Drift heavy under lidded eyes

I no longer yearn for a past I can never have. For a life given up, no matter how much my semi-worrying off hand comments may make it seem otherwise. I want things now just out of my reach. Things in my life and in my future. Which sometimes seem so far away. However, I know that they are not. Nevertheless, I can’t keep from straining forward. As if attempting to reach that last inch to that last leaf, so far above my head.

It is still good to acknowledge though. That that darkness in me will never flee, though now they are merely half serious jokes. That I once loved deeply. That I again love deeply. That what was will never be again. And that’s ok. What is, is much better than an ephemeral dream. No matter how beautiful.

The portrayal of BDSM is broken

Why is BDSM presented as a thing of violence?
I don’t understand that. It has never been my experience that I felt violent. I’ve felt control. Like a violin string stretched taught and vibrating with tension. But it’s a tension not waiting for violence, but for action. Yes, sometimes that action is one of force. Of the infliction of pain. But never against the desire of my partner. My treasure. My submissive.

Submission is an act of trust and love. Dominance is an act of trust and love. That it presents as violence is gross misrepresentation. The feeling I have when my submissive says Yes Sir. Or just uses my name, if in public. That feeling has nothing to do with violence. Yes, it’s ownership. But they own me equally. They give me their submission. A greater gift cannot be made. I give them my control and bend my every action to make them safe and joyous. Whatever form that joy and desire takes.

BDSM is NOT violence. If it ever is, then it is abuse.

I cannot emphasize that enough. It makes me feel sick to think that people are hurting others in the guise of BDSM. Even when it’s just play and not lifestyle, it is still based on trust and pleasure and consent.

It drives me crazy.

Sip whiskey with me, I’ll show you worlds

I’m one part shattered heart, one part battered soul
Three parts protective, two parts sexy times.
I’m a clock wound so tightly for so long that I’ll never quite spring back. A timepiece built of hours devoted to love but in the silent lonely, to tears.
I’m a disciple of science and a priest of storm. I see no reason to deny gods; just to fight them. I believe in the philosophy of the human spirit and am woefully disappointed in its apparent lack. I know what it is to live without wanted human touch and what it is to drown in its addiction. I am always uncertain how my dreams and love will be received. So I will second guess and apologize, leaving you wondering if I really had done something wrong. When I love, it’s forever. And while that seems romantic, there are places in me reserved for loves which will never be. Places filled with longing and pain and almost and maybe. I am tears shed without regard to propriety or place. I feel and I will not apologize. If that makes you think less of me then I no longer require or respect your opinion. I am strength in weakness, bravery in fear, and hope without cause. But I am also unexpected fragility and hide myself in talk of blood. No one looks too deeply when they can’t be sure of the answer. I am wishes unfulfilled and wishes granted. But some wishes can never be. No matter how much you need them.
I am soft opinion and persuasive thought. And secrets never to be told, and secrets yearning to be believed. I feel old and look young. Stress makes me sexual, it doesn’t cause wrinkles. Silve hairs since I was twenty but deep brown for all that. If I were rich I’d be less wealthy because taking care of my people is my priority. I’d help them build lives of joy if I had the means. I am a shout made for joy. Of love. Of ownership. Of mine. But respectful of consent, I remain silent. I am pleasure made pain and pain made pleasure. I am two divergent and equally held beliefs.
I am
I am
I am

Think but this….

Living in a tragedy gets old. Dystopian elections of battered hopes where men fall prey to honest ignorance and are pulled to pieces drowning out the message. Each rally set outside of an election year calls to mind another authoritarian in black and white; a dead mans message of terror spread out to the stars propagating at light speed. Years pass and life continues with battles and fights to hold on. With love and a renewed hopefulness and the crush of long distances. To hear her voice, to watch her dance in joy. Then a waking from a dream and a virus wreaks havoc, exposing the flaws in logic more boldly than a hundred hours of documentary and late night talk shows. But still conspiracy conspiracy conspiracy they whisper and while I speak only in shadows and darkness still my heart remains because of she’s there. Hair wet symphonies and silence. Driving to work for a company who has tenuous grasp on reality but the commute is short. Trying to convince aging parents to take this seriously but hearing Fox news reach up their spine and spout false talking points. Despair but with rapid eye twitches from lack of sleep. Still…I’m not dead yet. Time enough for love and joy. Death is coming and that’s no lie. But he is my brother. I know him well. And I am not afraid.

