there is a familiar feeling of hopelessness and division that hangs through my relationships. what are men capable of if not simply violence of all measures. violence systemically. violence inter-personally. violence physically and violence emotionally.
what are women taught if not to be by this side as lessons to dance with. what have i been made to be - at his side,
as his.
willingly. yet manipulation is the finest instrument.
and what do i have if not myself.
reminders daily.

hello seattle:

it pours with little intimidation. soft trickling along goosebumps. gentle to love. the warm invitation to seclusion. there is something clear and empty about today. nothing matters and nothing is alive, yet everything is wakening. the streets barren. trees tongue passion.

louder than humans. louder than syntax. and just as my thought finishes the howling of gusts comes to its bow.

the unpredictability of Seattle. sometimes i adore this city. sometimes i don’t.

maybe in the end, the way your eyes once

blossomed at the inhales of life

now shut from gas fumes

of paralyzing hope.

hey, lover.

cry in me. milk spilled, spoiled
rotten lover.
had swept the
moon right
onto the palm, but she wiped you clean
of light.
your mouth left
sick, heart splice with
love temperature. bed ridden cold. my
animal, how do you
like her now.

wilted tulips, as you'd like my lips -
frosted on the glass, on the tips
of persuasion.
how do you take your plea?
with a force
served on linen;
kerosene will do the trick?
or should we douse your bed
with my flora scent.

enough to leave
volumes of war, a voice
for the next decade
in your path.
in your mouth, remember my
taste. echo in the rear-view of regrets,
but, too much of a
wicked lover
i am -
to exercise such a wrath.

not an ounce of life
nor death can harness
back what the heart
once felt.
to an ego
as great as the sun -
only complete disdain
will harm.

Saturn will cleanse
the tongue.

and then...

sometimes, collapsing and falling apart is all i have to keep me strong

i'm in a weird place. a wired place where all my thoughts are intensified  magnified times 100. everything is bright, loud, and overlapping. there are lines and i'm ensconced. i am tangled. there is a strange ecstasy in being thrown to the gutters, leeches eating away at your flesh. so, this weird place is somehow comforting now. 3 days have gone by and i'm still deciding on decisions that will leave me where i first started. kind of happy? i swear i was content before i met him. went from loving one simply flawed man to loving one who has no simple bone in his body. what am i attracted to? you could ask me...... i'm asking myself and I do not know.

selfish. selfish i am. looking for attention in all the wrong places.
i'm trying to end a relationship that i'm not even sure i have. how do you quit when you're at that point you're no longer interested in resuscitating, but you're not fully there to voice it...? does that even make sense? do i? no. of course not. as usual it's a carousel.

i don't know anything, something, everything? i am all of it.

i'm watering a plant. or a planet. do you ever stop and breathe in someones vitality and yearn for their fullness, their body of work of life? i'm still watering a plant. i'm over-watering it. it's going to die, i think.

Poetica for my own

In the weakest of
Moments sickness becomes an inspiration.
Illness, flaws dance surely
With harmonies inside my head.

Wicked stanzas of unintelligible intelligence.
Art becomes deadly for my kind.
It is vanity and an ego that can take one whole.

In the weakest of
Moments sickness becomes the monster
That lives for fame.
Out of misery I give birth to words,
Set flames on syllables and tongues.

Defected,
Ordinary.
Blemished.

Suddenly the newest craze.
The hippest of the trends.
To walk around abound in
Psychological mysteries.

I paint my life with gold. Flecked, and
Rusted.

I paint my life with Silver. Simple, and
Rusted.

Illness is the creation, my motivation.
And it carries no ordinary pain.

My process has no explanation.
And I wear it all quite nicely,
Airbrush quality.
Oh these lips, they speak with words
That impale one another.

I write so I can pretend to know better.
My illness and I are flawed, we are perfect, we spike
Through trees with pens.
Devour the naive.

