Flames . . .

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The thoughts in my head right now
If they could escape my mind
And be made flesh
I have no doubt
That I’d lose myself in the kind of rapture
That makes one believe
That The Powers That Be –
Something beyond me
May have tasted the joys of pleasure
And joy
And ecstacy
And what it feels like
To let go
With no plan
Or fear
And never knowing
What happens beyond the point
Where Earth meets Heaven
And I’m not me and you’re not you
And we are something more
We’re Love
Feeling it truly
Deeply
For every sensation
That it was intended for . . .

We Are Not Alone

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I love Writing.
Or maybe it’s not so much Writing, as it is telling my truth in one of my favorite ways.
I don’t have to stand up and make sure my voice is audible.
I don’t have to make sure that they can all see me from the back of the room.
I don’t have to make sure that my voice is not shaking and that the tears are held at bay or that I’m pronouncing the word correctly.
I love putting my thoughts out there – for some release from the pressure of keeping myself small for fear of what I’ll break if I rise to my full height.
Rise to who I am.
I write hoping that someone will sing the song back to me with their own tune and their own arrangement.
To know that I am not the only one who feels what I feel.
All that darkness.
All that light.
All that truth that I could never readily tell even my closest people.
Because maybe, they just couldn’t possibly relate to me on that level..?
And so, I Write.
Because it’s easier to put something down uninterrupted than it is to walk up to every single person on the street and unleash my Self.
I tell my Story so that maybe, the next person can tell me theirs.
So maybe, we’re not alone.

Hysterically

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Life.
Steady out here showing me flames.
Doesn’t give a damn if I’m falling to pieces.
Doesn’t wonder what I feel.
Doesn’t warn me that I’m gearing up to fail.
Staring me dead in the face.
Throwing situation after situation at me.
Like – it’s trying to distract me from all that’s happening.
And then, by the time I’m alone in my own presence
Alone enough to think about the absolute mockery
That Life is creating of my resilience
I find my tears standing still in my eyes.
The melancholy within me dies.
And I hear the sound of my own voice.
I am confronted by the consequences of my own choices.
And I find myself –
Not cowering on the ground like I want to.
But laughing hysterically
While Life laughs at me too…

Who wrote the memo
On this ‘Adulting’ gig?
Where was I?
Why didn’t they consult us?
The actual adults?

 

The Struggle

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I hate this feeling.
I hate these days.
I have no reason to feel the way I do, but I do.
I can be good for a long list of days but then this day comes – days like these appear – and then I’m here feeling like I felt that day.
Hopeless and miserable and sad.
And wondering when the clock will stop ticking.
On the days when I’m away from that World, I legitimately feel like I’m never coming back.
An then I’m full of joy.
I feel like I’m making that fantastic walk with light all around me and there’s hope everywhere and I’m going to wake up and execute some perfect plan that makes everything fall right into place.
But none of that happens and I’m in my room, annoyed by people, unable to read and too frozen to write and waiting around the clock for someone to say that I am good and kind and valued and important and all those fabulous affirmations of life.
Or.
For someone to say that the words are being used right and that it is indeed a Gift and not a hobby.
And then I realize that it almost doesn’t matter whether this is all relevant.
I have felt like shit many times before and every single time, I have survived those days at work.
But my system never learns and every single time that I’m due to return, I feel like shit.
It’s clear, right?
I’m no longer happy there, am I?
Just how long will it take before I don’t recover from my – misery at the prospect of entering that place?
What will happen then?
What if I lay me down to sleep and then on the morning that I have to get into superhero mode, I just don’t?