You may call me what you wish but what I am remains

Pain is a harmonic language. It’s not enough to master its phrasing and grammar. One must also hear its call, must dive in and feel its terror in the small heartbeat pulsing against your tongue. How else to learn? How else to walk shaded pathways with few travelers?

Love is a deliberate song. First begun in synapse and hormonal euphoria. Easy to discard without attachment. But love beyond simple physical reaction is the choice of the moment and day. The choice to listen with fresh ears. To see with fresh eyes. To fall in love again and again. To see a movement they’ve made a hundred thousand times and smile. And fall in love again.

These two things seem like different pieces of the puzzle which is BDSM. But they are bound together. Can you love someone so deeply that you are willing to give them their desire to feel the heights of pleasure so insidious that the longer it lasts the more it feels like pain? Can you inflict pain and control and lead with both glee and icey calm? Can you allow yourself to trust so completely in another that you give away your freedom? Can you safeword despite not wanting to disappoint? Can you know when they won’t safeword and do it for them?

It is only with the binding of knowledge and love that these things can be accomplished.

All else is just fuck boy greed. The desire to take without being worthy of it. The blind ambition to act on those desires. And the complete lack of either emotional intelligence or compassion.

Bitter pill affect

When given social permissions to be myself I don’t do constraint or what is termed normal. I’m poetry and flowers and that tea you mentioned in passing that one time. I’m kisses and touches and tears. I’m telling friends that I love them and music, and songs made up and sung right there.

I’m either locked down or free and I don’t know how to be else. And I don’t know that I want to be.

So if you see me smiling for no reason or catch me with tears in my eyes or, on extremely rare occasion, complimenting some random stranger then walking away. Be happy. You’ve caught a rare glimpse past my shell. Something few ever see.

In joy and in pain I, like most of us, am hidden. A false front. A city of doors. A maze without end.
And sometimes…often…I feel so lost

A lifetime of coping skills

I forget the hells I’ve been through working through trauma
I forget them having lived with them daily
Having worn down paths I my soul
Having found bolt holes in those paths which could short-circuit a memory
Or provide a moments respite
I can see the moments of trauma and the pain is distant
Not disassociated
Just distant
What forgiveness of self
What justice
What clarity feel like at the end of a long road
But those bastions of safety
Those places and thoughtforms
Which gave solace
Those places of peace I hollowed out
Lay forgotten
But I’ve begun to revisit them
And realize that they provide safety from the daily trauma of being alive
Refuge for the broken
A realization that healed doesn’t mean mended
That acting as if the trauma was the only reason for pain has inflicted more trauma
If only by tiny increments
Now I sit, in my bastion, not alone
Not alone anymore
But still
Free to feel pain
Even if everything is better

Love songs leave out the in between

Love is not a constant
That peak, that rush that new
It’s not sustained
Not even Gomez and Morticia love
It’s not a note held inviolate against the firmament

Love is choice
I choose you
Not out of obligation
Not out of social pressure
Not even internal fears
I choose because in you there is the resonance which reinforces an us

Maybe that seems unromantic
Maybe that seems like a obliteration of you as yourself

I’d say that without the you of you there could be no us of us
That to stand together we must first be able to stand apart
And in the co-mingling of our hearts we are more

So how is that not constant when you are in my every deed and thought?

How is it not that delicious heady of beginning love?
To me it feels simple.
The constant is a contentment
And amid those days of content are hours of joy sprinkled with revelatory minutes of bliss

But if I were to judge based upon that false belief in purity of bliss when truly in love, well…no one would ever find that

And that is what people are looking for
What they’ve been led to believe in
By what they’ve fed upon
Perhaps they will feed on this
And know another truth

Or perhaps I’m just a romantic of another flavor