Erotic place - she is one and only. Tied to an imagination in the confines of her home. Flickers on skin from every ethereal finger that lovingly embraces goosebumps. Caged by the temptation of wanting one slight moment with one beautiful soul. That one whose every word utters rejection, and every thought of their existence blazes through the womb to leave damp. Bondage - a form (a body) that doesn't hesitate to thaw itself on thorns. Her conception of love.

Well, he is gone. And I take with me a little piece of understanding of who I am. A similar train ride and the destination leads to nowhere. 

Self imploding little machine. The disappointment is neverending, but it's a waste to dwell on what I knew would happen anyway. Our interaction was a paroxysm and I was at the forefront of it all.

A stranger to love I don't do it very well. Whatever it is I'm supposed to do...

It kills slowly. Interrupts a flow that could be simple and warm. I didn't allow him to explain - though I don't think he had anything left to say. Always a quiet one. A distant one. He is what I am and how silly of me to push it away.

I wonder what he's doing, who he's talking to, what kind of love he's giving out and why he never shared with me. I could have reciprocated if he had shown me something. Something light and worthy. Instead I mimicked his charade. Oh well.

I tell my mind to stop. All day. Think of something else.

The sun, the sun is out. It's gorgeous and I've missed it. I bought delicious tea and it's soothing my insides. (makes me think of my grandmother) I bought a skirt, and a shirt, and a silver ring that I'm sure will begin to rust soon.

I think of today, and tomorrow, but most of all I think of yesterday.

moving.

I thought about swallowing bleach - but that is a rookie move. It won't kill me so much as it will cleanse me.

+ + + + + + + + + + +  + + + + + + + + + +  + + + + + + + + + + +  + + + + + + + + + + +

Ready to feat upon new fears, and meet again old cretins. Rat sewers, 70's carpet, Russian kitsch. The blinding flickering of the building, in my pupils, the home I lost my mind in. What a home! What years! And now to leave my nest and sip on the finest of life. The best kind. Few crutches, no more handcuffs. Free to think all the thoughts I tidy everyday. Free to run loose. In my dreams, free to act on all the words I battle with.

i am awake, i am defunct. i am. it is. whatever.

thanks to thesaurus.com (link) i am mesmerized by all the different words there are to describe death...or being dead. 
asleep | beret of life | breathless | buried | cadaverous | checked out | cold | cut off | erased | expired | extinct | inanimate | inert | lifeless | liquidated | mortified | offed | perished | reposing | spiritless | stiff | wasted |

etc;
fascinating.

shades of many

(I will use any excuse to pop in a Sasha picture)

Growing up I wanted to be just like you. You wore your hair so pretty. Curls caressing your cheeks, brushing up against that perfect skin, ice cold. Your lips were crimson cut like petals. Sometimes I thought about kissing you. I used to dream about your powers. How sweet you would snap your fingers and every man came crawling on their dirty knees. How the light would turn a brighter shade when you entered the room. You were blinding, and intoxicating. Even my mother treated you like her own. I think she might have loved you more, who knows. Your words filled me with ambition. Your beauty killed my spirit.

When I turned 16 I took your role. It was a lucid meeting. You held your hand out and promised me the world. Told me stories from your life. Death row and cocaine trips. I was ready. Ready for you to take and mold me to fit your need and wants. I would have done anything. I did. Played with courage, heartbreak. Danced with anger, killed regret, held hands with fear. You gave me a voice that suffocated me. Glamorous. How happy I was giving up everything I knew. I would have sold my soul for a classic Chanel handbag. One that would showcase the irony of everything I am, and everything I was trying to be.

Lived for drama taught by you. Glorified as if it was something to strive for.

You and I, we were covered in dust with our designer threads, hanging off the body, ghostly presence, nicotine stains. We walked the roads just to say we did it. Reality is boring - you said it one night, and I believed it. We could live off this wonderland high forever.

But we didn't.

I woke up one night drained, and spotted with shame all over my face. You were passed out on the floor, I was in the bathtub splattered, a mere shadow of what a human used to be. There you were, Ms. Vogue, makeup smeared, alcohol chic. You had just gotten a facial - none of the pure kind. You always told me that a man's ego lies below his waist. That night you taught me plenty about power, and it took me 2 tries to destroy a man properly. That night was our last together. I left you on the floor, with his ego dripping off your lips. That night you were killed, but it was a glorious 5 years.

