I, SOBER-DRUNK SINCERE

Tumbled off the press. It's all very refreshingly less meticulous. What is this reblogging of which you speak?

[epsifawnshawn]

[epsilonshawn]

[epsifawnshawn]

[epsifawnshawn]

[epsilonshawn]

Details.

[epsilonshawn]

The bird has flown. The flower sits on shelves of friendship, in disguise.

What discovery thus freed me was like a balm which stings the eyes.

Indeed, to be deleted for  whichever reason this implies,

I suppose our respective shelves are neater. (how fine a consolation prize)

[epsifawnshawn]

[epsilonshawn]

self-addressed love letter

I needed a reprieve.

I resolved to delve into a secondary persona - a fragment, nothing fledged - and speak momentarily, as if in observation, "Why?"

It was no quiet desperate measure, this inadvertent mantra which, ah, dawned on me a means to halt the susurrations that hounded in my wake. A trick, I thought it first - a diversion. It would spare me a bit of onslaught, at least for however long to ponder the absurdities of the act. I did not dare hope for more from this witting imitation of a lover's plea. "My love," went the incantation, "Why...

"Why do this to yourself?

"Why this torment?

"Why not freely permit your troubles flow?

"I love you and absolve you, you whom I know better than any other... and will live with for the rest of my life."

This can be sincerity. This I can embrace. Ardently, without irony or deprecation. "My love," when my demons give me grief. "My love," for all eternity. "My love," for these waking hours I submit to the aggressions of impatient self-reform.

"I love you."

How else can I say that I have ever loved, if I do not love you - and gently - too?

[epsilonshawn]

one year ago

I can surround myself with beauty. Still my thoughts continue to pursue that ever frightful notion: a love affair with self-erasure and careful obliteration.

[epsilonshawn]

My child is no baton-bearer; she has her own scepter.

Cristina Nehring

[desperatedeerheart]

Bread and Water

What a wretched creature I am To chew befores like stale bread And treat the future like water to drown in 

[epsilonshawn]

[epsilonshawn]

Four of my favourite frames.

[epsilonshawn]

I'm not sure what I'm expected to say. The odds were good on nothing at all.

I could describe the immediacy of reading your acknowledgment, of seeing my name listed. I was elated. Giddy, even. Glad you were alive - and had shared as much. Glad that you thought we cared. Ready to affirm...whatever renewal it was that I felt at the moment, which was several days ago.

I could mention how I was at a loss to respond - once I had calmed - not quite certain of propriety nor benefit. But I have loved, always, to blow hot air quietly into the silence, and so I will go on.

Can I say that this gives me a sense of amnesia, of wondering which of us has forgotten, or whether minds have changed? I suppose it remains the case that my decisions have always been the limiting factor, but really. I had to do a double take.

Jaybird, in talking at length of how I keep my distance, have I ever mentioned that being in contact with you is like gazing toward the sun?

Presently my eyes are not equipped to look at you for long.

[epsifawnshawn]

Autumn.

[epsifawnshawn]

[desperatedeerheart]

Psalm

I’ve been learning how to be still and stop picking my other lives off the trees like cherries, daydreams where I am loved by a shawled man who puts me on his piano and kisses my knees,

learning to peel back all the layers of ache she buried me in, all the lusting for affirmation the idolatry of self and the altar that always demanded more blood sacrifices. It’s ironic. That I, harpy-winged-swan-maiden-warrior-poet goblin prince, sun-drenched and ugly spent years, dripping and digging building up a self to protect me, a self to win the comfort of knowing that screened my poor girl’s soul and worried me to pacing, all since the day the black horse came and the golden afternoon of my girlhood committed their infidelity.

Funny. Unicorns are suppose to love virgins but somehow mine still left me. This is my great unwinding. Like a spool of thread, I am turning, again and again arms above me, sunlight reaching spans of pink-white flesh that feels like it hasn’t seen the air in centuries. I want to laugh, even when it’s hurting, even when I’m tender and horrified by the things I did in the name of vanity. The yarn is blue, and I am still spinning, for the rest of my life I’ll be twirling, like a dervish, and like their white cloaked ecstasy every step is bringing my closer to Savior, Hero, Prince, Breathing.

I am losing me.  It was once prophesied that I would write psalms and, dear God, let this be the beginning. Let this be the first line of the singing: I. Am losing. Me. Every uncurled finger a relief, the fear and hesitant aching replaced with my soul, breathing deeply, space cleared for it to stretch like a  cat in the summer, purring.  The more dreams and pieces of my identity I abandon, the more I receive: peace, joy, liberty, a freedom that leaves me screaming, truly screaming, fall colors streaming down either side of the windshield  as I am speeding towards my goal - home, both here and other, and the arms of the eternity.