Ms. Chi's Rant

Lost

2011-11-02T22:36:00.000-07:00

“Are you okay?” Dana thought for a moment before answering. Inside she knew how she felt but, she wasn’t sure if that’s what Alex was asking. Did she mean okay physically? If that was the case then, no, she wasn’t okay. She was bleeding and unsure as to whether or not Alex had noticed that something red was running from between her legs and seeping into the seams in the front seat of her car. Her legs had been wide apart while Alex’s fingers plunged deep inside her. At one point, she thought she was going to kick the windshield our but, it held.
It felt good; different but good until something broke. “How do you feel?” Broken. Dana felt broken but couldn’t explain that just yet. She took a deep breath to clear her throat and calm herself before she answered but one final thought escaped before her mouth could form the words. ‘I’m not okay at all. Mentally, this was too much for me to handle even at sixteen. Physically, well, I’m fucking bleeding! What the hell?’ The thought dropped off the edge of her mind and she spoke. “I’m fine. That was great. Are you okay?” “Yeah, sure. I’m fine. You sure came a lot. You must not do this often. Either that, or I was really that good.”
In the dark parking lot behind the Save-A-Lot they had pulled into after driving aimlessly around the city until they were completely lost, even the front seat of the car was too poorly lit for Alex to see that Dana wasn’t just excited about her experience. She was wounded by it. Alex spread her arms, wound them around Dana’s waist, and pulled her close. Dana winced in pain then, smiled.

A Matter of Time

2011-04-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

Life charges us for things we do daily using the largest denomination in the known world--Time. We, as human beings, have the audacity to waste Time, lose track of Time and forget that Time exists as though it is not in any way, shape or form valuable to us.

We spend Time doing things that are meaningless with people who are insignificant in the grand scheme of things or are not worth our Time. And for what? What reason do we have to justify this misappropriation of funds that we have at our disposal without even having to earn them? Is it possible that in our grossly underused brains we truly believe that we can make up Time?

The truth is that once Time is lost, it can never be found. You cannot buy Time or substitute material possessions for the lack of Time spent with friends and loved ones. Time will not heal all the wounds created by your absences. Time does go on without you and even if you attempt to save Time you are wasting it because it cannot be bought, sold, or saved in an account for future use.

Time is precious and fleeting and worth more than we all may think. Time should be used wisely and never wasted or taken for granted. Be mindful of how you spend your Time here on Earth because, in spite of your naïve and grandiose beliefs, you won't live to see the end of Time.

A masterpiece... may be unwelcome but it is never dull ~Gertrude Stein

2011-04-19T16:16:00.001-07:00

As a writer, I've faced many critics: writing workshops with fellow classmates critiquing my work, opinionated professors, friends and family that disagree for one reason or another with my content or subject matter, etc. I also include myself in that list. I am my own worst critic. I judge, scrutinize, over analyze, undo, redo, rework and even trash my own stories and poems. Sometimes, a perfectly good piece is set ablaze and, like a Phoenix, comes back to life in a very familiar form.

The one thing I never do is apologize for my work. It is mine. I take ownership of it and never regret how or why it came to be. It is as it is and what it is because I made it that way. I'm proud of it and when I'm most proud of it, I often share it for others to enjoy. It is not meant to harm or offend anyone but it is also not for the weak of heart or mind and so I preface my blog by saying that my writing is a way for me to express myself the only way I know how. Be it offensive or demeaning or derogatory or deleterious to my health, wealth or happiness, it is my expression of my thoughts and musings and is often times a completely schizophrenic episode in which the voices in my head write the story for me and I am unaware of its source.

I live my life to the fullest every day in hopes that I will never regret anything that I do either to myself or to someone I care about and for those I don't care about, I am incapable of regretting anything that I say or do to them anyway simply because I don't care and I write using the same philosophy. So, beloved readers, take everything that I write with a grain of salt--or sugar if you prefer--and don't ever get hung up on the words; they are just words. I did not create them, I do not own them, and at times they are not my own. I merely use them to express myself and occasionally entertain you.

In the words of the infinitely wise author Ms. Gertrude Stein "An audience is always warming but it must never be necessary to your work." I cannot, nor do I love you all but I hope that you can all appreciate and maybe even love reading my work almost as much as I love creating it.

Thank you ~Chianne

The Past

2011-04-13T22:04:00.000-07:00

He used to look at me that way
The way he looks at her
Those eyes that pierce thru falling rain
And cause my words to slur
As though I'm drunk on liquored tears
And panting like a cur

He used to handle me that way
The way he palms her face
That hand that catches falling stars
And hangs them in their place
Encircled in a crown of them
Creating our own space

He used to want my love that way
The way he wants her now
The love that he so freely gave
He's giving to that cow
But when she leaves him all alone
I'll get him back somehow

But I won't hold my breath til then
I know it's in the past
And if our love was meant to be
I'm sure it would have last
And conquered every obstacle
That life put in our path

I have my memories of him
That's all that I could keep
And that's what keeps me warm at night
It moistens up my sleep
And causes every pleasant smile,
moan and growl that's cavern deep

So though she has the man I loved
That sow will never know
What it felt like to have him move
Inside my heart and soul

I pray she'll never be "the one"
and I hope she's not his last
She may rule his present but,
I'll always be his past.

That Drug

2011-02-11T20:34:00.000-08:00

Afflicted...addicted to that stuff that wet dreams are made of.

On an endless high and the end is nigh if I don't try to force a quick withdrawal and attempt to stall the inevitable

From one thigh to the other and everything in between I suppress a scream for MORE...MORE

If you can do nothing else for me the least you can do is give me more of what I need and what I want and what I crave or I'll rant and rave for MORE!!

Coming down...settling down...we both may drown in the sweat and tears and booze that seeps from my pores to yours and back and forth and back and forth and in and out and out and in...this may be a sin but it is mine and I own it

I bought it with my body, I possess it in my mind, I tattoo my name upon it and write it in my rhyme

My passion, my obsession, my drug of choice that I'll rally for til I have no voice is you

Dream Date

2011-01-30T16:04:00.000-08:00

I woke up from the dream and was dreaming

Within a dream and without one

I am in it and yet it is not mine

I felt and yet could not feel

That which made life real

That which divided reality

From the here and now to the then and there

I thought I was here but was there

In my mind…I’d stay there

Could live there and sleep there

And dream there

Whether with you or without you

I am home here and belong here

I brought you here to be with me

So that you see this is ours

I woke up from my dream and was dreaming

Without you and with you

We made it and were in it and of it

And yet it is not ours

I’m alone here because you’re there

We can’t reside here

We cannot live there

We are two dreamers with different dreams

Scentsation

2010-11-03T17:15:00.000-07:00

That scent that your body makes

Not the one that you spray on

It makes me strong and want to

Grab on to you and hold you close

And make the most of the nights we

Share lying there in our underwear…or less

If that’s what we want, when we want it

Have to have it, long to grab it and lay close

And breathe deep…and fight sleep…and make heat

With one beat of our hearts and one touch of our skin

The one bed we lay in melds to our form; the form that

We form from being one from the rise of the Sun

To the end of the day, into night

We’ll sleep tight and breathe deep

The scent that our love makes

When we make love and are in love

And can feel love and smell love float

From my nose to your nose

Like the scent of a fresh rose

When the wind blows and now

Who knows where this scent will take us...

