sacrificial lamb

November 9, 2019

Once every month he visited the woman who wore a carapace of black rubber and a face-mask. She had a room in her house that she’d transformed years ago into a torture chamber. It was in there she did what she did to him, the things so desperately required to replenish his emptiness. Tied to a solid wooden cross, a sacrificial lamb, his head full of silence broken by the sound of her spikey high heels on the wooden floorboards as she circled him, dragging her shadow behind her like a vast, unappreciated weight. He was all appetite. Soon he’d be filled to overflowing with pain. She laughed and he glimpsed Armageddon in her eyes – So his ordeal began.

Scars

November 3, 2019

We don’t age with years, we age with scars. Scars that reminds us of the things we’ve conquered with fear, with love, and with pain. Scars that reminds us that nothing in this world comes easy, but ultimately everything heals through time.

Juansen Dizon
Aging

I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap.  But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it.

Vita Sackville-West
The Letters of Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf

Horror

September 12, 2019

Horror cannot be spoken because it is alive; because it is silent and is going forward; it drips into the day and it drips into sleep.
Sorrow-recalling pain.

George Seferis
Last Stop
trans. Rex Warner

Torn

September 6, 2019

…She has never been in pain; her intact delicacy is like that of an apple blossom. She will be torn.

Anne Truitt
Daybook: The Journal of an Artist

Loving me is difficult

September 2, 2019

Loving me is difficult.
Because sometimes
I shed my skin too quickly
Trying to forget what it feels like
To be held by the brown callous palms
Of uncles, friends and strangers.

My new skin never remembers
The coolness of your touch
On the parts of my body where you need maps and lights to navigate safely.

Loving me is difficult
Because sometimes
When it hurts too much to become
I wear masculinity like a cloak
And refuse to leave enough room for you in the spaces between my fingers

I forget the taste of your mouth
And allow bitterness to drip from my lips
The kind of bitterness that tastes like hate

Loving me is difficult
Because sometimes
I ask you not to say “I love you”
Afraid that it will sound a lot like
The first one I ever heard
I will be 8 again, trapped beneath the taste of sweat and disgust.

I forget, that your I love yous
Sound like caresses and taste like nectar.

Loving me is difficult
Because sometimes
I package my anger and grief neatly
And hide it in my sternum
Waiting for it to become potent enough to poison you

I haven’t learned how to stop eating my emotions.
Or how to stop throwing them up on your lovely blue dress.

Loving me is difficult
Because sometimes
When you kiss me
I slip marriage into your mouth
And refuse to perform the Heimlich
When it becomes lodged in your throat

I forget that you choose me every day
And choosing me in a wedding dress won’t change a thing.

Loving me is difficult
Because sometimes
I forget to see the world in you

I forget that your pupils are galaxies
And you are wind.

Loving me is difficult
Because…
I am still learning to not pick at my wounds.

Charli Cleland

another person’s hand

February 16, 2019

There’s power in the touch of another person’s hand. We acknowledge it in little ways, all the time. There’s a reason human beings shake hands, hold hands, slap hands, bump hands. It comes from our very earliest memories, when we all come into the world blinded by light and colour, deafened by riotous sound, flailing in a suddenly cavernous space without any way of orienting ourselves, shuddering with cold, emptied with hunger, and justifiably frightened and confused. And what changes that first horror, that original state of terror? The touch of another person’s hands. Hands that wrap us in warmth, that hold us close. Hands that guide us to shelter, to comfort, to food. Hands that hold and touch and reassure us through our very first crisis, and guide us into our very first shelter from pain. The first thing we ever learn is that the touch of someone else’s hand can ease pain and make things better. That’s power. That’s power so fundamental that most people never even realize it exists.

Jim Butcher
Skin Game

the ups and downs of love

February 3, 2019

Love isn’t only love, sweetheart. It’s hard work, and trust, and tears, with even a few glimpses of devastation. But at the end of each day, if you can still look at the person at your side and can’t imagine anyone else you’d rather have there, the pain and heartache and the ups and downs of love are worth it.

Nicole Williams
Clash

The Needing

January 6, 2019

i need you
i crave you
it’s the only way i survive
you are my weakness i desire your control

in this space
down on my knees
this is where i belong
this is home my home

only you know how to satisfy
this hunger inside of me
i’m you little blackbird
you love to make me scream

who would have thought
through all this pain
my truth would be exposed
you did…

you knew me better than i knew myself
you saw my confusion
in the way i came crawling back to you

the needing
the bleeding
i’m conditioned
to always want more

but you make me wait…

I am Indigo