#stream of consiousness

[allthecolorsofourlove]

i don’t think i remember how to love.

(not in the way that consumes me, anyway.)

perhaps i never really learned how? i always thought it was holding someone like glass and watering their garden and soft touches of sculpture, gently guiding hands until they saw what you did.

i thought it was holding up a mirror, regardless of whether they flashed silver back. i thought it was coos of praise and holding, caressing, touching in a way akin to reverence regardless of what you received. i am loved if i love you. if i love you enough, i will love me too. this feeling is mutual if there is such a surplus inside of me, i do not need to hear it back, i just need to see your eyes shift when i say your laugh lights a match in my stomach. 

(perhaps, i remember. i did, i do, know how to love.)

(i think i don’t know how to receive.)

what is it to wake up to an arm around your waist? what is it to be held against another body in the early morning hours where time is still and there is nothing but the robin to keep you two company? have i ever known a hand holding mine, not mine holding another? what is it to look into that mirror and understand what they see when they look at you? 

how do i learn to take it all? what does it feel like to be compared to honeycomb and cough syrup and rain? do i know what it’s like to hear my name like a prayer, said with grace and dignity and adoration oozing from the core? what is it like to be seen in full, a portrait of everything that makes this life worth fighting for?

could i withstand so much good?

(to be perceived terrifies me. step back, i cry; i will hurt you too. there’s blood on my hands and i’m not sure who it belongs to. my face is wet. the mask i’ve pasted to my cheekbones is slipping. you will not like what you see. the disfigurement is gory and my pupils dilate against all this light: i do not remember what it is like to feel, and i am not sure if you’d really like me to know. you know what happened last. you saw parchment and ink and cracked pavement. step back, i demand. i refuse to hurt you too.)

i think i’d crumble.

(whose fate do i truly fear?)

(after so many times, after 5 hearts and 3 tries and 1 giant scar, 

what would make you different?)

(do you feel it too?)

(i don’t know if i still can love.)

(this devotion will kill me.)

[withahuntershand]

can you hold me?

in depth, in darkness, i am covered in moss and crumbling lime and rusting at the edges. the ache in my ribs tugs at the bars of its cage and begs to be set free. (could you set fire to lock and key, and release it?)

can you hold me?

3 breakups, 4 deaths, 5 fears, there is something behind my eyes that is overlooked in the grand scheme of me, something folks don't often see. there is weight, to my bones and marrow. (could you find it, and let me know it's alright?)

can you hold me?

i am no pillowcase paper plate rose, i am nothing so fragile but i am delicate. ivory breaks with force. the load on my shoulders forces me to stand with full grandeur at the face of danger. i will not cower at the maw of beasts of my own making. i do not look it but i carry bags under sorrowful brows and scars on calloused hands, a twitchy trigger finger that too often sets to work losing those who give me the taste of abandonment and advantage on my parched lips. i am not a spring of life, i cannot give for i will run dry. behind my teeth there are needs for a growing druid and his garden of eden and his desires will not go unmet. i am worthy of love and tender prints along cheekbones but it is hard to remember, it is hard to verbalize that i need you to look after me, and i need you to know that i care.

can you hold me, and remember to tend to my trembling heart?

i am so tired of hosting parties with guests of delusion and ghosts, so hold me please, god, revere my touch like i will revere yours and know that with every waking breath, every sleeping beat, that i love you.

[dontgetattached]

last night I had dinner with a good friend of mine of nine years (holy crap!). she made me feel so loved and better about my recent break up and consistently high standards. she went home and I listened to jazz and wrote nine pages of stream of consciousness.

not a bad way to spend a Tuesday night.

I can see this becoming a routine for me 💯

[definegodliness]

biting brigands

Implosion, explosion, obscured By trailing smoke, the magician White gloves remain, floating Finger fucking the black top hat For a change, for some change Radar love is overrated anyway Why kiss a pillow when you can Snatch the dream catcher off The spider web infested ceiling Take me to your leader, baby Black widow vs. tickling tousle Bearded man between eight legs Trying to bite his own head off You gotta tickle yourself they say When no one's there to deliver . --- 17-1-2019, M.A. Tempels ©

[cryofthefishmongers-blog]