Beyond you and me into ecstasy

Where we both can be still and in it...our scent.

A Whole Lot of Nothing

2010-11-03T17:03:00.000-07:00

The day after an election, nothing happens. And the next day, nothing happens. And a week from now, nothing will have happened. And a month from now, nothing will have happened. And a year from now, nothing will have happened. And in the next election year something will happen...we'll have another election.

Politicians may change; they get elected, they waste time in office, they make promises they cannot or have no intentions to keep; they get old, they get comfy like your favorite Lazy Boy chair; sometimes they get thrown out of office and sometimes they die in it but really...nothing happens.

But in the next election year you'll convince yourself like every abused human does that this time will be different; this time you'll choose wisely and vote smarter and this guy won't be like the last. He'll care about you and won't hurt you the way others before him have hurt you.

And the day after the election, nothing will happen. And the next day nothing will happen. And a week later, nothing will have happened. And a year later, nothing will have happened. But I guess when you're used to being abused, a slap in the face is, well...nothing.

Sweetest Day History and Facts

2010-10-05T07:27:00.000-07:00

FYI: This so-called Hallmark holiday is coming up soon. Get the facts here before celebrating or choosing your "Sweetie". Choose wisely my friends.

Sweetest Day History and Facts

Gertrude and Alice

2010-09-29T09:38:00.000-07:00

Open your baby blues

And see what lies in front of you

Art far more beautiful

Than in your dreams you view

Greens and blacks

Periods of blue

Deep red of rose

In a crimson hue

If you look close enough

It may be possible to see

A hint of Pablo Picasso

Or of Salvador Dali

Looking closer still

Beyond the paint

And on through time

You'll see that in each picture

There is love in every line

In every line of prose

And each poem that I write

I infer all my love for you

And what my life is like

Now that my days

Are spent with you

And I can see your face

My words can now reach further

Than the bounds of time and space

Sweet and gentle caretaker

Of my body, heart and soul

In you I've found a warmth

That bears the bitter cold

Through all we do together

And the secrets that we share

We show our true compassion

And ability to care

I've found a love

That's more than love

A love that will go on

Long after all remembrances

Of me are surely gone

My lovely rose

My red, red rose

So beautiful in hue

We'll change the world with passion

From us they'll take their cue

The Psychological Answer to What’s Wrong with Me

2010-09-29T09:09:00.000-07:00

Erik Erikson's stages of identity formation offer some insight into the problems of identity formation or psychosexual development.[11] In adolescence, a child may be concerned with how he appears to others, compared to how he feels about himself. That is, his social identity and personal or ego identity may seem at odds. In this stage, there is a danger of "role diffusion" or doubt about one's sexual identity, which adolescents may seek to avoid by over-identifying with a person of the same or opposite sex, by having a "crush" or "falling in love." This response is "an attempt to arrive at a definition of one's identity by projecting one's diffuse ego images" onto another and "seeing them thus reflected and gradually clarified" (Childhood 228). In young adulthood, when one is faced with the social expectation of courtship and marriage, such "role diffusion" may become a fear of ego loss through self-abandon (i.e., intimacy), and may lead to a deep sense of isolation and, ultimately, self-absorption. A normal adult eventually learns to "lose himself' in sexuality and friendship without the fear of being "engulfed." Where these attempts at intimacy fail, however, the result, in maturity, may be a regression to "individual stagnation," "interpersonal impoverishment," and an obsessive need for "pseudo-intimacy" (Childhood 231).

The New Girl

2010-09-19T20:18:00.000-07:00

Trying something new

new to me and new to you

opening our eyes

and spreading our thighs

and making love only in our minds

Minding our manners

and keeping our feelings in check

but yet, not...but trying

and sighing and dying a little inside

from how hard we've tried

Trying something new

new for me and not for you

watching football games

and acting like total lames

locking lips in parked cars like we're young

Thinking young

and acting young

smiling with our eyes as we dine

and sip wine at a romantic dinner for two...

Two pink lips

Two full hips

Two bright eyes to make my blood rise

One beautiful smile that could light the Mag Mile

One fresh, amazing feeling inside...new

Touch

2010-09-19T19:18:00.001-07:00

There's something about the way you...

Whenever I see you I want to...

And when you are near me I have to...

And when you...

And when I...

And when we...

You send these shivers all down me...

And when I'm with you, can't help but...

My hands reach toward you, they have to...

And when you...

And when I...

And when we...

The form of your body makes me want to...

The scent off your skin draws me in to...

Your lips have entreated me to...

And when you...

And when I...

And when we...

That One Mood...You Know the One

2010-09-09T07:10:00.001-07:00

Sometimes this wave of emotion takes over me and stops me in my tracks; I can't move. I am breathless and still sometimes for several moments. In this frozen state, I am acutely aware of the fact that I am lonely; not lonely as in alone but lonely in the sense that I am not with you. I'd rather be with you. I want and need to be with you and I don't want to live without you.

Often times, my eyes well up with tears at the thought that I can't be with you and I am doomed to live my life alone because I don't want to be with anyone else. I must learn to live in your absence and breathe through these moments and suffer with the memories of you...and us...and love...but it's hard.

Killing Time

2010-07-25T00:44:00.000-07:00

Can't remember if I showered today

but I do recall making love to you in

the shower, going down on you in the tub,

feeling clean and yet so dirty

with every lick and every rub

Can't remember if I ate today

but I do recall eating dinner at

our favorite place, drinking wine and

leaving early and your sweet kisses every place

Can't remember if I slept today

but I do recall sleeping with you

in your bed, on your couch, or any place

you'd lay your head

Can't remember if I lived today

but I recall living every moment

in your shadow, carrying on like you

were mine, thinking I was oh so lucky

guess that you were killing time

Death Wish

2010-07-13T21:43:00.000-07:00

Wake me when the pain is gone
when I cannot feel, or breathe, or stand
when life can be lived from the comfort
and solitude of my mind and...
I am alone

Alone with myself in the confines of this worthless body
that, although it may be appealing to others, is a shell
of which I'd gladly rid myself and continue on as a naked soul
among the dead

The dead don't judge, can't judge
have neither voice nor sight with which to judge
and therefore I am safe to be nude, to be careless
to be free

Freedom, true freedom, I am convinced, comes only in death
so that, dear friends is where I'd like to exist
Uninhibited, unabashed, indisputably and
unmistakeably me

Amor Platonico

2010-06-08T17:39:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend text me, "you and __ have been roommates for a long time. have any of your past relationships ever been insecure or question that relationship?" I get this question in various forms all the time so I thought that I would address it.

First of all, I should clarify a few things. Yes, he is a heterosexual male and I am a bisexual female. We've known each other for about eight years. We met while working together, got along right away and have been friends ever since. We've lived together for about three years now and No, nothing has ever happened between us romantically. I sleep in my room and he sleeps in his room except for nights when I fall asleep on the couch or when one of us doesn't come home.

I think that we've been able to live together this long because we have more than a few things in common. We hate being cold so the air conditioner stays off for most of the Summer and we keep it at about 80 degrees during the Winter. We're both a little messy and we're both night owls. We're both very social and like to go out and have fun. I cook and he eats...and he does the dishes which I appreciate because I hate doing them. I'm a little bit of a princess in that I've probably taken out the garbage all of 5 times since I started living here and I'm really only responsible for my room . But, trust me, he eats very well.

