Wednesday, March 9, 2011
the shaking circles
I've been pacing back and forth. Trying to control my breathing. Like something's clutching my chest, cracking me from the inside out.
That's exactly how it feels.
These thoughts I assumed I had conquered long ago, somehow resurrected to taunt me, shaking me in circles searching surfaces, eyes darting, and I can not find what medicine will cure me.
Fuck, even just a band-aid would help.
It's only been a week and here I am, walking on that thin ledge, emotional winds gusting around my ankles. Threatening to take me down if I don't let them into my lungs, permeate my blood, cells and soul.
It's a dead scream, the way that wind howls.
I want to go home before I tear myself to pieces.
Holding my breath, gnawing my bones.
Just let me be alone.
That's exactly how it feels.
These thoughts I assumed I had conquered long ago, somehow resurrected to taunt me, shaking me in circles searching surfaces, eyes darting, and I can not find what medicine will cure me.
Fuck, even just a band-aid would help.
It's only been a week and here I am, walking on that thin ledge, emotional winds gusting around my ankles. Threatening to take me down if I don't let them into my lungs, permeate my blood, cells and soul.
It's a dead scream, the way that wind howls.
I want to go home before I tear myself to pieces.
Holding my breath, gnawing my bones.
Just let me be alone.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Glorious Torture
My watch beeped uncaringly, alerting me that the time was, in fact, one am.
I stood in my mother's room, motionless, emotions piercing my stomach, holding my breath hostage. An hour had passed and I was still in her room, surrounded, eyes darting as I clutched my wine glass delicately. It was like some sickness that slowly crept from one room to the next, piling up to frame pathways.
Clutter.
Clothes, Christmas wrapping paper, shoes, hangers, papers, papers, self help books (....), written journal entries that had become unbound....film negatives, that upon closer inspection, revealed my beaming 2 year old smile as I sat top my rocking horse, pieces of my history buried between my parent's final divorce agreement and a check my grandmother had written to me over ten years ago for a Christmas present. My heavy eyes watched towering demons laughing all the way to the bank, and I'm sure no ghost living in that room could relate, sure as the skeletons chilling in the closet sunned themselves every day, strewn across the floor in front of the adjacent window.
I held onto a door nob, stretching my right leg over a pile of storage boxes and nameless objects, struggling to find footing that would not betray me as I made my way across her abandoned room. Like swimming through your open ocean past as a cold under currant churns some distant storm that one day will come for you.
I keep surprising myself...even in this moment, sleep starved laying on a mattress on the floor next to my mother, who has slept on the couch for the past 20 years. "Don't turn off the television, it's my friend...it keeps me company while I sleep."
And here I find myself wandering through this house, pretending to be mature, fooling some audience, feeding on the applause and disbelief...My little brother never told me it was this bad.
Yet somehow....it's like the past doesn't belong to me anymore. It's not about me anymore. My mission here is to help. Whatever that translates to. Shit's about to get real. Is the role of the middle-man only to prepare one for being a leader? Because I realized tonight that the eyes were on me to create the plan, and initiate the change.
This is the path I have cultivated, to be able to facilitate healing crisis.
The membrane of this safety bubble is about to be pierced; suddenly I have found myself carrying a sword of truth and bandage of compassion, tie-dyed with my own blood.
Because if you're going to kill something, it might as well be beautiful.
I stood in my mother's room, motionless, emotions piercing my stomach, holding my breath hostage. An hour had passed and I was still in her room, surrounded, eyes darting as I clutched my wine glass delicately. It was like some sickness that slowly crept from one room to the next, piling up to frame pathways.
Clutter.
Clothes, Christmas wrapping paper, shoes, hangers, papers, papers, self help books (....), written journal entries that had become unbound....film negatives, that upon closer inspection, revealed my beaming 2 year old smile as I sat top my rocking horse, pieces of my history buried between my parent's final divorce agreement and a check my grandmother had written to me over ten years ago for a Christmas present. My heavy eyes watched towering demons laughing all the way to the bank, and I'm sure no ghost living in that room could relate, sure as the skeletons chilling in the closet sunned themselves every day, strewn across the floor in front of the adjacent window.
I held onto a door nob, stretching my right leg over a pile of storage boxes and nameless objects, struggling to find footing that would not betray me as I made my way across her abandoned room. Like swimming through your open ocean past as a cold under currant churns some distant storm that one day will come for you.
I keep surprising myself...even in this moment, sleep starved laying on a mattress on the floor next to my mother, who has slept on the couch for the past 20 years. "Don't turn off the television, it's my friend...it keeps me company while I sleep."
And here I find myself wandering through this house, pretending to be mature, fooling some audience, feeding on the applause and disbelief...My little brother never told me it was this bad.
Yet somehow....it's like the past doesn't belong to me anymore. It's not about me anymore. My mission here is to help. Whatever that translates to. Shit's about to get real. Is the role of the middle-man only to prepare one for being a leader? Because I realized tonight that the eyes were on me to create the plan, and initiate the change.
This is the path I have cultivated, to be able to facilitate healing crisis.
The membrane of this safety bubble is about to be pierced; suddenly I have found myself carrying a sword of truth and bandage of compassion, tie-dyed with my own blood.
Because if you're going to kill something, it might as well be beautiful.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
a boat
Give me a boat to climb into. I want to sail into deep dreams, dip my toes in limbo and swim while floating in silence. Chaos has recruited a swarm of gnats so thick even the air is choking and I can no longer see, but the colors are amazing so I sit watching anyway. Maybe I can become a droplet in their mist, a creature living as an illusionary cloud. It hits me that this is already so.
Two more weeks and I'm out. Fucking out. Toying with dropping everything for a month and just roaming, letting the Earth lick my wounds clean while I hide and heal in the folds of the road. Let direction have her way with me. My teeth will surly crack soon if I keep faking this facade, and the masquerade I've been dancing at for years is getting old. Or maybe it's just my knees suddenly pulling my leg, begging for it's bruises and cuts to be kissed. Blood is no substitute for soap, and all I want is the sweet silence to wring my soul out.
Please....I just want some fucking truth.
Two more weeks and I'm out. Fucking out. Toying with dropping everything for a month and just roaming, letting the Earth lick my wounds clean while I hide and heal in the folds of the road. Let direction have her way with me. My teeth will surly crack soon if I keep faking this facade, and the masquerade I've been dancing at for years is getting old. Or maybe it's just my knees suddenly pulling my leg, begging for it's bruises and cuts to be kissed. Blood is no substitute for soap, and all I want is the sweet silence to wring my soul out.
Please....I just want some fucking truth.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
cracks
i am so tired.
there is a hollow wind named lonely
surging through the cracks in my window.
rain splatters
through the fog of lonely's breath
condensates on the glass
my room is dark
the heater hums downstairs
the air is stale .
i am sitting naked.
clothes could not hide my facade.
i am so tired.
Lonely lays down on my bed and chills the sheets.
killing the last of the warmth that was left for me.
his scent is gone.
sucked away by the greed of time.
tucked behind my door i am hiding.
there is a hollow wind named lonely
surging through the cracks in my window.
rain splatters
through the fog of lonely's breath
condensates on the glass
my room is dark
the heater hums downstairs
the air is stale .
i am sitting naked.
clothes could not hide my facade.
i am so tired.
Lonely lays down on my bed and chills the sheets.
killing the last of the warmth that was left for me.
his scent is gone.
sucked away by the greed of time.
tucked behind my door i am hiding.
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