Friday, December 2, 2016

If You Believe...

I have pretty much ignored my readers and the blogs of people I care about here for a while now. But I have never forgotten you, never stopped appreciating you, never stopped caring about your stories. I truly do appreciate you, and looking at some of the lasting silence from my blogroll, I know that too much time has passed since I really roamed, read, and wrote here.

I have missed you. And I have not forgotten.

Alpha reminded me that magic isn't something you lose. Magic exists when you believe in it, and you only lose your connection with magic if you truly believe that you have lost the ability to create it. But when you remember...





Thursday, December 1, 2016

She Fucking Won

I've written a couple of things that aren't depressing whiny bullshit. Really I have...They're just sitting in drafts because my words got stuck...So yea, sorry and all...

B came in and poisoned my fucking life. The beauty in dancing with demons is pulling them out into the light. There's no light left anymore. I just sit in the dark and watch them chew on pieces of our fucking souls.

It's not this place that's killing us, it's her. We could have survived this fucking pit of humanity okay if it hadn't been for her...

She threw me away like a truly worthless whore, and did her best to hurt him as bad as she could and insure my destruction on her way out the door. She stuck a knife in his heart, set his demons free, closed the blinds, walked out, and locked the door with us both inside.

I don't do it for Alpha any more. Not really. I really don't. And that hurts. Yes he wants me, yes he needs me, yes he loves me truly and deeply, but I just don't do it for him. Even though I've never really been quite enough, I used to do it for him. Before B.

I was offered to another, and not taken.
That other was smart, and good fucking gods, I'm gonna stay away and not fuck him up. Because I do actually really love him even though I shouldn't in the way that I do. But ultimately, that's okay because he'll never know that the girl who left him really isn't the only one who ever loved him.
If I love it, it breaks. So I'll just try to stay away, he's the only one left that I ever truly loved and haven't really genuinely fucked up.
As ridiculous and silly as it sounds, he's my shot at not fucking up, at staying away, at serving in a way that genuinely benefits him, by accepting that such service takes the form of an ear to hear about the girl who loved him, the one who comes in and does the dishes when his wife's mother dies, the one who accepts whatever he offers, even, ironically, when that offer is rejection.
And yea, I know I shouldn't feel that way about anyone besides the one who owns me. I know that. But hey, we all fucked up. The only difference is our degrees of fucked, and whether we ever admit it or not. After all, it's easier to live a lie.

In all though? Fuck...I've never felt less desirable and more fucking poisonous in my life, and I have a long history of screwed up self esteem, so that's saying something.

I talked to my sil most of the night last night. The one that those of you who have been around for a long time will remember because she was a fucking junky and we tried to save her from herself....It's been five years. She's schizophrenic as fuck and other sil said nothing.
Odd as it sounds, she was my first baby. And good fucking gods above, it hurts to hear her talking like my mother in law. off the goddamn deep end. In the most real sense of the word.
And she's sick and scared, and her/their mom's dying, and I sat there and told her that "baby I know you're scared and, and I know love hurts, and yes, I know you're like mom and not quite right, and baby I love you. Never stopped. No matter how fucking angry I was."
And I cried, because she is truly fucking broken and I miss who she was before mainlining became her life and she fell off the deep end of insanity. And I miss her babygirl...We couldn't save her either.

I feel like B pushed us off the edge into the bad side of reality, and there's no scrambling back out. Everything falls that tiny slip of chance into the worst things could be. But it's never really the worst, because there's always more fucking bad.

I'll never really truly satisfy Alpha on my own. I feel like I barely even turn him on any more, and it only works if he supplements me with fantasy. It wasn't like that before her.
She poisoned my fucking existence. And I let her. Begged him to let her even.

I used to feel magic in my veins, the earth listened back, the trees whispered to my soul, I had somehow become clean of all the unclean things that happened to me. She ended all of that. I'm not magic anymore, maybe I never was and I'm just fucking crazy. And I'll never be clean again. To the roots of my fucking soul.
She won--my life will always be measured by before and after her. That's all she really wanted. Maybe that and because she broke us on purpose. Because we were big and beautiful and powerful, and she's a succubus. And we let her suck out and fucking destroy everything that was pure and beautiful in us.

Oh yea, and I hope my sons counselors rot in fucking hell, because my bright, well behaved kids are not the ones I would have called cps on in a city of half a million fucked up assholes.

Yea...Seems that when you fall off the bad edge of reality, it can always get worse.