We're roommates and as such we give each other fashion tips before heading out for the evening, have late night chats about dating, mating and relating and vent to each other about work and family annoyances.

I answered my friend's question by simply stating that it may have been an issue initially but if that person was around us long enough to see how we are with one another, then they'd realize that we're really nothing more than very good friends.

In truth, I think that it has been more of an issue for him to have me here and have to explain why and how he lives with an attractive, young woman than for me to explain why and how I live with an attractive, young man. On occasion, I've come home to find my bedroom door closed; a dead giveaway that he's had "new" company--a girl that doesn't yet know about me. However, he's never once complained or asked me to leave. In a way, having me here helps him weed out the insecure ones and his presence does the same to help me.

In conclusion, I can't say that platonic relationships work for everyone but ours works for us. He really is the little, older brother that I never really wanted. We have our moments when we disagree but for the most part things work out just fine.

One of the Boys

2010-06-01T19:43:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember I've just been one of the boys. I was one of those little girls whose family thought she'd be permanently scarred for life because I was always climbing and falling out of trees and hopping fences. I stayed cut up, bruised, scraped and usually bleeding from some injury that resulted from an outdoor activity that I insisted on performing on pavement instead of in the grass where the worst thing I could get was a few green stains and dirt that could easily be washed away.

My great aunt told me once that I'd never be a super model with scars like that on my knees. I didn't much care because I really wanted to be a tennis player or invent my own sport at which only my best friend Mario and I were good. I wanted the tree house in the yard where no girls were allowed--except me of course. And although I spent hours carefully dressing, bathing and braiding the hair of every doll I owned, as soon as I hit the yard, I was a different child. You couldn't tell me that I could do something or go somewhere because I was a girl because there was absolutely nothing that I couldn't do. I didn't care if I got hurt or my hair got messed up as long as I was included in the fun.

Today, things have changed physically but the inside remains the same. I've wiped the dirt from my face, covered my scars with makeup and voluntarily wear dresses on occasion. However, I'm still more comfortable hanging with my guys. I trust them and, in a weird way, I depend on them during times when I feel like I can't depend on anyone else. They make me laugh, they've wiped my tears, they've protected me from less trustworthy men and they've given me the kind of advice that women can't because of how little we understand men.

If you ever have the privilege of walking into a club with me and you notice that I hug and kiss damn near every guy in there, please don't assume the worst. Know for a fact that I'm friends with almost each and every one of them and be as honored as I am just to be in their presence.

To all my boys, I love you and to all my girls who don't know what it's like to be one of the boys, I pity you because you'll never understand.

The EX-it File: The House of Jaded Women

2010-05-31T20:01:00.000-07:00

I didn't want to believe that one person in a loving relationship could really love the other person more than the other person loved them. Apparently, I was wrong; I was too blind to see that I was loving more and harder and unconditionally. But, I guess I should have known because that's what I do. I love hard and without restraint or condition because that's the way I want to be loved. I put out what I hope to get back and although it has never actually worked for me--at least not for very long--I have resignations about changing my strategy for fear it will change me.

It's becoming increasingly more difficult to let go and give myself over completely to someone. What's funny is that I was just talking recently about this phenomenon with some friends. See if you can relate:

Ever notice that a woman is most open to being in love when she's in her early twenties? By the age of twenty-five things begin to change and by twenty-seven she is so jaded that it is highly likely that she will either end up single for the rest of her life or married for the wrong reasons.

In Black America, it is difficult to find a twenty-seven year old woman that is single with no children and finding a SBF with no children that isn't completely jaded because of numerous failed relationships is even harder. Women at that age are less trusting, more independent, and carry emotional scar tissue all for good reason. They trust less and expect less because having high expectations sets them up for a let-down; they're more independent because depending on another person puts them in a vulnerable situation and often opens them up to the possibility of having to deal with financial challenges when the relationship ends.; they wear emotional scar tissue like battle armor to protect themselves from getting hurt yet again.

I am quickly approaching this profound Age of Jade and, at this point, wholeheartedly agree that marriage no longer appears to be an option and love is becoming the biggest cosmic joke ever told. I'm contemplating the possibility of being one of those successful, independent women that has the house, car and dog and just needs to add carefully chosen sperm to the old oven and bake for nine months in order to have everything that I want out of life. I still have a little time to believe that maybe--just maybe--I want to share all of that with someone special but once I hit the big "2-7" I may just accept my membership card into the House of Jaded Women.

Sirena

2010-05-23T09:32:00.000-07:00

It is my curse that keeps me so sad...

My blessing is that my hair will never gray, my face will never wrinkle, my eyes will never lose their sparkle, my hands will never wither and my body will forever be able to move like that of a young woman. But, I will never be loved the way I love. No one knows or can give love the way I can and do.

Eternal unhappiness and immortal beauty. People will look at me and admire me for my beauty. Men will promise me the world because of my looks but none will ever see beyond the skin covering all the love inside. That is my curse. That is what I must live with for all time. I must watch my friends and lovers die again and again and somehow manage to love again tomorrow.

Displacement

2010-05-23T09:02:00.000-07:00

anywhere but here

in a galaxy far, far away

once upon a time

in a kingdom by the sea

deep in the dense wood

in the open air at night

on a ship tossed on the water

under a full moon

in an exotic locale

on the outskirts of the city

in the heat of the night

under extreme duress...

I married my second choice

Love's Jackknife

2010-05-22T20:28:00.000-07:00

I didn't know what to think

I didn't know what to say

...but my heart did

I didn't think that you saw me

I didn't feel like you felt me

I didn't say that you'd like me

...but your heart did

We didn't know what to think

We didn't know how to feel

We didn't know what to say

...but our hearts did

We really don't care what they think

They really don't know how we feel

We didn't hear love come our way

...but our hearts did

Moan

2010-04-26T19:49:00.000-07:00

Fix your ponytail one more time
Unnecessarily beautiful girl.

Move it up and down
Seductively like you always do.

Is it inappropriate to notice you
The way I do?
I don't care.

Does the boy next to me,
Longing to get my attention,
Realize that I am looking past him
To the gorgeous girl across the room?
I don't care.

Should I be paying more attention
To the lecture instead of wasting
My mind fantasizing about tugging
On her lovely locks in an act of erotic expression?
I don't care.

I'm entranced by her eyes;
I'm bewitched by her body;
I want her in ways that I cannot express in words.

Moans! Moans!
The only way I can vocalize how I want her
Is through moans;

Loud, guttural, unearthly sounding moans
That make the walls quake
Like a sinner experiencing the wrath of God.

They shatter light fixtures and crumble statues
That once held the world's idea of the ideal,
Beautiful body.

Noise that makes male and female
Shrieks of terror sound one in the same;

My moans of expression;
My feelings for her;
My longing and needing and wanting of her.

She rises to exit the room and I realize
Class is over.
I never heard the end of the lecture.

I watch.
I watch her walk;
I watch her talk;

I want.
I want her;
I want her to walk;
I want her to walk toward me;

I watch her and want her to walk
Toward me;
I want to hear her talk;
I watch her and want her to walk
Toward me and talk to me.

I watch her and want her to walk
Toward me and talk to me and
Want me.

