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It existed

in threads of

gossamer glamour

binding together slowly

out of sight.

Delicate intricacies

that eventually

misled, misguided;

became only missed.

Inexplicable fascination

poised to be

squandered childishly

on the shards of

shattered delusions.

A fearful confession,

abandoning nuance

for permission- or

forgiveness

or both.

Braced for the fallout

swinging selfishly to

that final purge-

for the sake of

being honest,

and the truth

did not set me free.

—————————————————————

A disaster in slow motion,

brilliant lies glittered

their final reflections

of the sun

as they turned to

teeth behind lips

I didn’t touch.

Annihilating the

tangled threads

woven by intimate words,

insecurities and comforts-

fingertip fallacies.

And now it is just

another burden to bear,

an admission of fault

in an attempt to fill

a dismissive void-

and I am alone again

missing it in spite of myself.

Memory remains,

clinging desperately

to shadows on opaque glass

behind which to admit

that I was wrong

and to wonder

if it was ever real at all.

—————————————————————

#amwriting

I keep the lid on

all the parts of you

that I am still so attached to.

Generations before say

time would heal every wound,

but I still feel the itch of healing

as thicker skin grows-

and sometimes

I just can’t help

but to scratch

because I’m not ready.

How do you even measure

that time?

We are coursing through it,

desperate to slow it down

and to speed it up.

Yet somehow

an hour and an eon

can feel the same.

Time is elastic

and cruel; unyielding.

I see your smile and

it fills me with

memories of yesterday.

Leaves me

to grieve every tomorrow

in the present moment.

I am helpless,

scratching the wound

just to keep feeling

this great loss.

The one that proved

I had something to lose

after all-

that there is always

more to lose.

#amwriting

I am a bystander

padded with gossamer lies.

a pacifier to disguise intent,

gauzy curtains

eager to expose.

bleed in private,

internalize until the lies

I tell myself

turn everything to stone.

calcify my flesh

in opposition to enmity

until the lies

become poetry,

which is just big words

hurling metaphors

at the truth;

gossamer lies.

There is a child, broken but strong

She lives in her imagination, where she controls the safety

“Say it again” he says as she cries out

pleading for savior

This fit will mellow, as they always do

And there will be no marks to bear the sign of her submission

For years yet

There is a child for whom fear and love are mutually exclusive

It is what she knows

He begs her “stay with me”

His heavy hands out of sight, innocent

And this kingdom could be hers

Grief funding materialistic love

And she will not understand the trade being offered

For decades, until she’s forced to trade again

This child has already felt the icy prick of panic

the swell of her airway as she struggles to breathe

the thud of her own heart hammering

Her fight or flight is already armed

Barely in the doors of societal youth

And already she worries

Nightmares are all she knows,

And the bi-weekly promise of safety

He screams “you infuriate me”

and this time the words end in stars

which will rise purple and fade to yellow

And when asked she will tell, unfazed

“I lost a shoe this morning”

A red canvas shoe

that imprinted itself in her mind

when it connected to her face

He loved her once, this is true

And so she will keep loving him

from the safety of somewhere else

Until he says “you don’t deserve me”

and walks away

Her disarray is hers to keep together

So none see the puzzle she has become

she never bares the burden

They say “she is no worse for wear”

Because they cannot see the cracks between her pieces

Only the smile on her face

She has already learned to hide

a lie between two truths:

All that she is; and all that she is not

There is a woman, broken but strong

She lives in her imagination; controlled safety

but the ghost of him lives there too

“It doesn’t matter how good you are”

I’ve stood in the darkness of heroes

It is the kind of dark that hides

in blinding lights

I’ve felt the sting of reverence

as it rips away

with all of my notions

taking skin and sinew with it

And I am raw

bleeding

Most would say

no worse for wear

But I am worn

Like a necklace I am worn

and I have become the lie

Like a cloak

and I am heavy

Like shoes

and I am formed to the foot

Like a cobweb I am worn

and I am dust

on your family photo

a disgrace.

i heard you say

your feelings are your responsibility

and they are.

you lash out

scarring

and it is my responsibility.

you cut deep

taking

everything

leaving harsh words

in the mess.

it is my responsibility

to stomach the pain

of knowing

that you made me

just to tear me down.

it is my responsibility

to lie and resent,

give you the tools

to my own destruction;

the bricks in my wall

come tumbling down.

an errant thought barged in

of all the things I’ve lost I miss favor the most

but it wasn’t honest and the tunnel of mirrors is endless

errant is often intrusive

I am everywhere in pieces

broken and directionless

and from these angles I can see

what I couldn’t up close

those pieces aren’t mine

they were once but

I am not broken

the audacity of that implication

that I do not suffer

that I do not make myself small

that I do not willingly break pieces of me away

that my heart does not constantly bleed

and for what?

the eternal question

for what?

and that answer defines

I am not broken

I am strength

because I am skeptical

and constantly invalidated

and I am still doing

the thing that used to fill me up

so that someone else may feel full

I am so tired

Two decades of monologue silenced, the only remnant of the marathon is the clench of my jaw

It aches now

I breathe out the truth, hurriedly, and shake it off just as fast

There and gone, unconvinced. A suggestion.

