Thursday, April 21, 2016

I flatlined here for a little while. Ok, a year. It's been a year of introspection and change, both inside and out. I've been writing, but mostly on-topic of some longer work I've been at for a couple years now. She is a character born of blood and stone. Forged by rage's own fire. She has been waiting for me to get it right before I go too far. But being mom and writing from that place don't always mix well. She's patient. And I've been playing with other, calmer points of view pieces. The post I just made was a good-bye to a girl I loved, who went missing one night. Parts of her were found much later by people who don't deserve those kinds of memories. It's taken 4 years to find those words I said to her one afternoon. She was a jewel of the Milennial Generation. All of you are. Sine on.
She said: I suppose I am the color blue. I said: No, you're the color yellow. She said: It's because of my yellow eyeshadow in that picture, isn't it? I said: No. You're the yellow of daffodils who defiantly stare down the sweeping, gray skies that want so much to cling to winter. You're the yellow that chases the smear of clouds so the sun can bring us spring again. And then. And then she was gone. And her daffodils still bloom.

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Letting go

by death or by choice. Either way it burns deep because the wound is fresh with blood and emotion. Be it art, writing, people or pets. Today was a little of both. 

I was invited into the intimacy off the final moments as a friend's dog fell asleep for the last time. We cried. Engaged in gallows humor, cried and hugged. 

But I also said goodbye by choice to someone I can't quantify in my life. He has always been there like a shadow, dark and dangeous, but safe...for me. He was home. We kissed on my mothers porch and he disappeared for years. We found each other again, and always did. I can't find what wishes to remain hidden. I wanted to though. I always did. 

I've thought he was dead a hundred times before. But now I suppose I will never know. 

But I'm just a silly girl. 



Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Only Half

Half a pill waits for me. I stare at it for a while. 57 is all that's left of the identification code. The ragged edge where I broke it. Took the other half a while ago but I can't feel it anymore. Half doesn't last like it used to. I've been here before; staring at the half of a pill. I know its voice. The way it sounds in my head, my chest, my legs. I've been here before at the end of a bottle wondering how 160 half-a-pills go so fast. The first few--twenty, maybe--slow and steady. Only when it hurts. Promising myself this time will be different. Promising myself I will ignore the voice that starts with a whisper I can barely hear. But the whisper becomes a shout and soon I can feel my arms twitch, just a little at first. That voice whispers "it's just a half a pill". Half. Not whole. That would be too much.  One would lead to two then five and more and thy would be addiction. 

This is not addiction. 

It's just a half a pill. 

Monday, September 21, 2015

A Taste

She's come and gone a thousand times. In like a lovers whisper. Gone again like a tornado had passed through the place, but that's what always sucked me in. Knowing the wind behind that whisper.

I stared down into those confused, beautiful eyes that once filled me with such excitement and hope, and said goodbye. I didn't want to. I don't like leaving. Losing. Departures that are chosen; especially the ones I have to choose. But sometimes that's all that's left. 

She said she didn't understand, which made it all make sense. She said it wasn't about me; I knew as much. I could read her like I read myself. I closed my eyes and slipped myself into that beautiful, chaotic mind of hers on a wisp of cherry blossom and basked for a moment--one last moment--in the glow that she always became. 

When I opened my eyes, and looked at her again, hers were closed. I don't know if she saw what I was doing in there. Rummaging in some memories, finding my little space there. I left a little ivory box on a table in a room in her world and maybe she would find it some day when she thought of me. Maybe she would open it. Maybe she would just tuck it away and never want the truth. 

But before she opened her eyes again, I was gone. The scent of me was all I left behind; sweet jasmine and honeysuckle. 

It was freedom she needed. And freedom I gave willingly. I may never see her again, and I have to be okay with that. 

I feel no anger. 

I feel peace. 

Friday, August 28, 2015

The Go-Away Girl

It's what she called herself as she walked away from the group of boys that had just shown up. Mark punched her in the jaw for effect this time, but it didn't bother her. Philbert was in from the service and was the meanest bastard she knew. He was a Marine, and at nine years old all that meant to her was "asshole". Every time he came home, the temperature of the neighborhood changed.

She climbed her tree as high as she could get, and felt the summer breeze sway her gently. She listened. The boys all played war games and Philbert told wonderful and horrific stories that those boys believed. She didn't. But that didn't matter. None of it did, really. This wasn't new.

She closed her eyes and made impossible wishes, just like she always did when she was told to go away. Not once was she asked to stay but she wasn't bitter. She just accepted it as life. Unhappiness never occurred to her, not even as she rubbed her jaw.

It would pass. Philbert would go away. The rest of the boys would go home and she would be a part again. It wasn't that she didn't fit in, or that she wasn't the toughest kid around, or that she could throw and hit a baseball farther than the rest, or that her hair was just as short. It's that she was a girl. And she turned that hatred inwards, at her gender.

She could cut her hair, she could wear her bother's hand-me-downs, and would never correct anyone who called her a boy, or son. Sonny. It felt good. Like she belonged somewhere. But she could never change what God gave her.

Regardless, the boys were her best friends. Singly and sometimes in groups, but there were always hidden places she was never allowed. Not ever. Go away, girl. Boy stuff happening.

Understanding and acceptance would come much later (long after her body betrayed her and did what girls' bodies do), but in that tree with a sore jaw, she knew she had to wait til it was safe to come back again. Eddie would come looking for her, and they'd dig in the dirt and have rock fights, and play cars and blow up Barbie dolls with firecrackers again. Eddie was her favorite; he knew when to defend her and when to back off. And that nothing would buy him a rain of her fists like protecting her.

Besides, she knew when it was time to go away.

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Lockdown

It's where she goes when the world gets to be too much. When too much outside gets in, stretching tendrils around her insides, squeezing until the slow burn rises in her chest and in her throat.

She shuts them all down and out, closes open doors so she can sort the wheat from chaff. Self from Other. She grants menial tidings--now and again. A promise that the distance will close again. Eventually. When the grip loosens and she can draw a breath...any breath at all beyond the shallow pant of survival.

She feels the searching. Reaching. Seeking. But she coats herself in an oily cocoon that lets them slip past; faint wonder where she went rather than confusion as to why she's gone.

Eventually they will learn.

They have to.

Some pieces are meant to remain in the darkness, where she hides in this lockdown place. Pieces that broke off long ago, edges worn by time and nervous caresses of fumbling fingers...and eventually care. Love, even because darkness grants contrast, shade and shadow. The greys, where all the interesting stuff lives.

She flirts with that grey. Walking the razors edge, balancing the Darkness and the Light. Hips swaying gently side to side as she moves in sensual rhythms, never so far she falls. But close. So close. Sometimes too close.

And just before the fall.

She locks herself inside again.