crave a leathery thud of breakdown so I am forced to reorganize my insides. I crave a loss of control.

The healing, even though it has only just begun, has left me bare, reconstructing, unbearably clean. A tree picked of her bark, rightly with no ability to produce glue. 

Don’t worry about me if I sound a little crazy. I get sad sometimes for no reason at all. 





I’m not sure what happens now either. There is a newness, a tantalizing playfulness without undertow. The power of you, once swept aside, is pooling in at my sides. Rising through me like high tide. I’m soaking at the mouth of a river, and your lips give me hope.

I want you to put me in position in the worst way. 

Yes, I do have that touch, but I am done crashing through doors. Instead I will rest on my knees at the edge of entrance, devoted, mind continuously spinning. To pass the time I will tend to the flowers at my feet and lick the dirt off of my skin. When you open the door, you’ll have something pure and fertile to pet. 







We talked about you in the car tonight and it gave me butterflies, because this new relationship I might have with you is also a new relationship with her. We agreed you play a brave character and gave you a new name. Michigan. Not sexy, but factual and indifferent to the past.

I used to need you to rearrange history, and that’s probably an understatement. To right wrongs of both our doing. To move above pace. To apologize for my parted ego. Now I just need you to believe what you’re dreaming. To enjoy the movement. How the rain just drops, slipping in coves, covering rock.

These nights tend to dissolve, usually rusting right down to the bone. Snuffed out when one of us has confessed that which cannot face the light. But this time is already different for me. I don’t feel like I am limping back into a forest again to lost. I can freely admit the ride I want to mount.

I like the dirty taste in my mouth from crawling on this floor. I need you, because I want more. 

4/14/14

look who...

stuck with a photo a day challenge for a whole two weeks! Here are some highlights from the month so far. And, thanks to Mufasa for making a FB group without which I would never have kept on track.

Day two - in my hand

Day three - shapes

Day four - good together

Day eight - hobby

Day eleven - three of a kind

Day twelve - on my left

Day fourteen - dirty

4/13/14

nine years

I miss being your muse, and you being mine.

It is getting to the point where every little thing I do has taken on a sort of eroticness, because in my mind it's all for you. The photos I take, the contrast of my pale pink against a crisp white wife beater, the lessons in submission. There is an inescapable desire to please you, which I'd be content to let swallow me if I only knew what to do with the tension and energy it created. I sleep with the windows open, the curtains open, my legs open.

I'm too lazy to explain who I am now, but know that I am lost in my worship of the moon.