I fell headlong against my will but will never speak it’s name—forbidden

There is no longer a tangle of half thoughts, pieces of me chipped away making it impossible to form connections

Comfort is shallow and shadowing the truth, the weight of more than just my own world

Even the strongest structure wears after weathering a decade of storms

After all, it is man-made

It gets harder to atone for habitual disappointment, foundational neglect

The race is over and I am so tired

#amwriting

#amwriting #grief

#amwriting

you remind me of the moon in the first few days of November when the nights are longer than each lazy day; a waxing crescent of light to show only the tiniest sliver of its truth. but these are the early nights of fall, before the brutality of winter settles in; we breathe a chilled sigh of relief from the chaotic days of summer. hung in a dark sky, deceitful early evening, away from the bustle of distraction and industry the moon is lit just so revealing the magnitude of secrets it shrouds; backlit by the crisp edges of its silver halo cast by its bright bend as it inches predictably into the next phase.

on these breathless nights it is clear enough to study its sultry ombre shadow, no longer pitch black and unreadable; enough clarity to expose the scars of its surface, the depth of its shape, the weight of its eternal routine. in these brief days where night rules the hours it is seductive and sweet, revealing itself shyly above its crooked smirk as if cautiously inviting inquisitive exploration. a cautious mapping of the peaks and slopes of its timeless terrain, to discover its rough facade disguising tender nerves; what intent does its ambiguity seek? does it know that with each long sensual night it reveals itself just slightly more, overpowering the desire to stay tethered to the earth?

it offers slow and raw exposure; charging the atmosphere in electric curiosity, reality bending to its whim taking gravity in every definition with it. but the early days of fall are fleeting and time is a thief exchanging lust for logic, stealing possibility as the nights turn bitter. I hand myself over but I am frozen in place remembering that the moon is consistently inconsistent, hiding and revealing itself as it turns always away. the season has already changed; the moon and time have moved cruelly on, their secrets kept.

#amwriting

somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

everywhere

and nowhere

time ceased to exist,

alongside circumstance

and boundaries

erected in fear

somewhere under a moonlit sky

location unknown

a scripted page turned

and a blank canvas stared back

seeking an author

color and life

somewhere in the whole of the universe

a choice was forged

from a vast perspective.

a decision to slip into the sea

dark, mysterious

to chase the words for the page

brutal, honest.

we don’t learn to swim

without accepting the risk

that we may drown

#amwriting

I think of you when I don’t want to,

A face hidden in shadow because I don’t yet have you committed to memory

I cast my gaze away,

Avoiding the tide of your eyes reaching out to lap the surface and pull me helplessly into the undertow

I am drowning in you,

Desperately clawing towards the sun- that which I know is there, a constant to balance your wax and wane

My roots are exposed,

Tangles of history loosening from the force of your whirlwind, the quiet whisper of freedom as they pull free from the earth

I am resisting,

In every way that I know how, floating as I slowly fall, but gravity is law and I am powerless

We are oil and water.

We are looking for a balance to strike.

A delicate dance.

You lead, I’ll follow.

#amwriting #prose

Growth

Growth comes when the truth has been laid out and all that remains is choice. When pretenses fall, every movement is exposed and intentions are bathed in light- truth speaks. Behind the soft black velvet façade there is flesh; raw and bleeding, alive. Begging to be touched. This moment is pivotal, it spins out before me. I thought I knew every shape, the landscape familiar but totally foreign as if a fever had warped reality as it burned through my brain. I dropped into the truth glow, overwhelmed by the perspective before me. Did I pause before I slid into it's belly? I didn't even feel myself chewed and hulled, my nerves enthusiastically blinded by shadows of the truth. I lied to myself over and over until I believed the form I took was my own. I was carefully molded, shaped slowly over time by the trickle of a gentle stream; eroded to allow passage. The stream shifted into river, a new path for the cycle of existence to forge ever onward, and I was swept delicately into the current. But when I reached the violent ocean I drowned because there was no longer the safety a soft pebbled bed beneath me, no banks to seek refuge on, no island to swim to. Only endless blue, a serene plane of glass, deceiving. Did I grow, or did rot set in to my roots? There is so much hurt in the truth, so much pain.

#amwriting #mentalhealthcheck #anxiety

A cadence adrift in time has changed signatures; a rhythm carefully committed to memory shifts, but the tune is the same.

The key changes, slurring melody as tenors seek to strike balance in the fold. In the dark a symphony is one single glorious plane. Closely it is a universe; lines and spaces dotted with voices, an ecosystem of sound.

A viola drifts along the harmony; passive. Seen, not heard. Strings vibrate madly, bowing into crescendo. The sticky smell of sap as a movement takes shape in a rosin cloud. Fingers unhinged in frenzied staccato.

Perspective has limitless boundaries, spinning endlessly out. It is dynamic; whole and constantly evolving. A voice once heard as a whisper from another place in time has grown ever louder.

The tune is the same; the sound is subjective.

#microstory

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