If I knew how to talk about what I want maybe I’d be in a different place
If I knew what I was willing to sacrifice for what I want
Maybe I’d be there
I am sometimes afraid that, despite jumping off the cliff so many times, this last time is the one that I should have done
Safety and you
But leaving everything behind, trapped in the lense of my own making
I can only blame myself
Because who else can bare the burden
Crying for no reason
I wonder at the wounds I’ve inflicted
Following my heart so often
Except, it seems, when it matters
She sits miles away from my touch
Though I see her smile
Hear her infectious laugh
A chortle combined with giggle
Smiles erupt across my face
Approach to stand so close
Feel our mingled body heat
But a touch in this place
Must be surreptitious
My ache grows
Day by day
Even a simple brushing of the fingertips
I understand those upper class Victorian novels now
That pent up frustration of a held hand
Have I met you you say in bravado
Smoldering, I respond, I don’t know
More and more each day I think
Even in the drop of parting
The fecund stink of fresh turndown earth
Sweet summer grass spouts green stalks
The soft bud peaks in the still gray of dawn
Fresh air and the slice of cold wind
Lost amidst the summer waves
Warmth of day grows
Bones ache with tired
Brain fills with lies that sound like truth
Sleep the only refuge from hopes blade
The heat envelopes
The night closes in
Stars breathe life to darkness
And the moon
I’m starting to feel hopeful again.
Which means at some point I’ll stick my hand in the fire
Because that’s what I do
I leap before I know there is solid ground
Maybe that makes me brave
But right now I have hope
No direction but hope
No horizon but hope
No safety but hope
Even though I know better
Even though I know how treacherous hope is
I feel myself light with it
I’m sure any day now
I’ll crash back to earth
What can I say?
I’m a fiend for cracking my chest open
And daring wonderful people to take a bite
A bit morbid
But hey, if you can match my darkness
We might have a chance
I watched you walk away a hundred times in my mind. Steeling myself to the inevitable moment when you were gone for good. You said you were leaving. Moving on from this place of broken promises and going to a brighter future. And though I was sad, I understood. You were tied to another and what we have is but ephemeral kisses of the might have been. Had things been different. Had you chosen another Path, one we’d walk together.
But now, you’ve chosen to remain amidst reassurance that things will be different. But they won’t be. Liars lie. Emotional abusers abuse. That won’t change. Unless you’ve chosen paths I’ve advocated and you won’t because they are all dark alleys you wouldn’t travel, nor even loose me down.
So, you’ll stay, so close and ever distant. Because staying is easier than going. Because comfortable is easier than more and scary.
I’ve let you go. But my heart, foolish thing, only thinks that now at least, there may be a chance. But I know, it’s not to be. Much as I wish it otherwise. Love is bastard. Always complicated. Always just beyond reach.
I find myself constantly wishing that I could do more for the people I love. That the bits that I do, the bits I am allowed to do, are not enough. I want to swoop in and help out. Even if that’s just being there.
I can’t decide if that’s egocentric bullshit or some impulse to be the hero or if it comes from genuine compassion. It may come from a place of profound pain. And by helping them, I get to feel connected for a few minutes or hours.
This may be the tragedy of self inspection and healing. Every time there is a plateau and you think you are good, there is another yawning pit from which demons claw out. They may be polite or you may realize that you want nothing more than to start crying and you don’t know why. Only that it’s easier to do that than to be hurt.
I want to help, to fix, because I am broken.
Hopelessly cliche, I am aware.
I’m not looking for a person to fix. Or who will fix me. But I can’t help but feel that their is a person shaped hole in my heart, and if it were filled, this… All of this life and wondering and pain, would be a bit easier.
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…
A chorus of notes
slink down the burnt spine
collapsing each into each
the burnt coffee
and stale cigarettes of simple dreams
forgotten in the casual haze
each choice bleeds to another
in the cold minutes
We all see it looming
The Herald of dawn’s breathe turning
The task undone
The words not spoke
Counterpoint, spoke too much
Our regrets pile on pile
Against Dwindling hopes
Until hope is lost
And only the dull rust of the blade
Thrust haphazard into flesh remains
As well to walk into the sun
Rise or Set
Last turn of the wheel
Made by one’s own hand
I am too old to breathe and too old to die
So this leaves me where but between
Lost in a seethe of lie
Strike me from my bones
As morsel eat
Until all consumed
I may pass on
Or give me over to fires embrace
One last or is it first passion
A lover who at least knows her worth
Pick glass out of wounds long closed
Like memories pulling free
So short a life consumed in smallest
A drifter encased in a life of choices fallen to dust
Pause to inhale but is it life or just a slipping of darkness into day
Bound by our shackles forged in persuit
And struck round until freedom is as foreign as love.