Face It

I’ve been exposed. Caught with petty cash surreptitiously pocketed after I puffed at everyone about how upstanding I am.

Eliot Spitzered. No amnesty. Breaking News: I am the crazy person I hide behind snickers and sarcasm. The one that breaks apart with each unanswered, unreturned call. The one whose everything hinges upon meager morsels of attention, twisting each moment with you into Nirvana.

I do try. I’m the one that never calls too often and acts like it’s no sweat. I’m the one that stays busy, a blip here and then there. You won’t find me anywhere too long beyond what is welcome. Right?

Truth is that I am uncool. Goofy when it’s harmless. Frightening when I lose footing. I’m terrified of being seen with my love hanging out.

I know. I’m fooling no one but myself. Everybody knows. Now. I got caught loving, longing, dancing well after the music stopped.

Why This?

As someone who blogs quite sporadically, I’ve had to take a moment or two and contemplate why I do this.  Why do I write and why here?

I write so that I don’t become one of the dull-eyed people, nodding nearly to the ground that you see all over this city.  Some are obvious addicts who just got a hit but there are many who touch no drugs but find themselves deadening to make it through.  I choose neither, so I write.

I write because my pen still loves you.  It holds onto our memories more steadfastly than my cluttered mind.  It strokes the side of your face to life and dips into your kisses for ink.  The pen never lets that dream disintegrate.  I can visit again and again begging for one more.  The pen always complies, so I continue to write.

I write because I often choke on my truth.  It burns my chest seeking its release.   I write of the permanent stain left without a glimpse back.  Somewhere someone reads and it may not be that who but someone knows.  In the writing, there is that solace.

I write to be known.  To be held here in some way.   To be had here in that way. To have here in this way.  Here, someone can almost hear me scream, laugh, sigh and may care.  I write here because breathing is not enough.


We kissed here once.  Those were nice.  Very.

I like your kisses however I get them.  Distracting.  I forget the heart of the matter and cling to them like they’re all that is living.

Your kisses are hard and punishing.  I want to be punished this way.  Not always.  Just that last time.

You weren’t as angry this last time.  No less intoxicating.  Different.

Anger hinted at a possible similar abyss.  Shared desolation.  Maybe you felt what I felt when I was away from you but I’m never sure.

Never know.  You may have cured me of wanting to know.  Curiosity didn’t simply kill the damn cat.  Drove it crazy then it killed itself.

Mmmmm.  So addicted to those kisses–want you connected in that very way–I would sell out almost everything.  Almost.

Especially me.  Renounced myself, my sanity, grace and joy to have them when you seemed to look at such magical things as our kisses with indifference.

I remember them.  They sometimes rock me to sleep, those kisses.

And, yeah that time when you–when we…I’m so glad I had that.  Rooting in the desert of something denied, I have that jewel filed away.

Feeling you feel me feeling you.  Blessing.

And I know it was right and good because I still feel good.  No regrets.

Wounds heal.  Sun kisses.  Always.  Grateful.


Once was a boy so beautiful that all I wanted to do was kiss his eyelids and drench him in adoration.  Not sure it was the eyelids or the overdue need in me to love before it burst violently through my ribs.

I had gotten it in my head that he was the one to give all to and though he was nice and seemed to somewhat care, what I had rattling around in my chest waiting to be freed was not for him.

Not now.  Maybe for him when he was innocent and could understand the endurance of my illogical love, once given always abiding.  Back when he believed.  Now, not.

Maybe for his future self that might lay down weapons formed from betrayal and disappointment.  But I think that when he does it will be for someone else who, like me, yearns to kiss his eyelids and live lips tucked into the crook of his neck, his scent her only anchor.

He isn’t a boy really, though until we grow into creatures who claim their dreams, we remain children seeking succor.   And though I may focus on him, I know that this has less to do with anyone than with my delinquency.

Time has come for me to love like first bite of mango in summer, dripping juice.  I am ready to be someone’s home.  Someone’s deepest comfort.  His greatest escape.  I am ready to crawl onto his chest and know no harm can reach me.  I am ready to give him every ounce of light this body has because he would reflect it, our love-force perpetual.  Ready.


I remember the rocking.
Made more awake than lulling to sleep.
Couldn’t fathom how this wasn’t nightly.
Rocking insistently declaring life.

I remember the uncertainty.
It was dark and I couldn’t see you.
Then you were there tugging me to shore.
I wanted to sink still rocking.

I remember the silence.
It would never be the same.
Dug anchor welcoming sinking.
You pulled insisting on life beyond rocking.

Next Time

Next time

I will take my


with you.

I was

too impatient.


for you.

You are my

favorite flavor.

Rush to

swallow your


before they are complete.


your gaze

where it falls

leaving famine

where it does not


Next time I’ll take my


since I can be very impatient

when it comes to


But for now I will gorge.


Bottomless ache chokes.  No recipient.  Hurls you into an abyss of loneliness.  Leviathan ever awaits.

Suppress and wrestle. One day, she bursts forth, destroying sensibility.  Uproots everything you know.  Sense of self.  Sense of worth.  Timing.  Appropriateness.  Decorum.

She will smother with tentacles tightening with each rejection.  Indiscriminate betrayer of what you hold dear.

Until one day you learn to not fight her.  Feed her.  Let her leave love trails everywhere.  She will do it anyway.  This way, you’re less bruised.



by inch

I will recover


and the parts of me

that remain with you,

I will replace.

Cobbled together from


hip shards.

Grafted onto

what is left

until I am something

not what I knew.


It can be a shock to realize how unimportant you really are, especially to someone who is a big deal to you.  Where they leave an indelible imprint on your existence, you register about as much as a gnat: annoying, briefly smashed and flicked off with a shudder as they amble their way through life, forgetting you as soon as they meet you.

I will never know the cause of this imbalance.  What if you were someone to whom everyone was significant yet you were the opposite to them?  What would you do?

Just so you know, you were not that much of anything and no mark was left.

Oh, to be unimportant, dismissed, dismissible, that is what creates the crazy lady, a scorned creature.  Problem is that the scorn ravages just you and no one else because, all in all, even they are not as important as you are to you.  You are forever the target of your own enmity, a magnet for pain and stress.  Endless stream of poison.

So let go.  Free yourself.

You are nothing to him and it’s ok.

You’re so used to being a force of reckoning.  Everything quails in the wake of your presence.  Then, there you go: you don’t even register and there’s nothing you can do about it.

You can always Rumpelstiltskin yourself or something but that would only leave you dead or living ripped asunder.  Would be hard to walk, right?

So pick up your ego that spills out of your eviscerated soul and hobble as you heal.  Crawl first.  Grovel.  Just hold on.  Breathe shallowly until pieces of you stop slipping out mixed with intestines.  One day.