Creative Writing Exercise: Stream of Consciousness

Jesus, it’s cold in this room. I don’t know who to tell about it. The nurse only comes in every few hours and she just refills my medication and leaves. She doesn’t ask me how I’m doing. I want her to ask me how I’m doing. That way, it won’t feel needy. If I tell her I’m cold and I don’t feel well and I want to call my mom, she’ll think I’m needy. But if she asks me how I’m doing, or if I need anything, I can tell her. I can do it casually. I wonder if my mom has tried to call me. I haven’t talked to her since I got here. When I got here, I was nearly dead and my brain was fried, so that doesn’t even really count. I should get another chance. I wonder if she was scared. I would be scared. If I saw myself like that. I’m glad that I was too passed out to see myself. I wonder if she called the ambulance first thing. Or maybe she tried to shake me awake or something. That’s why she should call me. Or I should call her. It’s so cold in this room. It’s always too cold during the day, and too hot during the night when I’m trying to sleep. And I’m sweaty no matter what.  Cold, sweaty, hot, really sweaty. They haven’t told me when I get to leave, yet. They say I’m going to by physically okay, but I’m not going to be okay upstairs for a while. I’m going to want more. The cravings might stick around for the rest of my life. For a long while, I never had any pieces missing. I was a whole thing, a whole thing, all together. But I carved a chunk out of myself. That first day. That first time. And now there will always be a piece missing. Even if I fall back into it all and try to fill it, it’ll just all leak out again, and there will be a piece missing. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know I would lose a piece of me. I didn’t know. I guess they always tell you that, your whole life, but you never really know. You never know until it’s already too late. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I was doing. Jesus, it’s cold in this room. It’s so cold. Jesus? Jesus? Nobody ever hears me. Nobody can hear me. The nurse doesn’t hear me. I’m screaming at her, in my head I’m screaming, but she can’t hear me. My mom, the people down the hall, my brother, anybody that I’m screaming at, nobody can hear me. I wonder if they would listen if they could. Jesus? What am I doing? I need to get out of here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be cold anymore. I want to take a shower in my house. I’m so cold. Jesus? I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t hear. I didn’t listen.

[allthecolorsofourlove]

oh, love. i

believe we are more

alike than you think.

(inside of me, fear grows over moss

and stones, it eats

me up from the inside, whispers

into the shell of my ear;

will you ever let anyone in again?

will anyone ever see inside?

could anyone take all that you are?)

and im sick with it, with

quarantine aches and

chills rack my body as i demand

for touch. i know, what it’s

like, to wither.

in a funny way, all roads lead to

you, i crave warmth and

stability and someone

to hold me together when

i crumble. but

i can’t seem to let

anyone in. (but her, and

my head rushes with blood,

and syrup strains through my

teeth, and my mouth is

sealed shut with sugar cane and

rotting gums. i want to get

out, but i always come back.

i think i might hate it here.)

im scared you won’t like

what you see, when i splinter.

but more than that, they

lead to you because im

weary myself, and im tired

of watching you hurt.

i want to touch

your face and gingerly

braid your hair with

carnations and heather,

but i can’t bring myself

to separate the strands and

pluck the blooms.

you deserve more,

than someone whose head

is stuck in

a year ago.

(regardless of the tune,

it’s comforting to know that

someone out there, knows

a different type of me.)

there are no other stars, (besides,

you know, the one- Jupiter, if you will)

and there is no reason but

my own leaf mold on

the forest floor. i don’t

lie, to you. nothing about

you holds me

to stone and agate.

(i think, if im

honest, that you’re

perfect. like some

version of me if

i had discipline,

and time, and

hadn’t been so blind

in my formative years.)

if i can’t do

any thing else,

let me mend your wings

and press

lavender and orange

blossoms into the

mud. let me help.

please.

you can talk to me.

im a friend,

if nothing else.

don’t fear a cry of

need.

satyr,

you know where to find me.

[withahuntershand]

in my dreams, in dark

nights, the film reel

sparks to life and

everything is awash with

the gentle light of

hollywood-esque stars.

it begins, with a scene so familiar:

i ache.

i ache for a tender

brush of fingertips along my

cheeks, a current beginning

in my spine. thunder rattles

just below the surface of skin

and slowly,

slowly,

your hands burn into

my ribs,

the words “defibrillator”, “conduit”,

stick somewhere under the

grey matter in my skull as i

inhale quick, punch-drunk and full of

abandon.

the audio crackles and im

overrun with it,

im overrun with my love for you.

im toppled off my axis and free

falling,

you chart the topography of

myself, marking coordinates

with a thumbtack of dark skin,

i am running hot with

this change of climate and

my heart melts under

the pressure. the storm

is building in summer heat,

that humid, hair-frizzing

type of languid kiss that

no word could really phrase,

im a forecast balloon in

raging skies but the only

thing the future foretells is

you,

over and over again,

all throughout the week.

the film snaps,

brittle on the wheel, and

i wake, with a start,

to rain.

[withahuntershand]

velvet black should encircle my wrists and

plunge down my mouth,

it should tear, ripping on

the sharp ivory behind my lips.

my eyes are frozen solid,

and pitch should

leak from the edges and

drip off of feathered lashes

and all I should see is dark, night sky—

see, I am blind, and

I should see nothing, and it

should be like having your socked feet under

the dining room table,

(we are tapping toes under plastic and)

it should be like

never knowing, like

knowing it all.

but all there is is red.

baby, my love, angel sweetheart darling no

word is ever going to properly

conjure the image of you in my head.

no 2, 3, 4D media will ever capture

you in a bottle, on a screen.

my eyes were never meant to see your beauty,

my hands never meant for your fingertips,

my tongue never meant for your taste—

you are my handicap;

you blind me,

my knees buckle under your weight,

my teeth rot with your sweetness.

everything becomes nothing,

next to you.

you are light and heat and touch and scent and

my love,

you carry jupiter in your marrow,

and I will forever

be nothing but the moons,

chasing you—

(everything is red,

which means that

everything, is nothing,

because I love you.)

—blindly.