Not too long ago, I was broken. At the time, I cared about not being broken. Now? I could really give a shit less as long as I can pull off being a decent parent. Which I am. Did I mention that I hope those gossiping, exaggerating, lying fucking cunts that my kids call counselors rot in hell?

You win B--Your attempts at getting him to destroy himself by destroying me have been a success. Except for the fact that I can't hate him for it. And if he decides to, I'll let him drag me through the fucking mud until I die without holding it against him. All the fucking while hoping that I have pleased in some way because that is who I fucking am whether anyone, including myself, likes it or not.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Cyanide Queen

She cried until she had nothing left
Until there was only cyanide inside, somewhere once a sense of pride
Bought tickets to a ride
But the devil’s in the details, because when you buy the ticket
Someone else controls the gates of the carnival.

Empty maybe
But there’s something left inside
She’s made of cyanide and broken pride
Drained dreams busting at the fucking seams
She is me, now the cyanide queen
No respite on her knees, no more dreams of being free.

She is the cyanide that binds to your enzymes
Destroying all of your rhythm and rhyme
She is cyanide, she is me, she is my “what I have grown to be”.

Tears of acid rain
Let them fall—maybe they’ll sooth your pain
I’m the quiet one at the table
All the lost and quite a bit unstable
A lot silent, a little bit violent
Cyanide boiling up inside
Pick a moment, a person, any volunteering victim
She’s quiet but she’s a little bit violent in her silence.

Cyanide queen falling apart at the seams
I’ll melt a hole in your fucking soul
Until you think you need me, say “You complete me”
Maybe the acid rain will sooth your pain
White-tipped eyelashes, taste the salt of broken things
Because the devil’s in the details
And honey, you chose to take a walk in those heels.

They all watched me, the cyanide queen--Satan’s little angel
And my fall from grace, no attempting to save face
Such was never my place
But clearly I’ll have descended straight to hell.

I am the dust of all the stars I was once made of
I am your broken dreams, the cyanide hiding inside
The darkness in your silence, your secret violence
Your filthiest fantasy
The acid rain falling softly on your soul
And somehow still I’ll make you think that you need me to make you whole.

They clipped my wings and watched my fall from grace
Expecting me to make some attempt to once again rise
But I’m sitting here in hell
Got my own seat at the devil’s table
You’re welcome to come on down if you are willing and able.

Think I’ll sit back and put on the matching heels
Settle in and maybe make a deal
The devil’s in the details
The cyanide queen is sitting here on her knees
Dearest devil, do you need another ruler in your kingdom?
A vicious little bitch to brand?
Maybe another left hand?
Or maybe I’ll just take your fucking throne and rule alone.

There shall be no phoenix rising from these ashes
The darkness has become my storm
This is my fucking reborn
I am the ashes, the empty space between breaths
I am
That painful ache in your chest.

Cyanide, she is part of my norm
And when your heart is battered and torn
I’ll be there with my cyanide soul and my acid tears
To melt away your fears
I come not bearing comfort
For I am the passion in the darkness you hide within
The skeleton in your closet of all that you have ever lost
The one who holds all of your secret sins
I am the joy found in pain and the compounds of acid rain
Your pleasure found in pain.

They all watched my descent from grace, kept my wings and tried to save face
I got myself a seat at the devils table now
I am the forbidden fruit on the plate
Your secret hate
So I got myself a seat at the devil’s table
With my cyanide heart, I figure it’s a pretty good start
I’ll be every ride in his fucking playground
When the last angel has fallen
And all that you love has gone on

Look for me and perhaps that is where I’ll be found.

Friday, November 25, 2016

Is It Still Really Mine?

I'm sitting here staring at the page. It is strangely unfamiliar, as if not being who I once was made this place foreign to me. Perhaps some of it is the absence, perhaps some of it is the beautiful and terrible things life brings. Perhaps most of it is that I gave her things I can never get back, and this place is one of them.

I fell in love with people I shouldn't have.
Magic.
They're fucking magic.
And hers is broken, twisted, in a moment I missed it...

I sit contemplating fire and ice, my strange desires and slow burning fires under the surface.
Wondering of what I can now write here.

Is it really still mine? This blog, frozen in time.

I gave it too her...

He suggested that I move to a new spot,and start over. I thought about it. It would be giving up the last remnants of home that I have dragged with me through this fucking hell-hole of a place we now live.
So I'm torn...I don't want to give this up. Yet the things that belong here, the stories that this place was created for, I have them...And what happens when she reads them?