I want her to walk toward me
And talk to me
And moan with me

I watch her and want her
To moan with me and
Want me, too.

Muse

2010-04-26T19:20:00.000-07:00

Making love to you
Is my inspiration
To continue writing
And to love you more

Pin me up against
The wall again
And hold me there
So I can think

While you’re fulfilling
My dreams of being with you
My mind writes
Your movements into prose

It’s thinking lyrics
Into my motions
And learning brand
New songs to sing

It’s hitting notes
That once it couldn’t
And holding them there
As I am held

I’m coming down now
We’re laying down now
And on the floor
The chorus flows

It pools beneath us
And it surrounds us
A new line’s started
When will it end?

With one more stanza
A climactic ending
You leave me wordless
And that’s okay

The joy of writing
Is in love making
And neither can I
Do all alone
The song has ended
But it’s been written
We can replay it
Or write again.

The Personification of Sweat Part IV: The Final Heat

2010-02-17T18:05:00.000-08:00

That last time we made love,

you remember, in the parking

lot of the church that night

creating sin in the most

sacred of spots.

Sinfully sliding one on top

of the other sending steam

rushing this way and that,

fogging up the windows,

creating our own special

sweat-box on a night that

could have frozen us

in our tracks...

That last time we were

together like that, was the

last time I felt true heat,

true passion, true love for

anyone or anything

Now, every time I see a

car passing by that resembles

yours, I think of that night,

of us, of something that sends

shivers from one edge of my

form to the other;

a signal to my senses

to think of the sight of you,

the smell of us,

the sweetness and sourness

of every dewy drop of you...

you...your heat.

The Personification of Sweat Part III: No Sweat

2010-01-24T16:19:00.000-08:00

For every pleasure there
is a guilty pleasure even
more pleasurable than any
simple pleasure for in the
guilt, lies pleasure

That sensation that your
senses sense when you
know that you are doing
something wrong or taboo
heightens your senses and
makes the subject more sensual

The subject or object of your
sensorial seduction situates itself
in such a way that sends
both sensations of guilt and
pleasure to your mind

Always keep in mind that minding
your manners may mar you
from moving on your emotions
and minimize the moment of
movement toward your guilty pleasure

Move on it, move toward it,
move with it one motion at a time.
Slowly, seductively play upon your
passions. Fight fear with friction
and find yourself...find yourself...
find yourself in the sweet, sweatless
act of true passion.

The Personification of Sweat Part II: In Media Res

2010-01-21T18:54:00.000-08:00

...as I oozed out of the smallest pore and dripped upon her already saturated face, my syrup sweet sap fused with a bead on her own beautiful body and disappeared. I bled and blended and became part of the dew that slipped and slid across her sugar cane side; down into the cavernous crevice that could claim creatures great and small.

But, tonight, I was surprised to see even the nectar from her nipples slide my way; down into depths never touched by man. I confess that I sipped her sap and savored every flavor from the salty to the sweet and sucked it with such fervor that I became part of her fruited flow.

This marriage of drip with drop lasted late into the night but, of course, dried by morning. But as our remnants resided, rested in the rippled sheets, we were roused and rejuvenated by new drips and new drops in a climactic beginning to a brand new day.

Rant--You Do That

2010-01-20T12:36:00.000-08:00

You think my life is so grand! I'm this incredible independent woman of the world who can do anything she sets her mind to. I'm infallible. I'm unbreakable. I'm resilient. You say you never want me to lose that. Never return to who I was. The way I was. Was that so bad? Was it so hard to be co-dependent? Do you think I like this? You think I like riding home alone in the middle of the night on the subway? Sure I know that the brown, purple, and red lines all go to the stop where I get off for school. Sure I know how to transfer for free to get to the blue line to get home. Sure I've learned a lot of things about this god awful city and especially how to get around it without even having a car. But if you think for one second that I enjoy it, you're wrong. I don't enjoy any of this. This is shit. It's a shitty way to live. The train smells like shit! The city smells like shit! The people are shitty and I'm turning into one of them. You try living up to everyone's expectations without failing. You try waking up every morning alone. You try walking home every night in the cold. You try realizing that if you died in your apartment no one would notice. You try living every day knowing that the only person you want to be with, the person you want to spend the rest of your life with is miles away. You do it!

FW:

2010-01-20T11:46:00.001-08:00

The world's most perfect food

Lost

2009-10-05T20:03:00.000-07:00

That tiny life inside me
That I thought would soon grow
Is no longer living and neither am I
I give up on producing anything but pain

I can create pain for myself
And for those around me; I'm good at it
It is the constant in my life
The one thing that I know I do well

I cause you pain by being with you
And hurt you more when I'm away
I can't help but to do things I want to
I'm selfish and foolish

I've inflicted pain on myself
To make sure I can still feel
It doesn't hurt like it used to
So I'll try again tomorrow

Tomorrow will come
Even when I don't want it to
And in the morning next to
Last night's mistake, I will cry

A pillow drenched with sweat
Sopping with bitter tears
Is what I'll douse the fire
Between my legs with

For all that I've done in a day
To ease the longing to be with you
I could not bring myself to do
The one thing that could hurt you most

And so I cool
In the warmth of the morning sun
I drown my desires in my nocturnal emissions
And run dehydrated from the sinless place

I am guilty of fornicating in my thoughts
I've lusted again and again in my mind
For men and women who are not you
But have not brought myself to act

Is the act of lusting the same?
Does it carry the same punishment as the act?
If so, then convict me of my crimes
And leave me lost in the hell I've created

Her Body is Mine

2009-08-16T21:01:00.000-07:00

My voice slipped down
between my thighs
and I moaned your name

My eyes fell
into the curve of my back
and they cried for you

My sweat receded
into my pores to sit there
and wait for your body

My hair grew four inches
in perfect curls
to surround your face

My knees practiced
for hours last year
on weakening to your voice

My body forgot you
last night in the dark
when it saw me come home

My Relationship Theory

2009-08-05T23:03:00.000-07:00

I'm developing this theory about romantic relationships and how they relate to the order in which a child is born in relation to his or her other siblings. If a person is an only child, they receive an unlimited amount of attention from their parents and therefore do not require as much attention from their mate. If a child is the oldest, they probably received quite a bit of attention from their parents when they were younger but, once the second child was born, they struggled for attention and were deprived of affection. The middle child has a similar experience to that of the oldest child but receives even less attention than the oldest or the youngest because the oldest craves attention and the youngest still requires nuturing. The youngest child needs the least amount of attention and affection from his or her mate because they were constantly the center of attention for one reason or another; either because of acting out when the older siblings fought for recognition or simply because they were seen as the only one that required that level of care.

In romantic adult relationships, the oldest child--having lacked adequate affection for so long--seeks attention and physical contact from his or her mate more so than his or her younger siblings. The middle child, also feeling attention deprived for many years, also yearns for physical attention and more affection than the youngest child. Finally, the youngest child or the only child, having been held, coddled and "babied" their entire lives can appear cold, distant, or selfish to a partner who is either the oldest or the middle child because they resist the excessive affection and attention of their childhood.

Ideally, we should seek someone who is our equal in sibling position in order to obtain the level of attention and affection we feel we need in a relationship.

Please feel free to offer your own opinion or observation.