I’m going to wake up one morning & my mind will be intact, and beautiful. The pillows will no longer smash my dreams to little pieces. My heart won’t roll its eyes at whoever dares to come close. 

I feel nervous, I feel out of it, too exposed, too uncomfortable. Everything is amazing when we’re together - in an imperfect, silly way. But that is a crutch that’s too dangerous to give into. I’m just not happy. And in my unhappy state - I will destroy him. Unintentionally.

cut the strings and tie me with them.

Let's kill this motherfucker before it kills us.

I said I was kicking him out of my life, and I am. I swear, I am! But I cannot help my thoughts. I would vomit out every single feeling and image I have of him from my brain and my heart if I knew how to.  am an addict. Just one thought back to the past and I am enveloped in his body. Those sleep deprived, half lit eyes that only come to life when his ego is properly stroked. That stupid hair of his that never styles right.

It is almost impossible to go from lover to friend in under 60 seconds. We are not machines. Every form of communication is dangerous, it leads to naked bodies and regrets. Every time he calls or I see him, I vision slurps, and kisses, and things I am trying to stop visioning. I don't want to rid of him completely, but I can't move on when we are still in contact. It isn't fair. Everything is a tease, everything is foreplay.

"You must learn how to smile as you kill."

+never knew the light was as crucial as water.

+never knew I could love without boundaries.

Something that never was

His spine glistens in the harsh neon glow of the television set; the flickering light illuminating the contours of his face. Is it sadness or excitement that lingers beyond the edge of his irises? Resting in my arms I try to shelter him from a world that has already done too much damage. But am I strong enough? Does he even need me? Do I need him? I long to be his utter enthrallment in another human being and resolve to love him no matter the cost.

He is perfect, but not up close and no matter how much he reassures me, I know he does not love me…not like I love him. I fight the urge to touch him but he is magnetic. Rubbing his hair, my fingers at the back of his neck; he giggles at my frantic groping and shifts casually out of my reach. I know I make him uncomfortable…I am too intense.

Sleeping alone I dream of his soft body; my hands gliding down its entirety without hesitation. I awaken to sticky underwear, a dull aching between my legs, and a hollow feeling in my ribcage as I try to ignore the fact that my love is hardly symbiotic…much more parasitic if I’m honest with myself. He vacuums up my soul with those lips; those lips that could suck the cum out of a 747.

He never answers his phone when I need him. Always the incessant ringing, a click, and then that patronizingly pleasant voice promising to call me back if I leave a message. But he doesn’t. Somehow I can never be mad because he is full of wonder (a breathtaking exquisiteness). Distracting myself with other people only reminds me of him. A sharp pain which starts deep within my left breast cuts it’s way down to my cunt where it turns into an unbearable longing. Subsiding only momentarily with random fucks and shitty masturbation because he is forever in the forefront of my mind holding back my true ecstasy.

He is elegant in the morning with his tousled hair and glasses; a smile thats not quite a smile until mid afternoon when he really wakes up. In those hours of dawn his face is so sweet and soft…distressed and confused. I want to hold and comfort him but I know I would only ruin it and he would pull away; because he only loves me when he’s drunk (in the cover and darkness of night), or when there is someone to watch…to make jealous. He desires to be wanted and I cannot begrudge him that. I inhale his skin deep into my sinuses as I realize, love will never be the same without him.

My daily bus routine evokes the creative

• I need to stop being so fucking flexible with people. Acrobatics not apply.

• I need to eat.

• My nose needs air.

• People on the bus stink.

• Deodorants are handy.

• Old school hip hop is blaring through generic hot pink headphones.

• Man with beret. Seriously a beret?

• Chicken noodle soup on the mind.

• Something is always in my head. Nothing in my mind. What does THAT mean?

• I love stealing office supplies.

• My transfer [bus] is 2 hours & 30 minutes expired. I better use charm.

• I left my charm in bed this morning.

• Specific dates are for suckers.