So maybe just theory and cryptic poetry...Or maybe I say fuck it, she went out of her way to make this hurt as much as she could, so if she feels compelled to read and doing so is like grinding the nail in a little deeper, then it's her own damn bad...

The way she left, the efforts she made, to provoke him into breaking me and destroying himself...She wanted to see me left in pieces...She did everything she was asked not to...Maybe I'll never know why, maybe I'll always wonder inside...Why she wanted to know that I cried as she lied.

Maybe I'll be stardust, maybe just rust...

I come here to write, the dreams the moments, the experiences, the feelings...And I pause. Because I know that she will read. Me.
But I'll not be responsible for her insecurities. She didn't believe, didn't listen, didn't take heed; the whole reason she was given this link in the first place. So I think that here I will continue to spill my escapades, all my little pieces of Hades. Pieces of me.

Saturday, November 5, 2016

Best Not...


Best not to catch feelings
Best not listen to my whisper in your ear
Of those things everyone wants and is afraid to hear
Best not peek inside Pandora’s Box
There’s a reason I came with locks.

Go ahead
Take a little peek
He already picked the lock
Opened the box
Made a key
And set me free.

The scars on my body
Carvings on the box
Hiding within the sum of secrets and sin
I came with so many locks
Yet he did not knock.

I am the contents of Pandora’s Box
My scars simply carvings on the lid
I’ll spill my secrets, invite you to get your kicks
Maybe I’ll fuck or fuck up your mind
Chances are that it will be both with time
Whether or not you are or ever will be mine

Come on, just one little kiss…
One little slip into me
And then you’ll see
The taste of sound as it spins around
Like my blood on your lips
The soft trail of fingertips.

He’ll open me up and set me in front of you
I’ll sink to my knees, offering to drown in your seas
If you take just one little peek
I’ll find you in the darkness
Offering the acceptance you seek
Freeing dangers hidden and unseen.

I am Pandora’s Box, I’ll free the demons in your soul
Will it complete you, or will it swallow you whole?
I am pain and aching desire for the untouchable fire
Best not to look inside
I have no more pride
I’m simply lost on the ride.

I’ll be your coke whore
Your open door.
I’ll be your midnight phone call
The pause before your fall
And the aching sorrow in your chest
I’ll be the one you kept, the one that got away, and the one that shall always stay
I am the remains of your pain
And the shreds of all that has kept you sane
I’ll be your hope and everything in you that has been broken
You’ll see. When the box is open.

Best not to catch feelings
I’m in here dreaming
Of things both meant and never meant to be
He opened me up and set me free
Maybe you’ll take a peek
And find me on my knees.

Best not look darlin
I’ll reach to comfort your soul
Desperately desiring to offer you hope
And perhaps my demons will consume you whole
Perhaps after me you’ll be broken
Pieces of everything left unspoken, hope left as a dangerous token.

Maybe I just want to be seen
To be loved for my broken being
To use my soul and gently stitch up your seams
Perhaps instead, I’ll haunt your dreams
And torment your being
For I am Pandora’s Box, and he’ll set me in front of you
Open and unlocked.

I’ll be your fucking drug,
Your forbidden love
I’ll be your playground
My moans the sweetest torture of sound.

I’ll be the one who loved you,
The one you could never have
The one who never got away, but could not stay.
On my knees I’ll pray
So for that moment you can be god
And I’ll be the remnants of all that you have sought
A gift that can never be bought.

Best not to peek inside
Too late now
There’s not much left to hide
I have no need for my own broken pride
My skin is Pandora’s Box,
My being all the evils and hope within
The sum of your sorrows and sin.

I am that line where sky meets earth
Unintentionally, I’ll drag your heart through the dirt
I am the pause between breaths
That moment in which you contemplate death
Best to love me not
For my body is Pandora’s Box
And my soul its contents
I have been unlocked
Spilling the contents within
I am the story of your pain, thirst, hope, and sin
I am the sum of everything you have ever drowned in.

I’ll come to chase away those monsters under your bed
For I am made up of the ones inside of your head
I’ll be there by your side when you’re bleeding in the dirt
Swallow all of your sorrows and hurt
I’ll witness your blood sweat and tears, gently cradle your fears
I’ll break your heart and leave my mark
Whisper how much I love you into the dark.

