In my youth
I thought to remake the world or burn it
to break it and rebuild
but somehow those dreams slipped away
replaced by just trying to be content
to find a way clear of sadness
looking for and finding
failing and loss
breaking and broken
it was I that was lost.
And somehow I woke
but always craving the dream
a world where you loved me
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,
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.
So my brain finally figured out something that would scare me and not trigger one of my subconscious tripwires. Which draw me into a lucid dream should a nightmare prove too scary.
It was pretty typical weirdness. A pharaoh brought back to life, filming a movie and not being friends with the extras who didn’t want to be friends with us anyway. A house party, and a snowstorm.
Then I receive a email. A email chronicling the manipulations of the person I’m in love with. The person who (in the dream) is manipulating me. Screwing with my head just because she can. Laughing about how she got my trust. Got into my life. About how utterly foolish I am. About how she got access to my wordpress account.
About my wordpress account being scoured of content.
I rush to check it and I’m locked out. I reset my password and get in and everything is gone. The account isn’t deleted. But everything is gone. Just this barren shell of everything I’ve written and worked on for more than 3 years.
Then I forced myself awake and it was one of those times where I kept waking but not up, just into another dream. Making it particularly horrible.
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.
Shattered thoughts
Scattered rhymes
Waiting to touch, to hold
Waiting for the migraine to fade
Slipping into echoing silence
Wanting to share more than these words upon page
Longing to hear your voice
Wondering, in the grip of the possible
Stuck, not knowing where to go from here
I have dreamed a thousand lives and in each you are there. I’ve kissed you a thousand ways. Made love to you with word and skin. Fucked like beasts. Commanded and caressed. But in each, you will not stay. All I have learned, all the pleasures, the highs and the lows, all my knowledge I bring and still you walk away. I bare my soul and jump with my heart wide open, and still you walk away. And so I wake, because why live in the dreaming if I cannot be with you. I wake and try to find a way to another.
But I cannot get away from us. Why are you still single? Always that question. Always the answer, “That’s complicated.” Hoping they let it go, hoping to allow you to know me better before most of my secrets come spilling out.
I suppose I could lie. That’s the logical thing to do. But I can’t betray your memory. I won’t lie. So they hear a tale of sadness and pain and depression and that’s no way to get a second or third date. Yes, date.
Netflix and chill is bullshit. Even if we get to the point where sex is involved, I’m going to refer to those nights as the nights we fuck. Or better, as scene’s. Give me some emotional connection or give me a paddle in my hand. Preferably both.
A proper date. With dancing, with music, with conversation.
Fuck! You can see how bad I am. I’m all over the place even just writing about looking for a relationship.
Just shortcut it. If you like me, read me, and call me SIR and mean it. We’ll get there. Roll the dice. Make a move. My caution comes from a good place, it’s not lack of assertiveness.
Or ask me to text you, apparently I’ll ramble on and on.
My heart beats faster and the pain comes pouring out. The desire to end and the frantic need to be held and loved and told it will be all right. It’s my version of the more traditional panic attack. This shift to sudden sadness. And I need to isolate myself because I can feel the tears, the sobs coming and I can’t explain it without explaining everything I shouldn’t. All the secrets, all the truths that wait in the darkness, waiting to grab hold and twist their way out of me. That’s what it feels like. And I know that voice lies but it feels like truth. I feel so alone as my heart slams and the blood pulses. Just a touch from my love and it’ll quiet, but there’s been no one to do that in years. I’m just a broken doll. Discarded, discovered, then cast aside again for something better. There’s just this stretching of days and this nothing, this nothing, this nothing. Not enough to be loved, not enough for anyone. All chances fled. All hope denied. Not even sleep is a refuge when you remember your dreams.
I had a hope and that’s where it always goes wrong. There’s no reciprocity in hopes. There is only the expression of individual needs. When that begins to encroach on the reality of the situation, perspective is lost. The cycle of doubt and self recrimination begins.
Something my paramour can stop. But only one ever tried. In trying, she was successful. An acknowledgement that I am as broken as anyone. But I’m always the caregiver. The one paying the compliments. The one seeing who they are and can be.
My friends do that for me. But never the people I hold closest to my heart. My friends are close but I am tentative with them. Because, experience has taught me that I will say the wrong thing and not know it. And they will go away. So I am cautious.
Caution is no way to live.
The point at which all dreams fall apart
Time runs out behind me as life unspools
Forced by failure
By falter
Forsaken by all I would hold close
Forgotten on the black sand shores of memory
Slipping away even from self
A sleep away from without you
Pelgris 