Train Whistle

So I have two simultaneous tracks of thoughts running right now and they go like this
Shouts, “Fuck!”

But with different inflections
On the one hand the job I thought I had is vanishing faster than sand in a windstorm. I might as well be standing on the tarmac as it goes flying by while the pilot Shouts, “No really, I have nothing to hide.” Which, as we all know is code for, I have things to hide. And the more it’s repeated, the more we know that the thing you’re hiding is deep and dark.

And on the other hand, I’m excited and anticipatory but apprehensive too. Because, I know it’ll go OK but I also know that I tend to go silent when I’m nervous and when there’s nothing to lose, I’m on top of the world but then I start thinking, and that churn begins. That overthinking and the litany of failure and all my friends saying that’s great but I don’t want you to get hurt and I smile and say I understand when I just want to say too late.

But
It’ll be fine right?
My life isn’t a pointless series of days where people I love leave me and I’m way too much for anyone, everyone else. My dad’s fine and it’s probably not cancer and even though he’s gotten more conservative than sane Republicans, I’m not ready to lose him.

Did I say 2 tracks?
I must have lost count.

Grief never fades

Splay me open
Crack my chest
There’s little enough left
A heart in tatters
Each new day cut slivers
Stuck in throat
Flowed out with tears come unbidden
Weaving a false tale of hopes realization
Fantasy without root
Just another sliver
An ache that never ends
Take what blood remains
Chest hollowed out
Filled with burnt ash
An endless well

15 days, dwindling

I miss caring for someone and being cared for in return. I miss giving an order and having carried it out. I miss the joy on my their face when I say, “Good Girl.” I miss the life. The life as I learned it. The submission and compliance. Punishment and reward. Rules made to show care, to demonstrate love, to make each moment better. Never to hold back, always to foster growth. I miss these things, but mostly I miss being loved. I miss loving someone full bore with my slightly crazy heart and being loved in return by theirs.

I miss the lifestyle because it’s the only world I’ve known where love is the most important thing. Where communication rises to the level of my need. Where such is internally enforced by the cultural norms of the lifestyle. Maybe this is my experience because I’m the common denominator, I know that others have experienced abuse, that this lifestyle draws abusers and takers.

I’m not that. I have no way to convince you. You would need to trust me. I have no real point here. I’m 15 days out and I guess I just miss my Morgan. We weren’t perfect, but we had love. I miss her. I miss who I was with her. I miss…

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