I am the eye of the storm, and it is all contained within this small box, now left unlocked
I’ll hold up the mirror to the skeletons in your closet
Free your demons and let them run screaming
To crash into me
I’ll drown in your fucking sea.

Just one little peek
One little touch
Nothing is ever enough
Best not to look, best not to love
For I am not heaven sent from above
I am Pandora’s Box
And it is best for you

To love me not.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Perhaps...

Perhaps poetry is the gods gift to the lonely
A way to bleed out the words to which there is no one to speak
Allowing the soul to bleed its ink in a way that borrows not from next week
Poetry is the empty chair
The accepting ear
The soul’s bloodletting and tears
A place where it’s okay to dump all of one’s fears.

Perhaps poetry is the gods gift to the lonely
A way for one’s heart to hemorrhage onto a page
Without the risk that comes when you spill your pain to a waiting ear.

Perhaps poetry is for the broken
An ode to all of the words left unspoken
The gods little token to those whose hearts have been ripped open
A drink of water in the desert
Of the minds midnight ride through time.
Perhaps poetry is bleeding black onto white
That silently screaming insight
The quiet girl with madness in her eyes
Who knows that no matter how hard she tries
The empty seat will not speak, will not see, will not ever truly be
An ear that actually hears.

Perhaps poetry is sadness and rage and joy and pain
The ink under one’s skin
An intricate invitation to sin
Demons on a page, no longer repressed in their cage
Take them out and teach them to dance
Because life is one manic chance.

Perhaps poetry is the dark light of the soul
The place everyone is afraid to look
Like a banned book, a dangerous hook.
I’ll be your little angel of sin
I am a reflection of your pain, your rage, your own personal version of insane
I am the midnight darkness of your mind,
all that shit you tried so hard to bury inside
the demise of projection and pride.

And so I’ll sit with the empty chair
Send my whispers out into the air
Let it sit back and watch the demons that dance within
Rubbing my mind on the edges of silently smooth wood
Soften them perhaps a bit for a moment
With the words otherwise left unspoken

Perhaps poetry is for the lonely
The ones made up of only dreams and other broken little things
Perhaps poetry is all of the words left unspoken

Expressed simply as the language of the broken.

Monday, September 26, 2016

Yes...I Could Write About...

Yes, there was a post. Yes, it was angsty as fuck. Yes, I took it down. Yes, I censor the shit out of myself here now. And yes, I do remember all of those times I swore that I would never do that. What can I say, shit happens.

Yes, I have a lot that I could write about, but I don't.

I could write about how I have learned that kneeling is a spiritual experience for me, about how I went from managing a million dollar department to working in little back rooms in warehouses and the sides of mountains, how fucking difficult it is to be taken seriously as a woman in this industry.

I could write about losing a night or a week or two to drugs I've never touched, about the overwhelming urge to serve and surrender in ways I never really thought I'd crave, about how I realized that maybe I was right and the world can't break me, but I sure as hell can break myself.

I could write about the inordinate amount of time I sit talking to an empty chair--pouring out my fears, musings, pain happiness and tears. About how drowning all the goddamn shades of grey as someone who sees the world in black and white fucks me up, about desire and need to feed that sometimes overwhelms me. About what it's like to have people you trained, mentored, bled cried and sweated with, tell you they'll work for you anywhere you go if you just say the word--and not have a place for them to go.

I could write about how if you have millions of dollars worth of inventory, I'm the one you want to have the fucking keys, but I'm a woman in a man's industry making better money remaining unseen. About stirring up the mix and getting my fucking fix, about how speaking from my knees in surrender to my demons, his demons, dreams without reason, has become my way of speaking to god. About what it's like being a storm in a world where everyone desires only shelter, about the fact that I'm a fucking whore and I really don't mind anymore, or about a look and sentence I was given regarding shame--a moment I'll carry and be forever grateful for.

I could write about how beautiful music makes my son cry, or about how he's gonna help raise his brother for a couple months while live on the side of a mountain. About feeling and feeding darkness and dancing with dreams and demons. About what it's like to rip your own heart out and look at it from the inside. About being the crazy fucking white girl everyone thinks hates them, when the truth is--I am who I am and maybe I'm just to busy to care to share words. About acceptance as possibly one of the greatest gifts one can give...

Yes, there's a lot I could write about. But for now, poetry goes into a folder on the desktop, and the rest is poured out to an empty chair in a lonely city of half a million people whose thoughts never quiet and which so deeply disturb my silence.