Half Baked

2009-08-04T23:44:00.000-07:00

I don't recall the moment I lost interest. Somewhere between chickens and penis envy, my mind tuned out and switched to a different channel where old, black and white movies mixed with Road Runner vs. Coyote cartoons and I smiled. I didn't mean to smile but, the thought of Cary Grant and the Coyote chasing the Road Runner up the sheer face of a cliff, realizing when they were already about half-way to the top that they didn't have enough momentum to make it all the way to the top, and yelling about how the speedy, multicolored chicken they had been chasing was jealous of what big penises they had in which to pleasure their mothers with all while on their way to becoming a spot on the canyon floor amused me in a way that I simply can't explain.

The professor noticed my smile and interpreted it as a look of interest and understanding of whatever inane topic the rest of the class was discussing and she called on me, "What do you think about________?" Shit! I tuned out again. Something about cyborgs, worms, and men having babies. I think these theorists are full of shit! " I think that Haraway makes a good point about the influence of technology turning people into machines. People and their computers are inseparable." I can't believe we pay people money to sit around and think this shit up and even more for them to write about it. "The passage from Butler's story is a perfect demonstration of he deconstruction of gender identity." And I'm paying this chic to teach this shit to me? This is truly a wast of a lot of people's money, including my own.

The anxiety subsides and my mind goes back into wandering mode; this time with my head down. I pretend to take notes. Keyword, keyword, scribble. Quote, quote, scribble. Keyword, quote, scribble. Quote, keyword, scribble. The scribbles are where I fall asleep. There are mostly scribbles on the page. A whole page of partial thoughts.

Message from the Edge of Insanity

2009-08-03T20:00:00.000-07:00

Dana stepped out of her tiny garden apartment in Oak Park and locked the door behind her. The sunlight began to defrost her slightly chilled body one ray at a time. She walked down the road and smiled at the children at play across the street at the park.

She arrived at the turnstile at the Blue Line station and paid her fare then sat patiently waiting for the train. Once aboard, she began thinking, 'Down the road not across the street. What kind of person would make that up?' The train passed the Medical District and continued into the city. 'Who would put a poster of that where people could see it? Down the road not across the street.'

This is her stop. She gets off and walks toward the building. Her bag is starting to feel heavier on her shoulders. She's crying softly and can't remember when the tears started. She walks into the building. The sterile walls surround her, throwing stark, white light onto her dark skin. She takes the razor from the right side pocket of her jeans as she waits for someone to greet her. Holding the razor in one hand and her dainty wrist with its pulsing veins out in front of her just below the line of sight of anyone standing behind the desk, she makes a small cut. It barely breaks the skin so, she pushes harder and cuts again. Down the road not across the street.

Up and down the road she cuts as tears splatter on the ripped flesh and sting in the open wounds. She calls to the nurse, "Excuse me miss, I think I'd like to admit myself." The nurse ignore her. Dana gathers what little strength that has not yet flowed out of her body and speaks louder but, the words are no longer coherent to anyone but her. "Down the road not across the street." The nurse turns and sees Dana standing there. "Silly, silly poster." She walks toward where Dana is still managing to stand, slicing into her own bloody arm and asks her how she can help her. "Admitted to a psychiatric ward. Northwestern...suicide watch..." "Pardon me miss? Are you looking for a patient here?", the nurse asks. "No watch on this wrist...no time..."

Dana lifts her arm to eye level and the nurse jumps back calling for assistance; calling codes; orderlies rush about, run to her aid, grab the razor from Dana. "Mama?" In the commotion, Dana falls to the floor still muttering to herself, "If I come up missing...green sweatshirt...blue jeans...glasses...white shoes...walls...dark..."

The Personification of Sweat: Part I

2009-08-03T07:45:00.001-07:00

At some point, the memories of all the ex-boyfriends begin to run into one another. One wanted to fly. The other wanted to drive fast. And the ones before and after are a singular bad sexual experience that is blurred across a span of years; an anti-climactic orgasm that ends where it should peak, lulls where it should intensify. In what should be the afterglow of endless erotic encounters, the only thing I remember is the sweat.

I think I saw it on a movie. A character said that we all have three great loves in our lives. I've had two and I don't expect a third anytime soon. If it comes up, I'll let you know. My two loves can be described in simple terms for they are nothing more than men. Men, as all women know, are simple creatures. Simply put, one was fat and the other skinny. That doesn't sound too profound but, again, men are simple and should be explained in simplistic terms. Really, the distinctions between them, the things that separate them from one another in my mind, the way in which I define them—one as fat and the other as skinny—explain everything you need to know about them.

Harold, whom I will refer to as Harry, Hairy, or El Gordo was fat. He sweat when it was cold. There's no reason why anyone should sweat when it's cold. Inside or outside, if it was cold, Harry was sweating. He didn't wear coats outside during the winter because he would overheat. When he'd overheat, he'd sweat. He was also sweaty when it was hot. Harry sweat when it was hot outside or inside. When we made love, he sweat on me so much so that I began to think that I had a gland problem. I thought that I had overactive sweat glands but I wasn't the one sweating. I learned that later. After years of being self-conscious about what I thought was my own hot, sweaty body drenching Harry in secretions from every pore of my body, I gathered what I realized were only a few drops of dew on a sleeping bear and moved on to Dillard.

Dillard was my second love. In a way he was also my first but it wasn't consummated until after the sweat had dried on the Hairy Bear's back. Dillard, whom I will refer to as Dill, Dildo, or Dilly was skinny. He was so skinny that he made me feel like the El Gordo in our relationship and I'm not a big person. I loved him and his skinny sweat. I sweat now just thinking of how close we used to get to one another when we made love. We loved each other hard. I never fantasized about anything when I was with him because as soon as my mind formed the thought, we were doing it, acting it out, living our fantasies as they came to us. We needed to be together, to have our bodies touch. Even the sweat on our bodies reached out to join one another like two rain drops racing down a window; as separate drops they are a formidable match for one another but, once they join, they are unconquerable by any other drop on the pane.

I miss my skinny Dildo but I don't miss my Hairy bear.

Incubo

2009-08-02T19:06:00.000-07:00

A wise card once said, "sometimes I want to hug you until you pop, other times I just want to pop you." Mixed up feelings about a mixed up man, in a mixed up relationship, in a mixed up world, that's what I have on my hands. What I didn't want on my hands was the blood from another person's life. If my mind was permeable, questions and answers could flow freely back and forth across a transparent membrane so that not only could everyone know what I was feeling or thinking, they could actually see my brain functioning to process thoughts. Thank God we have skulls.I was at home with my two beautiful, young children waiting for my husband to come home from work.

The children were each tucked away in their cozy, warm beds and I was sitting next to a roaring fire in our fire place reading the literature that I had chosen for the Non-Traditional Fiction class that I was teaching the next day. All of a sudden, there was a loud crash and the sound of glass hitting the floor in the kitchen, followed by footsteps in the hall coming toward me.The children were both screaming as I dragged them from their beds and stuffed them into their bedroom closet for safekeeping. The two unidentifiable men made it from the kitchen at the back of the house to the front door in no time at all. I dashed down the stairs not noticing that they were closer to me than I thought they were. As if he sensed danger from miles away, my husband burst through the door and lunged for the men in what seemed like slow motion. I hid on the floor of a coat closet in the hall between the front door and the kitchen until things had quieted down.