The Girl Is A Mess

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I am a mess.
Not in the – “Please come and save me!” kind of way.
Not in the way they show it in the movies where the person says it with tears in their eyes like it’s something that they need to fix – like it’s part of the speech where they promise they’ll do better.
No.
I am the kind of mess that has you going wide-eyed and wondering if you should back out slowly or enter the room and close the door behind you.
Because I’m standing here in a T-shirt and underwear exposing all my tattoos listening to Linkin Park with my dirty laundry on The Chair.
And you’re wondering where my other sneaker is and whether you should help me find it or just let me be epic right there –
Because maybe you’re a mess too.
I’m the kind of mess that has you wondering if there’s more mess – and maybe you want to drop your Converse on the floor with mine so that we shove them under the couch together.
I’m the kind of mess that has you laughing with me coz you know that your socks are with my socks on Sock Island where all socks go to escape our ugly big feet.
I’m the kind of mess that knows that there’s a broom, but hell if I’m gonna use it until I sneeze.
I’m the kind of mess that will make neat the wardrobe and wreck it the morning after.
And the stove. Poor stove.
I’m a mess.
I’m a mess baby.
So what are you gonna do about it?!

Everything Is Gray

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Sometimes, it doesn’t matter.
Sometimes, I don’t need to hear that I have the things that most people would kill for.
Sometimes, those things aren’t enough.
Sometimes, the things I need are not with me.
Sometimes, even with all these other things, I still feel hollow and lacking.
I don’t need to hear how fortunate I am.
I don’t need to be told that I have to suck it up and keep going.
Sometimes, all I need is for you to sit next to me and acknowledge my pain.
Sometimes, I need you to understand that Life does suck, even if you’re on the side where the hills roll and the grass is so fucking green and it rains sweetness and all things gorgeous.
Even if you have someone to come home to and the most beautiful and joyful puppy and a village to raise you.
Just sit with me and acknowledge that sometimes, Life is shit.
Sit with me, while I collect myself and rise above it . . .

Thigh High

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I have a scar on my thigh.
I was told once that it looked like a – well – a butthole.
For years I felt insecure about my body, being the biggest and yet, the YOUNGEST of my sisters.
I have a large body. Pretty much everything on me is large.
My hands. My feet. My chest. My thighs. My ass. My hair. My eyes. My lips.
LARGE.
I remember when I was younger, I could never use the hand-me-downs that my sister outgrew because I was already too big to fit in my sister’s clothes before she could outgrow them.
I remember my toes hurting terribly because I couldn’t fit in her old shoes and my Mama couldn’t get me new ones yet…
I was bullied for being big. I was called fat a few times.
I was told that I was an over-eater just because I had a healthy appetite.
And then my scar –
This scar had me looking deformed when I would wear pants that fit my form.
I looked like I had a big dent in my upper left thigh, especially when I put on weight.
And it didn’t help being told that I look like I have a butthole in my thigh.
I took it all like a trouper, having gotten used to being shamed for being black and foreign and a girl with large everything.
But a kid can only take so much of it. And I started to believe that I was a fat glutton…
Until a whole series of things happened in my life that led to my acceptance of who I am and the package I was born with.
Learning to accept who I am made it easy to remove the static and the noise of all their negative energy. I learnt who I was and what I wanted and what I felt and what mattered to me.
And then, being large didn’t matter the way it did before.
I am large.
I have been large.
I am strong.
Just because I am bigger than they are, that doesn’t make me unfit or unhealthy or abnormal.
My body is mine and I won’t allow myself to feel bad about who I am just because I was built like a Warrior.
I am a Warrior.

Demons In The Dark

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I asked where he was
He told me once
That he was burning pain at the gym
I was stunned
I looked at the clock
It was passing two in the AM’s
And I wondered
Why he couldn’t put his mind to rest
When the sun set
I wondered
What secrets could
His pillow have kept
If I asked it
I wondered
What he would choose to tell me
If I asked him –
But I didn’t
I didn’t throw down with his demons
I was chicken
So I did what the other girls did
I expressed my shock at his
Unusualness –
Coz I worried
I worried that I would lose control
Of my Self
And in that
My demons would rise
And defend me
Against his darkest strength
When in fact –
When he would be pumping iron
In the darkness
At cruel and unusual hours
I’d be
Writing it all down
Burning my pain
But he
He didn’t know this at all though
Did he?
No.
But I knew right then
I would have told him
If he’d asked me
I would have let his demons come too
If he’d asked me to . . .