Me, Undone

This picture is a representation of my personal life, as I write. It's in shambles. The cloudy skies above, the rain falling down all around me, and I am the kid, in my raincoat, still holding on to my three silver balloons. Please don't fly away. I am dating once again. I've gone out with a few interesting women--two particularly exceptional women, including the priestess, but I am stuck. Trapped in the regrets, the what ifs of my previous relationship. I am staring at broken glass. I set fire to the rain for good reason. But the heart is wild, unamenable. It still loves. It refuses to recognize any combination but hers. To follow any sound than that of her voice. To map any pattern than of her body. There is no mold. But then, she knew that already.

This passes. The pain of letting go. Resignation so that something cosmicly created can enter. In the meantime, I will fill this void with light source and Nina Simone. Please don't let me be misunderstood.

I am, unto my self, a non-logical axiom. Twisted, hard and slow. Damp and cold. Wasting around my knees. I am here. Holding together. In the face of winds blowing up against me. I cover my face with wool scarf and hope for a sudden miracle. There are two of me. The rising and the falling. Sometimes I do not know which one comes and goes, whispering in my ear, oh friend. I construct fear because I want. Fear because I need. And when it arrives again with shiny sentiments. I just might...scrape away. To know what I am offers no solace. Just calm-like complicity.

After 55 days, I am no longer sexless in the city! The terrible, self-imposed drought is over! My mood: pensive. That night. The first night. I peered into the darkness to see a crack forming down her spine, and light pouring forth. Instead of looking away, as I have so often done, I held her in my gaze. Something inside of me caught fire. I met her, this woman, the day after I decided to cease frivolous communications and superficial sexual encounters of little consequence. She is self-possessed and fully owned. This connection is weighty. Heady. Scary, indeed. I'm petitioning the universe to give me the strength to hold her tight. Keep my primal self at bay.

Dominant Dominique dumped me after I told her I still wanted to date other people. I panicked, begged to get her back, sending emails stringed with stars and roses. Her response, a three line professional email that read, “ You are a great person, but it is clear to me we are on two different pages. I prefer to cease all contact.” I almost lost my fucking mind.  My desperation, my sadness, wasn’t for her. I know this now. The wounds were my comeuppance for my carelessness with others. For days, I’ve been frequented by images, the energies of women come and gone, conversations and warm tears, broken bodies in my bed, my mouth on breasts, lips, between legs, and hands on my arms as I gather my possessions to leave. I've spiraled in to nights and days heavy with fits of paralyzing sadness. What have I done? What have I done? I am a thief in crimson lipstick.  I am purging. Slowing down. Thinking over. Closing my legs. I am tired. I want more than I’ve allowed. No ...

There are two women in my life now; they are diametrically opposed. They never converge, not even in dark alleyways on lazy shiftless nights.  I instruct Jessica (not her real name),  a petite, fiery brunette with green eyes, to buy lace panties and bra to wear for me.  She asks me what else I want from her. She does anything I demand and waits patiently for my permission. On the weekends, there is Dominique (not her real name)- a tall, thick, smoked brown business executive. She calls me her princess, refuses to let me pay for dinner, or drive. She tells me exactly what I should do, and I happily oblige. I'm experiencing some cognitive dissonance. Do I spank or lie still?  Grab hair or go to my knees? I can handle this, I tell myself. The tugging. The splitting of time. The role switching. The demands for my undivided attention. I cannot choose one or the other, for neither is complete. Then the realization hits like bricks, I've subconsciously conjured ...

Insanity: Doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in the expectation of a different result. Doctor told me today I've caught a head case. I'm certifiable. Meds and all. I've taken to chain smoking a pack of marlboro. It's official. In search of working brain. I have to leave you.

Something gives way when you realize you can no longer return. A general malaise. Like the burning of leaves. I feel this for you when I catch you alone. I remember, still, love for you. And perhaps I always will. How do I measure what is lost? It burgeons wide and vast--pulsing, expanding, filling my lungs until I can barely breathe. The chrysalis must first die before the butterfly can begin. But no one ever remembers the sacrifice.

i have 20 ng/dl of testosterone bruising through my veins. not enough, i guess, to slam your face in to the wall. not enough to bleed you for your evil deeds. they made me of the most delicate of female parts. two mounds, a warm clit, and two ovaries of equal size. you think me weak for them. i have approximately 65 pg/ml of estrogen wasting through me. just enough, i guess, to make you claw the retina from your eyes at the very thought of my scent f a d i n g from your bed. i win.

I am not fond of physical limitations. Those pesky little things called barriers--sudden closings and the narrowing of opportunity. I am trapped in a cage with an angry lover. It's bloody battle royale. I am no victim. I did the crime. The punishment is deserved. But that does not stop the horror when faces turn inside out--when laughter disintegrates in to bitter chiding--when touch once so pure and sweet, now reaches out to inflict pain. The consequences have been far too much for me to contemplate. I am shocked and awed. Badly bruised this time. My heart scars a physical manifestation of her blind and uncontrollable rage. This is how she keeps me here, my dear. This is how she keeps me here, I fear.

dating is such a chore. do you want to love me or fuck me? speak wisely. i have a penchant for pain; i love the company of women. i have never looked, but have always found. connections are firing everywhere i turn. i am not afraid to love. again. and again. perhaps i wrote this for you. cause i can feel that you have surfaced and are waiting for me to come to you. hold fast. i'm on my way.

Life has its way with you. I am living, surprised at how so quickly my love has slowed to friendship. As if my heart has undergone a hard reset--emotional stirrings reorganized. I look at you sometimes and wonder how I kept you for so long. I don't believe in marriage any more. At least, not in the traditional sense of the word. How can I promise what is not yet mine to give? How can I commit the me of two or 20 years from now, the woman who has not yet arrived? Things change. All the time.  It is the way of the world. I can't ask you or her to remain tethered to me and my slippery ways. I am completely content walking next to you, but please remember, this skin is not your home. At times I feel like I've been sold a bill of goods. For years, I choked down the fantasy of marriage like shards of broken glass until it ripped open my throat.  Warm salty liquid is pooling in my mouth. And now, there is blood on my hands.  Blood on my hands.

It was placed in your hands. Not when or how you wanted it. But it was there. We coded meanings with our tongues. Carried laughter in our bellies. I kissed the ink scars of your shoulder blade. Call like the moon resting so lovely over you. We readied ourselves for private communion on that holy day.  With sacred wash and nectar I produced an offering –-my flesh. It was there and all for your taking.  Feeble hearts but fumble and throw pearls mistaken for trash to the ground.  Trash blows in the wind.

I am outgrowing her. Fast and furious. Trying to slow down. She is in the distance. I grew tired of holding her up to the light. My arms gave way. She is tumbling down to earth. My heart blown open again. I imagine her lying there bruised and bloodied. Everything in me begs to go to her. Pick her up from the floor of the earth and stroke her scalp. But descent to earth means forfeiture of flight. The slow and bitter atrophy of full grown wings. I risk capture. Engulfed by the trickery of the ordinary. The veil of comfort. The curse of the unfulfilled.

I attempt to plug in holes with written words but today I am void of words for there are no words to bandage the gaping wound that I have caused. I need to un-type, undo the word, un-think the thinking thought, roll the sharp objects that flayed you while you were unaware back into my satchel. To not have your hand to hold in this world is almost too much for me to conceive. I am spinning out of control because I cannot find my center. I cannot find you and I need you to tell me that everything will be alright. Grab my hand colored girl and skip down the path with me. To not touch your skin, to not hear your voice or feed upon your words again is cruel. To myself I have administered the final blow.