Hidden Truth

 

Where they sent me

To recover

Destroyed parts of me

Unseen

The soft parts

Of my underbelly

Soiled

And broken,

I’m

Like a doll

Who cocks her head

And smiles on cue

Open my mouth

And take a pill

To swallow the crazy

That no one else

Wants to see

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I asked for it

Would you hurt me

If I asked you to

 

Would you strip away my dignity

And undress me with your eyes

 

Let me tremble beneath

Your hungry gaze

 

Even as I covered over

My naked body with my hands

 

And sank to the cold

Bathroom floor

 

Until the tears came

And I sobbed

 

Victimized

But I asked for it, right?

 

So, you’re off the hook.

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Re-Do

What works for me?
What pushes me to be better?
Who gets to see that part of me?
Apart from all the bull shit.

Apart from the burden I feel
Every time I wake up
The choices I’ve made
Have led me here

Have led me away from you
But in another time &
Another place
I would be with you,

Holding your hand
Smiling
Instead of sitting here
Alone, Stagnant

Trapped by what I’ve chosen
What wouldn’t I give up now
To go back and decide again
To make that defining choice, differently

To walk into the sunset with you
Instead of turning back
And choosing familiar
Over the new possible.

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Uncomfort

We do all sorts of things we’re uncomfortable with. We become all sorts of people we’re uncomfortable with. We keep changing, so slowly at first that we never notice until one day, we look in the mirror, and the eyes staring back are unfamiliar and glazed. We’ve not noticed that person before. That person with that look. How unbecoming-to look so real, so raw, so lost.
Do we grab the concealer, shake it off, and continue on, another act-like everything is okay?
Do we omit this strange and unnerving feeling from our daily conversation, so as to not disturb or confuse the flow of things?
Keep ignoring and you will explode. Maybe not now, but eventually you will see that face in the mirror, really see them for who they are: you pleading with yourself to notice what you need. You’ll finally take notice, maybe because it’s been years since you really said yes to that person, maybe out of guilt, maybe out of longing, but mostly from regret. That you were too stubborn or blinded to notice yourself sooner. Who else feels what you feel? Who else can possibly check in and feel what you need, better than you? If you learn how.
What about the why? Why do we find ourselves stuck like this? Why do we compromise so much of ourselves, our voice, our likes, dislikes, desires, and freedoms? For the smiling faces of others? Don’t fool yourself: behind most smiles therein lies the same disquieting thoughts that make it impossible for you to really be you. When people smile back, what are they really smiling at? How many times do we act a part in any given day?
No, don’t give excuses for why, just focus on the question: How many times do we play a role? Spouse, child, parent, guardian, teacher, businessman, writer, devotee, singer, caretaker, etc.
Is this our own decision, or are we prodded by the choices we’ve made to continue to make the same ones, in a revolving circle, so that the first choice we ever made to get us here is blamed for all consecutive choices since? Oh, if I hadn’t married him, I’d be happy, you might say. Or, if I chose a different profession, I’d be someplace different now.
That one choice does not define you, and that one choice has not led you here. It’s a compilation of millions of choices day after day, minute after minute, second after second that has led you here. In any given moment, tens of thousands of inconsistencies or moments within moments can happen, spurred on by all different moments, leading to the one you’re experiencing. Walk out the door and thousands of things can happen, all brought about by a thousand other things, some in your control, most not in your control. So no, that one choice did not bring you here.
But that one choice is keeping you here. That one choice is keeping your mind so locked up that you aren’t able to process the moments now differently enough, so you keep making the same patterned choices you made before, leading yourself to believe it’s because of that one decision. It’s not the decision, it’s the way you’ve patterned your brain, it’s how you think, not what.
Now, clean out the how, change the pathways, and your choices will be different because your fundamental thinking pattern will be different. Hopefully, more attuned to you, and less attuned to projections, flashbacks, and stagnation.

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Why I don’t Write

Do I write for fun?
Or when the power of words hit me?
Do I write to process, to understand
The beauty of things that surround?

Would I write if energy was freely given,
Flowing to me in a continuous
And purifying rain of words?

If the bones in my hand didn’t ache
As I typed
And my heavy head wasn’t throbbing
From buried pain?

If my day wasn’t congested with
Chores and human frailties
Could I produce
A brilliant new world?

Or would I still sit here, wilting
Creativity dripping down the
Sides of my face
Not knowing how to come back from all this madness?

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Ache

To be continually confined,
Scratching at the high walls of my
Cell until my fingers
Bleed, with no one listening to my
Whimpers except the moon.

She’s the only one who never
Gave up – on me –
Continued to shine on –
Despite all I’ve done

I keep desperate hold on that thought
As I lay down each night to sleep –
Holding my blanket of moonbeams
As I dream of all that
Could have been.

Photo credit:
DigitalBlasphemy.com

Run

She came to my door
Broken and shamed
Last night to explain
The unexplainable
How she rose above
The light until
She reached the
Darkness of
Your might.
It could
Be easy to
Pretend
But you
Know
That’s
Not
What
She’ll
Do.

photo credit: digitalblasphemy.com

Jump

To serve others was all she’d ever known. Bred for a purpose, now she would become a housewarming gift for a lucky gentleman.

“Make sure you know what he likes to eat,” scolded her mother, “or else you’ll always have an irritable man.”

Other dictates were issued: never argue, always placate, match his affection levels, and be ready when he is.

All her life, she was prepped and pressed and readied for the day when she would become a wife – subservient, gracious, lovable, and finally beautiful. And, today was the day. She could finally say she was living with purpose.