As I emerged from the closet, I saw my husband coming toward me covered in blood and holding a large knife that was almost as bloody as he was. I really don?t remember escaping him, but I do recall seeing the mangled bodies of the two now lifeless intruders heaped in the foyer of our house. All I could do was run, but try as I did to run as fast as I could, I barely felt like I was moving and the only thing that I thought about was getting away from my crazed, murderous husband. I ran out of the house, into the front yard, and was passing the mailbox at the junction between our gated yard and the street when I faintly heard my husband yell to me that the men who broke in were really just trying to warn me about him. I looked back long enough to see my two children standing in the doorway, yelling for me and staring at their father as he came toward them with the knife, slit their tiny throats and left them for dead on the front porch.

Something, I can't say quite what, pushed me forward and kept me running in the opposite direction of them, even though I wanted desperately to save them from harm. I jumped backyard fences in a single bound, as though I was flying right over them. At some points, I actually had to grab the top of the fence with my fingertips to avoid sailing off into the sky. All the while, I was hoping that someone would be sitting out in his or her yard on such a warm summer evening and they would help me. Birds looked at me with wonder and confusion as I went.

Before I knew it, I was approaching the back door of a familiar house; it was my Great-Aunt Maggie's who had not been there in years. The sun was setting I think, because it was getting dark outside and yet she hardly had any lights on in her house. She was cooking at the stove, but I couldn't smell her usually odorous cuisine. She put down the wooden spoon and stood at the top of the back stairs that lead the screen door that I was peering through. Aunt Maggie gave me a look that resembled the one that the birds I passed on my way to her house had given me; she never uttered a word. Just as I entered, the phone rang and I told her not to answer it because it was my husband trying to find me so he could kill me, but Aunt Maggie answered it anyway and, without saying a word, she handed me the phone. Of course, it was my husband and all he had to say was, "I know where you are," to send a chill up my spine. I ran from the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room at the front of the house where I saw my grandfather sitting on the couch. I begged for him to help me but all he did was look at me with the same wide, bright eyes that I look into the mirror with as I told my tale. He then sat me down on the couch next to him to silently convince me that I was overreacting.

My husband walked into the room from nowhere and shook hands with my grandfather. He continued walking toward the couch where I was sitting, but I couldn't move. My grandfather led him to sit in the chair near the couch and then exited the room. He no longer had bloodstains on his clothes and the knife he had been wielding was missing from his grasp. He took my hands, instead, in his and explained that he would never try to kill me because he loved me too much to ever do anything like that. We were alone to talk in that safe place, but I still wasn't comfortable enough to sit and talk to this thief of life. I leaped to the front door as if some unknown force was sucking me out, trying to take me back to my children to mourn their deaths now that my house was safe from my husband. Although the initial jolt from the unseen force that yanked me from the couch was swift, the unfamiliar path back to my house lingered on behind me as I flew feet first through the stagnant air. I would never made it home to clean up the mess my husband left behind. My two children and the two men who tried to warn me about my husband lay dead at my house, their bodies spilling blood all over my once pristine floors.

The yards I sailed over were vacant for some reason on this particular evening, leading me to believe that everyone was hiding inside their homes just so they wouldn't have to help me. At home with my children and with no one to assist me in protecting them; at the blood drenched hands of my husband, the madman; walking and talking with my loved ones in spite of their silence towards me; flying through the air, having no real sense of time yet having enough time to be tortured by my thoughts of being helpless. Misery! Misery! Alone in the night with my mind. What has been done can never be undone and I am therefore doomed to wander forever through the night, to nowhere.

Ophelia's Lament

2009-08-02T19:00:00.000-07:00

Lifeless floating down mossy river tributaries that lead me where to my end that is better than life that is better than living that is better than living life here with you with you who knows nothing of me and cares nothing of me and does nothing for me and never will river reeds sweep me onward guide me onward downward past trees bushes leaves blossoms logs bump into my head but I am numb to their thuds against my skull I am numb because of you I feel no pain no anguish no guilt for what I have done for you have done far worse to me unknowingly or on purpose your purpose was never good or was it was it good for you to be the way you are to me will it be easy for you to live without me in the world alone without me with no one to hear your ranting and raving like a lunatic among lunatics you won't notice that I'm gone you don't know me you never have you never did you will never know me I commit myself to what is not yours what you cannot own what you cannot touch what is not and will never be yours you cannot touch me for I am gone you will not touch me for I am the filth that dreams are made of I am the one who hates you most and listens to you least and yet I am still here and not here and I never will be here again for you to ruin for you to make me into something that I'm not for you to take by the hand and lead me blindly into a fight that is not mine it is yours your fight that I have fought for you and will fight no longer for you I cannot fight any longer for you I've never loved you I never liked you I despised you for what you are and what you're not and what you can or cannot be for you are dull and more lifeless that my corpse floating gently down this stream into nowhere into somewhere somewhere far away from you where I am not happy or satisfied I am not clever or beautiful I am not but I am better without you I am somewhere you cannot be and nowhere you want to be and yet not happy nor am I sad I have no feelings you took them all you wrapped them up with silver linings with pretty bows made out of steel with guns and sword rammed into people into children into women into men who you say can take it but some are old some are feeble and cannot make it and yet you try to end their lives before their time I don't have to watch you do this to them or make myself feel shame I do not have to live with or without this I do not have to place the blame you did this to them and once I helped you I don't know why but now I won't I won't ever ever ever again have to deal with you or put up with you or agree with you or sit down with you and tell you show you make you believe that you are right you are not right you never were I didn't tell you out of fear out of shame out of knowledge that those around you had that I did not they knew you better they trusted you whole heartedly when I did not I disagree with you I hate you I can't live with you you make my life miserable you make me miserable you live as though you are alone as though you are the only one who matters you matter to you and not to anyone else if you were gone no one would mourn it no one would say oh what a loss to have lost such a brilliant person in their prime in the prime of his life he died he had so much potential he could have gone so far he could have really made something of himself he could have made the world a better place he could have influenced the lives of so many people for the better he could have made a difference in the life of just one person no one could say that and no one ever will no one really likes you they only fear you while you run around remembering dear old dad dad had his day and now it's over he had his day and it is gone no one mourns his leaving no one sits and cries for him no one cares to fight his battles or seek revenge no one but you wants to avenge his death to fight his enemies to dig them out of whatever hole they hide in whatever grave they lie in whatever well they drown in whatever ear they whisper in no one will willingly put poison in the ear of the man who most offended your father unless they have a personal vendetta against him in some way shape or form no one will wish ill will upon him or his family nor will they assist his family in escaping any persecution that is rightly deserved provided that they have offended someone in that way no one will help them flee from here to there or anywhere not o'er the land or sea not o'er the stream in which I lie where there's only room for me tiny me pretty me wronged me who lies her making this endless trip from here to there or where e'er I care or don't care to be tis not up to me me without control over you without protection from you me who you care nothing of and everyone else cares so much about men would die for me friends would die for me family would die for me and as I die and lie here now someone is looking for me missing me wishing they knew where I was because they care that much for me and when they find me in whatever state I should be in wherever I should finally land when my body makes its final lash against the sharp rocks that have poked and prodded me onward downward along with the reeds when I get stuck somewhere along the way someone shall rush to my bleeding side and hover over my lifeless body and shed tears of joy that they have found me tears of hope that I may still be alive and tears of sadness when they realize that I am gone they will drag my remains from the river tributary over the rocks and through the reeds they will carry my shell over whatever land should stand in the way between the mossy banks and my home and fall at the place where they can no longer make it they will give up and run for help and others will come glad to assist in any way they can for I was loved I was wanted I was needed for no other reason than to just be myself everywhere I went to spread happiness with just a simple smile to spread beauty with a bud or bloom as my presence once uplifted them so now they return the favor in a more physical sense and they lift me over their heads and carry me around in search of the perfect spot to lay someone like me you they would through in a shallow grave currently occupied by a jester who lost the ability to be funny or an unknown soldier from some distant war they would kick dirt over your corpse and spit on the sorry excuse for a grave and spend the rest of the day celebrating your demise I will be mourned for days weeks maybe even months or years and receive the most beautiful headstone ever carved carved mind you only as well as the artist could considering that he was carving through his tears and bunches of flowers will be brought to my grave daily for years to come upon my grave these words be said to whom it may concern I died a pleasant death for I loved and too was loved right up until the end to those it may concern I laughed before I died those feelings that often plagued me so I hid well deep inside though you may be concerned I beg you mourn me not for death is but a start again from you mortal finish spot yours will say nothing in hopes that one day everyone will forget that you existed that you hated that you died and when stories are told about what happened during your lifetime they will mention me and perhaps you only as a monster that tormented me until I finally let go and let God

