My call to arms

I’ve heard it said that the benchmark for love is whether or not you would die for someone.

It’s not. Death is Easy. We all do it. It’s going to happen.

No, the benchmark for love is whether or not you will live for someone.
Will you wake each day with the intention that today you will be as good to them as when you were courting. As when you were dating. As when you first saw them blush with their body. As when you first touched and your heart sped up a little.

Love is a emotion, yes. But in a relationship, it’s also a choice. The choice to love completely. To not allow all of the noise and fury of this chaotic, beautiful, mad world we live in, to not allow it to take over and intrude where it is not welcome.

But, people call me crazy for opening my heart so wide. And I won’t pretend that I have not been hurt. But, if I allow that pain to make my choices for me then I am not living. I am hiding.

I choose to not hide. To not be ruled by pain. By fear. I may not always know the way. But I know that love is my guide

Breaking down

Breaking down
Self imposed barriers
Last bastions of sanity
Last soldiers holding the line
Scraping out the lining of bags long closed
Opening doors nailed shut

Breaking down
Remember the pieces that didn’t fit the narrative of self
Remember the fights
Remember being young
Remember being stupid
Remember walking in front of speeding vehicles with a glib phrase and the secret desire to die

Breaking down
Remembering the unkind words and the immediate regret and the silence that followed
two people hurting and hurting each other to feel human for a few minutes before they went back to drowning separately
Remembering trying to be the hero for unheroic reasons
To rescue for the reward instead of to defend this battered soul of youth
Remembering days of loneliness and ache masked behind moments of epiphany

Breaking down
The long slow climb out of oblivion
Out of the things done and not done
out of the pits of what have I done
And the tainted desire for a little more
And the bitter poison fruit of vengeance
In whose seeds bore the sweetness of peace
Trying to save everyone because I could not save her
Waking paranoia because a moments inattention caused a lifetime of pain

Breaking down
There are lifetimes within lifetimes and deaths within deaths. Sometimes change is not enough and what was must be allowed to fade

Breaking down

Glass splinters

He made me feel alive by looking at me
He made me feel sick when he looked away
But he would always come back and my heart would burst to sunshine
But always remember, that black night with the open door
When he kissed me I burned and when he whipped me I woke
And when he left me
I was alone with the quiet and the open doorway bleeding light into the night
In a time before I knew that I was alone
And that all my futures were empty
But there he stood,
Again
Holding my gaze and beating the pain from my bones and replacing them with fire
Until I could take no more
And collapsed against his chest and begged him to Stay
Stay with me and don’t walk away

The quickest way to leave is to want more than they give
This lesson I learned again and again but I cannot be so callous

And I made a habit of lifting them up and granting strength until I had nothing left to give

A spent thing watching them walk away, healed and better. While I break a bit more, a bit further, always hoping

And always left with nothing but a open door, spilling light,

One true love

There are 2 types of people. People who have lost some they romantically loved and those that haven’t. Let me be explicit. A person who died, either by violence or not.

The people without this get to have the luxurious illusion of the one true love. That somehow they have the secret. That they have their forever, their true, love.

On the one hand I am envious of their illusion. It is a warm place. A safe place. On the other, I fear for them. What happens when the glass bubble shatters. What happens when they know loss. Do they, then begin to wither? For one thing to be true for so long has the danger of becoming truth. And Truth is hard to recover from.

Those of us who knew loss early, know that each love is different. Each love has its own existence, its own feel. And, sadly, there is no one true love. Each love is flawed and each love is perfection.

Tragedy wakes us to this. We know that the one true love thing is a myth. We know because it can’t possibly be true. And, for myself, why I hate anything that speaks of predestination or everything happening for a reason. Things happen because of chance or because someone took a course of action. Often, several someone’s. But there is no grand design moving us all to some predestined ideal. This is another illusion.

I’m not saying that there is not powerful, strong love. I’m saying that the one true love is a trap. A lie that comforts. Treat each person with dignity, respect, and affection. Treat them with desire, if you desire them. Act courageously. Love completely.

But don’t fall into the logical fallacy of ‘one true love’. It not only isn’t true. It must not be true.

The things I miss

Your voice, whispering softly in my ear.
Your smile, like the sun coming out.
Your eyes flashing grey in sudden anger
The look in your eyes, saying Sir
Dressed to the nines dancing with abandon
Holding you after you spoke with family
Public displays of affection and your blush.

These 7 words for seven things that I miss.
11 years, 4 months, 11 days.

But there are those who are here that I love. But I’ll never be over her. I hope that’s OK.

Love and stress

Stress
Stress ate me up and spit me out yesterday
Thought I was sad but after the 19th, the 11 year Anniversary of Morgan’s death, I felt OK. I never tell people which day we met, when her birthday was, the day we said I love you. I never tell them about the thousand moments and pleasures and discussions we had. Because those are mine. Those are what tells me that love is still possible. That there is beauty and joy in this world. I only tell people about her death, because fuck them! Fuck them! She was the light of my world. She was judged, I was judged by our lifestyle and when a shitbag motherfucking piece of shit took advantage of the world we shared and took her life, her family shut me out. I don’t even know where she is buried. I don’t know if they cremated her and spread her ashes in the Tradewinds like she wanted. So that a part of her would always be in the sky. Watching over those she loved. I don’t tell stories about us, about her because I can’t get 20 words in before I’m crying and my throat closes up. I can talk about her death because it fills me with a cold rage. A control seeps into me and I can function.
But the stress, the knowledge of her sits somewhere in the background. And yesterday, it caused me to collapse. My brain shut my body down. I slept for 16 plus hours. And I write this now as a reminder. Morgan is gone. My love remains. I need to acknowledge that while seeking the beauty and love I know is out in the world. Someone is sitting there and we’ll meet.
To whoever that is, you aren’t competing with a ghost. I know I can love greater and deeper because of my Morgan. I’ll just be sad sometimes. I’ll be destroyed sometimes. I collapsed because I tried to bury it. To hide my pain, to forget. Because that is what people seem to expect. But what people expect has never really worked out for me. I guess I just needed to see that.