What other purpose existed? Whenever she thought to question her fate, her mother’s words always drew her back in – this is what you were born to do. It doesn’t matter if you want it now. You will grow to want it, as you will grow to love.

She wondered, wasn’t it unnatural to have to learn to want something, to love it? Wasn’t that a betrayal of your true self?

“Now stand still while I put the final touches on this hem,” her mother’s hands forcibly twisted her hips straight, interrupting her train of thought.

Three giddy women gathered around her bouquet, whispering and then shushing each other about handsome boys and grown men – wondering who would make a good husband, who would have attractive children?

A goblet of wine was passed around, and the women took turns gently sipping the burgundy colored libation. When it came to the bride’s turn, she held the glass for a moment, letting her thoughts swirl with the deep dark liquid, and she saw the boy’s eyes. She let herself dream as her lips touched the glass for a sip.

Her mother noticed the wine and hastily grabbed for it, accidentally hitting the outstretched bouquet of tulips from another woman’s hands, knocking them to the floor.

The women went back to fluttering this way and that to tie this, fix that, steady this, place that. “Beautiful, just beautiful,” she heard someone say. All the while, she stood, holding her breath, trying to keep the feeling of panic from taking over.
“Mother,” she hesitantly asked, “what does he look like?”

“Hush, now. You know you aren’t supposed to meet him until the ceremony. Stop asking questions.”

Things continued moving too quickly. Someone went to fetch water so the women wouldn’t faint. Her mother promptly opened the window, and an immediate breeze rolled in, carrying with it musical accompaniment from the courtyard. A decadent array of greenery decorated the outside of the window, and a few leaves wandered in.

She took a step towards the fresh air, but her mother’s nails in her arm stopped her. “We aren’t done here,” she hissed, causing an embarrassed blushing from the bride. Just as she turned away, a few beams of sunlight caught her eye, and she reached out to touch the beautiful glow of his hair.

The bell rang for the audience to sit down, all formalities finally met, and the crowd in the room deflated until only an echo of diminishing chatter was left. As an unearthly stillness settled, she realized this was her prayer time, a chance to meditate and prepare for the Union of Flesh.

All this pomp and circumstance for the performance, and no one besides her mother had even spoken to her. No one had even given her a mirror so she could see her beautiful self.

She gathered up the long folds of the dress and heaved herself over to the mirror, timid and wary of meeting her own gaze. This was the moment of re-introduction, the moment to see the wife in herself and to make herself strong for the Forever, if that even existed at all.

Pale, small, and trembling, she was powdered an unadulterated white. But something had to be done about those red-rimmed eyes, imposed her mother’s voice.

She tried to hide her shaking hands, down low, under her shawl so that her new self wouldn’t see her fears. A sob escaped her lips, surprisingly forceful, and she arched forward, clinging to the edge of the mirror.
_______

As a child, she’d played by the pond behind her house. The grass was high, never cut, perfect for hide and go seek, or building secret camps. It was then she had seen him – her first boy. Before that, she’d heard talk of boys and men, but more as mythical creatures in a far distant future. But here, amidst the calm and green of her natural paradise, he sat, head cocked, arms out, listening for some sound only he knew.

She began to step towards him, her family’s warning sounding in her head. But, as she stood still, watching him for a moment, observing the way the sun danced golden across his hair, there was no hint of malice or unkindness of any sort in this boy from another world.

Her footsteps rustled the leaves, and he looked up from his meditative task. No hello was issued, no formal greeting. He just regarded her, quizzically, then playfully, and his eyes, deep and dark, invited her over to join him at his special rock.
He had been collecting flowers of various kinds and had six or seven laying in a row. Daisies, tulips, roses, and a few she couldn’t name. He picked the tulip up and handed it to her, gently. “For you,” he said with a smile.

Her eyes widened as she heard the deeper tones of his voice. She raised her eyes to meet his for the very first time and noticed a peculiar half smile making its way across his lips. Unconsciously, she met his smile with one of her own.

But she wasn’t smiling now. The final bell rang signaling the end of the ceremonial introduction, and soon the Song of the Brides would start. A single tear marked a roadway down her powdered cheek.

Over the years, there had been times those same eyes would come to her in a dream, playfully inviting her to pick flowers, an outstretched hand re-affirming their connection. As time passed, she tried distracting herself from that afternoon, from the moments in time that ignited a curiosity in her heart. But, no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t shake the new feeling of freeness she felt that day, or the knowledge that she had given her heart to this boy. He was her true husband and had been since that afternoon.

She needed to go find him. She wouldn’t be held without a voice any longer. She would find him and tell him that his smile had made her believe her life could be different, her life could be happy. She would smile and hug him. She would give herself to him fully, let herself go completely, for him. No one else, just this boy from the pond who had made her believe in the possibility of forever.

She pulled herself high onto the windowsill as she heard the wedding song start. She took in a deep breath, felt her heart come alive in her chest, and counted one, two, three. She felt the sunlight on her face, whispering For you. And she jumped.

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You Are Not Alone

I am a writer. I am brave. I am beautiful. I am scared. I am not fearless. Anyone who says so is a liar. The first step towards growth is admitting there is fear, admitting you are scared. But I can stay here, in this fear, or I can step forward. I may drag fear with me-the path out could be longer than I’d like to imagine, but at least I’d be moving forward and not dismally backwards, or tragically stagnant.

People are scared. They are scared shitless. WE can make this for something. We can create good from this. Give it back. Give all of it back. All the fear you feel, all the bravery you’ve known, all the love that creates, take that up inside you and pour it back out. So people know they are not alone.