Dana and Chris

2009-08-02T18:37:00.000-07:00

Waking up next to her is the best part of my day. Everything after that just makes me want to be back in bed breathing in her hyacinth hair, lavender limbs, and kissing her cherry-vanilla cheek. I try not to wake her as I leave, but a groan passes from my lips as I reluctantly drag myself from beside her. She reacts, but does not hear me; she moves, but never wakes. Should I wake her so I can see into her eyes, so she can see that in mine tears are starting to form like raindrops from dark, sleepy clouds being roused quickly to action?

I want her to know that I will miss her when I leave. I want to tell her that all of my thoughts will return to this moment as they do every day. Most of all, I want to kiss her until she begs me to let her up for air. I leave her there sleeping like a cherub on a marshmallow and tip-toe to the shower. Maybe if I make myself smell like her it will ease my pain. I use her shampoo, her body wash, I feel her presence as I stand there with my eyes closed wasting hot water as she would say, but when I open them she's not there; it is only the belly dance of the shower curtain behind me. I lube up in her lotion and drown myself in her perfume. The other cops make fun of me for coming into work smelling so fruity, but I don't care and they don't understand.

The fat farts I work with all have wives that stink of powder and lotion to cover the baby crap and vomit. Others don't have children, so they come home to a TV dinner, bon-bon, magazine perfume samples, or if they're really lucky home-cooking smelling wives. They complain during the day about what their wives don't do for them in the kitchen or in bed and yet they laugh about my lifestyle, about my girlfriend, about the way I love. But I'm still standing in the mirror in her bathroom dripping diluted hyacinth onto the tile floor. I could climb back between the comfy comforter and the body-shaped sheet and blend right in with her scent so she would never know the difference, but I can't. I slip on my undies and my government issued uniform, flat shoes and all. I towel dry my hair and pull it into a pony tail. I stare at myself in the mirror and try to remember what possessed me to take this job. I'm tall and slim, kind of pretty. I like my long, tangled hair and the funky freckles on my face.

I did a pretty good job of buffing up in the academy and I could have done that on my own. I could have been a model or something, if it weren't for her. I fell in love and wanted to make sure that I could take care of her. I take good care of her; she thanks me for it all the time. I guess I don't think much of it until she says 'thank you', I just do it because I love her. If I just slip back into bed for a few minutes, it won't make a difference. I can skip breakfast, lay there for a while, kiss her goodbye and leave before she realizes what I've done. I can see her sleeping form now getting closer as I creep toward the bed. I ease beside her and then give her warm body a cool embrace. She is everything I am not. I run my rough edges down her smooth curves and compare my textured white paint with her high-gloss, satin in a shade that should have a delicious name like cappuccino or mocha-madness. She squirms, she breaths, she speaks and my only reaction is to hold her tight and hope that she just wanders back into unconsciousness. "You smell...good"

Braiding

2009-08-02T18:22:00.001-07:00

I knelt behind him on the bed last night, braiding his long, black hair as I often do after we make love, like some kind of post coital ritual. What does one call foreplay after sex? While our bodies still glowed from the inside out, brighter than the candles encircling them, I braided his hair. More erotic than all the positions in the Kama Sutra is this placing of hand over hand to form this silky black mane into a perfect braid.

Reaching the end was orgasmic enough, but the knowledge that I would be next in line to experience this sharing of love and lust was even better. I finished his braid and laid it carefully on his smooth caramel skin, rolling it from the nape of his neck down to the bottom of his back. The loosely wound end brushed my knee and sent chills through my entire body. My body shouted, “Love me in return” and he instinctively rose to his feet, turned to face me, then used ever so little of his actual strength to reposition me in front of him.

I whipped my head back, tossing my own velvety strands over my shoulder so he could reach them. His hands brushed my shoulders as he grabbed my hair—heat. He smoothed handfuls of my hair over and over again in his hands—heat. He gave a gentle, playful tug, then pressed his face deeply into my hair inhaling and surrounding himself with beauty, my scent, and our scent—heat. He whispered softly into my ear, “I love you” before he started to braid. Fist over fist he moves along in a straight line past every curve in my back. The ebony flowed gently as Afton Waters down to the ridge below, then gracefully crashed into them as he let go of my perfect braid. We faced each other for the remainder of the night, softly stroking each other’s braids.

By morning, the remnants of our hard work were gone. Each criss that was crossed was loose and flowing again. We smile at each other and without a word say, “Come here my love; let me fix your braid.”

My Mistress Lies in Beauty

2009-08-02T17:37:00.000-07:00

I gladly serve her though the other women scorn her and look at her with jealousy in their eyes. Some of them choose not to look at her at all; perhaps for fear that they are not worthy and may perish from the sight. Still others stare without fear or jealousy at all and are amazed by her infinite beauty. I neither fear nor am jealous of her, but that is because I see no beauty in her face. She is pale and lifeless in my eyes. While my skin glows with a golden radiance that only the sun could have created, hers has never been warmed by the light of day. The truth be told, I have heard her say that she fears the sun and so she has me cloak her from burning crown to marble feet in heavy, emerald garb. I've gazed upon myself in her reflecting glass and seen the differences between my outsides and hers. I much prefer my own; the way my lips are full and naturally rosy, my skin is smooth and warm, my eyes are dark like two sweet blackberries floating in a dish of cream.

My mistress fears not only light of day, but also dark of night. We sit together by candlelight in her room and only listen to the life going on beyond us. She dresses me like a child does to a doll and sets me at her feet to sing to her the songs that I remember from my mother. It angers her when I forget the words, but I left my mother so long ago and have not heard those songs sung by anyone else, so every night it gets harder for me to remember the words. She never raises her voice when she angers, though, for fear it will leave her in the morning like so many of those women who always yell at their girls. My mistress never allows her brow to wrinkle when she angers for fear it will ruin her milky whiteness. Sometimes, I sit beneath her and she just watches me play. She enjoys my simple youth, but never smiles for fear she will impart the knowledge of her true happiness to all who may witness such a show.

Those who know her know that the key to her beauty is that she is forever saddened by her gift. When we go out and walk throughout the garden, the jealous women follow us and whisper to each other about my mistress. She never hears a word of what they say or else she does not respond to such ugliness in them. The staring women follow us, but never speak. They are in such awe of what they see, that their tongues cannot form words to express what her beauty makes them feel. The women who cannot look at her follow us, though I know not how. They never see just where we are going to because they do not look up from the ground. I suppose they follow the sound of the jealous women's voices or perhaps the lovely scent of my mistress and I.

I lead this crowd of women around the garden picking blooms from all the flowers that I see to make into a wreath of splendor to adorn my mistress with. I carry the bunch in front of me and always hold them close in hopes that their odor will linger on me late into the day. We take our leave of the garden before the sun begins to set and wander into a room where we can rest and eat. My mistress does not eat much and always has me eat first. The finest foods are spread before us and I am allowed to begin the meal. She glances around the room at all the faces of all the women that always follow her in sort of a thank you for being with her. She never smiles or waves at them, as I have seen other women do when they recognize their friends or see them sitting across the room. She remains alone, except for me, I suppose because of her beauty and the fact that she never waves and barely eats.

My mistress walks in beauty as we exit the room and leave the women behind. This is the only part of the day when we see a man and the only time I am ever alone. We go to the chapel and she sets me at the altar to pray for her while she is gone. She walks into a smaller room and stays there for quite a while. When the time is done, she exits with a man she calls the Priest. He gently holds her arm for he knows how delicate she is. They speak in muted voices to each other, but she never looks at him. Instead, she stays focused on the beads with the cross on it that she holds in her hands. They are too far away for me to hear what they always speak about, but I imagine that it is very important to them both. A single tear runs down my mistress' cheek and splashes onto the beads. She grips them as tightly in her hands as she has strength to do so and kisses them. The Priest claps her clenched hands and kisses them as well, then leaves her standing there and rushes away. I make my way across the room to her and kiss the beads as well as a proper ending to our solemn prayers.

Tonight she watches me play with my doll as I sit beneath her and for the first time in a great while she strokes my hair. We sit in silence long into the night, as there are no actions going on beyond us. The women are gone for the evening, we have met with the man, and now it is time to just sit in the candlelit room and play. I interrupt the silence with a song for my mistress. I sing it softly at first until she begins to hum along. I have sung this one for her many times before and we both remember how it goes, though I do not remember hearing my mistress' voice ever sounding this way before. It is clear and soft and much more beautiful than her face has ever been in my eyes, but I do not become like the jealous women, or the women who stare, or the women who cannot look at all. Instead, I keep singing with her and we are beautiful together. Late in the night, my mistress and I drink warm cups of mead that she has made for us, then we begin another song.

Morning comes to my surprise, because I do not remember falling asleep. I leave my bed in the corner of my mistress' room and rush to her side to wake her. There I find a sight that I have never seen before. My mistress lies un-awakened in her bed with crimson life-blood flowing from her wrists, soaking into her bedclothes, and dripping onto the floor. Her hair is messed about her along with crushed blooms from the wreath of flowers I made for her, and her skin is paler than I have ever seen it. Her gown is torn at the bottom and I notice that her feet are spread apart. More blood pools at the bottom of her gown than there is anywhere else on the bed, so I go to see why. There between her open legs, not wrapped well in part of her torn gown, is a baby with the same paleness as my mistress and covered in the same life-blood. I look closely at the child and notice a slit that leads across his neck from one ear to the other. I run back to my mistress' side and examine her wounds; they look the same. I drop to my knees to mourn the loss of my mistress and this unknown child and land on something sharp by the bed.

There on the floor lie her beads with the cross on them, but the bottom of the cross is missing and in its place is a small blade just big enough to make the wounds on the babe and my mistress. I walk to the foot of the bed, stand there, and cry. I stare at her lying there covered in more vibrant color than I could ever adorn myself with, then look away in the fear that I am not worthy of seeing something this alive and at that moment, as never before for as long as I have served my mistress, I am jealous of her beauty.

Making Love in Anger

2009-08-02T16:52:00.001-07:00

Two conflicting emotions
causing one erotic action
acting out of anger in lust

Lustful satisfaction
an expulsion of your frustration
that which frustrates you
only makes the thrusting stronger

Weakening me beneath your strength
in these moments
when the head that thinks
gives into the head that feels
you feed off my ecstasy

In one climactic movement
you lose all remembrances
of the day

So, love out your anger in me
let my body
ease your pain.

Communication Error 7.1

2009-07-22T08:44:00.000-07:00

Why do guys think they can just end a relationship by not talking to you anymore? I don't need an excuse--good or otherwise--and I don't need closure but I do need a finale: sex for the last time, a final meal, or at least call me a bitch and tell me it's over. I won't make a big stink about it or question your motives or ask you for an exit interview. What's done is done and we can both move on. Cowardice is not an option; be a man! Tell me you hate me and that the only reason you told me you loved is so I'd have sex with you.

But really, you're the bitch for not saying anything at all. You can bet that if I felt that way about you, you'd know about it. I'd scream it in your face so loud your dead relatives would hear it and ask you about it when you meet them in Hell! Your sperm would quake with fear and your children would be born deaf.

So finish what you started, you punk bitch, and say one thing to make me hate you the same way you said one thing to make me love you.

The Ex-Files: Chapter 1

2009-07-19T20:30:00.000-07:00

I know I'm not one of the guys. Don't you think I know that? I hear my biological clock ticking in my head and my heart. It's getting louder every day and I just have to try to ignore it. You think I like wasting $40 a month and shoving a pill down my throat every day so that one of you dumb asses doesn't get me pregnant? But what else am I supposed to do when the only guys I get are too busy to spend real time with me? Or, I have to play "the other woman" while they figure out if they really want to leave their girlfriends. Or, they're looking for the easy way out of their relationship by just telling her that they're cheating?

I get the ones who are married or divorced. They're jaded and angry. They're old bachelors with no intentions of settling down or grad students fast approaching professional student-hood. I know that I can't keep pretending that I don't care or that I'm just out to get laid. It does hurt; of course it hurts. If it didn't, I wouldn't need the under eye cream and the moisturizer. I have great genes. I'll look like I'm 21 til I'm 35. The eye firming cream is to hide the puffiness after the sleepless nights and the endless tears. The moisturizer is to get rid of the dry streaks on my cheeks and prevent them from turning into the dried up riverbeds of the Southwest.

But this is my life! Fucking Karma; the big bitch that won't let me be happy because I dumped the nice guy. I could have been married with kids by now but I kicked my one and probably only chance to the curb with the imprint of my engagement ring on his ass. And why? Because he was over-bearing, controlling, overly sensitive and a fat slob?

I don't regret what I did. I've never regret doing what I did and maybe that's why Ms. Karma sees fit to make my life so miserable. Maybe if I gave two shits about leaving him or had the least bit of remorse about how it all went down, then I could be happy; she'd let me be happy. But, I did it the only way he'd understand. I'd tried before and he just wouldn't take hearing it any other way.

I'm not a mean person but I had to say it to him that way for him to get that I was really serious that time. I'm not sorry and I know he'll be better off without me. He'll be happy. I just wish I could be happy too.