Secret shared

Outstreched-
All hands and back,
set rigidly in a downward pull.
Eyes closed, ears piqued.
Like this, I sometimes meditate.

Interrupted-
the clank of metal hitting concrete.
Change. A single coin:
quarter of a dollar is -dropped? -left?
-abandoned?
Intentionally placed before my face.

The meditative moment is gone.
This secret moment done.
Circumstancially circumvented.
And the streets are left bustling, busy
with not a single soul around.

I have a feeling this was the impression
I was meant to get.
An intentional, conflicted gesture.

Is this payment of some kind?
Expression of concern?
Appreciative donation?
Did you thik I was busking-
what, my body?
Perhaps, you only thought it would be funny.
Stirring.
Jarring.

It was.

So: thank you, stranger.
I suppose–

Barring knives and Scars

Note: This was supposed to have a visual aspect. Formatting. You know, spaces and shit. It all got deleted when I hit “Post”. Fucking, bullshit. I can’t be bothered to fuck with the tags any longer. So, you get this plain version. I’m sorry.

Get tired of feeling?
Like shit?
It gets no-one nowhere,

Just back here.
Again and again.

What am I supposed to do?
Nothing?

Not notice.

This is idiotic.
Mecha-fucking-kucha.

But anger is truncating,
here,
so sit still and quiet like a demure good litle girl.
Hands folded in an antique lacey lap–
all feminine and everything.
I cross my legs the right way,
ankles tucked behind the left side of my chair,
to prove it all to you.
This isn’t about gender.

It never is.

The world laughs
scoffs
while the lies, they just fucking multiply
— and none of this is about me.

How are we supposed to get a hand-hold?
A handle on it?
A hold on anything?

I think you hate me,
Everyone, everything.
but when I ask you
— you say no.
Everytime.
What the fuck does that signify?

Can’t be bothered.
Won’t be disturbed.
Don’t break this goddamn silence in this fancy room.
It was so nice before
you.

–should just sit quiet
Everything goes so much smoother.
Oh, how time can just melt away like butter on hot bread.

So, we sit here
shit the breeze and get nowhere with each other.

You are happy.
I’m in hell.
I don’t even believe in those lines. Anyway.
What does that signify?

Poetry,
while beautifully crafted,
has fucking elluded me.
I don’t write
in meter,
rhyme,
significant events
these days.

I don’t make pretty things
allusions to brighter days,
happy things.

I’m coming
apart
at the goddamn seams.

A trip across the country,
that’ll fucking fix it.
A lone in a big house,
that’ll even it all the fuck back out.

It broke apart there.
Do you think–
if I stand in the yard
just wait for the wind to come,
Those pieces will float back together?

I slept in the yard
with you and others
allof it, from my head.

I remember back in California
while grandpa was dying
or going mad,
we sat out on the porch swing,
gliding,
slipping,
sidling–
and somehow made up a better world.

Those lines aren’t dead,
but set to rest.
These, crumbling into ash.
Dust and death.

We, as a conglomerate,
have no tangible rate at which to grade these things.
YOu want to run away?
want to hide.
I WAnT to break apart.

Who can help now?
god was such a convenient answer,
such a silent power,
such a non-existent lover.
I think I learned:
to believe in love from a thing that never was.

What does that signify?

Don’t try to love.
We can never stand the chance.

This rotten spring is molding fast.
Do you have have a new shadow
of some present future in your head?
I’m continually afraid–
— it’s coming.

I’m standing in it,
on it.
With it.
–even now.

This doorway.
I don’t wantto have to pass through.
Oh, but here we are.
So.

What does this signify?

I’m a wreck
I make a lot of noise when I dye.
I’m turning red and blue.
I’m coming up at the roots.

Oh well.
Oh well.

This is not an experiment.

I happened upon and started reading House of Leaves because some unnamed employee of the bookshop recommended it, mentioned it, put it on a shelf for me — specifically? — to find. I stood there reading as hours slipped away. I wasn’t even in the room, anymore. I didn’t think it was bothering me. I felt asleep only to wake up mumbling, calling out, terrified three times.

This isn’t me.
It wasn’t you, either.

I have to leave this book for a while to go to Virginia.
You tried to leave it, too.
That doesn’t sit quite right.

When I am done with it, I will pass this terror, fear, enigma on to somebody else.
It settles in you when you least expect it.

Just like the silence.
Just like the dark.

As a writer, I know just what you mean. I suppose the majority of the world doesn’t. I’m sure I can — like you — find someone who does

Coping

These moments change me, every time I come up against them.

I have always been full of violence and fight. Trained or not, it’s what came out. Mixed up little pieces all locked up in a weathered, rusted-out box. My outsides might be occasionally attractive, but my insides are a wreck.

I get by by breaking things.
I wonder how good of a strategy that is.
If nothing else, it calms me.
I’ve learned how to pick up the pieces, regardless.
Taught myself how to glue temporary things back together.
And skin just heals itself, I find.

It’s immediately obvious, isn’t it?
Everybody says this.
Nobody has, significantly, tried to change that.
I’m beginning to assume it’s because I’m actually doing okay.

Which makes me wonder if I shouldn’t just own all of this and be done with it. Honesty, in my experience, has proven itself to be the best possible strategy. I’ve never been one for lies. I prefer delusions.

I think I can be delusional about how well this will work, too.
So, here we go.

I’m breaking up, scattering like static darting through the fibers of your blanket over your feet at night. You might hear me, feel me if the light’s on. You can see me if it’s dark. Otherwise, I’m hardly there at all. Just a spark, a flash, a second and I’m gone.

Don’t feel sorry for me if you happen to notice.
I’m not crying out for help or attention.
I’m just trying to manage, to get by.
I think I could start to believe I’m doing just fine.

This worked in the past.
It can work again.
Right?

In a year or so, I’ll gauge how well my hindsight is working.
Yet again.

To a friend I love:

Good luck with that ending you are spinning.
Endings are impossible for me.
You, however, are a master-crafter.
You will be just fine.

And when the ashes settle, I’ll be waiting for you.
If I can catch your attention and affect you, it means more than it doesn’t.

Evidence to prove the point

Awkward, uncomfortable, uncertain. And here I thought I’d left this part of me behind.

What happened to cool, confidant, assured? What happened to adept, sexy, sure?

Oh, that was when there was this counter between us. When I had a methodology and a pattern in between us. When I had a significant distance separating us. When I had a line you, legally, weren’t allowed to cross.

I’m an anarchist. Where does this fit in?
I’m in control of myself, but not the world.
That makes me feel safe and sound.

And here, I used to think that perhaps I’d become too shallow. Nobody else got this impression, but that was in the design – wasn’t it, doce?

Oh yes. I was intentioned, even then.

I think my biggest flaw right now is that I don’t know what I want. Or, perhaps, it could be better said that I know just what I want but not how to get it. Or, even more clear: I know what perfect thing I’d like to find, but I can’t find where to find that.

Complicated. I just get more and more complicated, every day. Each second that goes by, each dodgy heart beat that escapes through the bones of my chest, each breath I take; I’m just falling apart.

It wasn’t bad enough to realise that I have no memory, no concept of the past. That settled in my head something like insanity, I think. Then came: I can’t spell, and I have a shit vocabularly, and I made up people because I couldn’t sort out friends. Lastly was this realization that I like my stories best because in them is about the only place I feel I can away from myself.

These all were some fucking hard hits to take. But, what was I going to do? Complain? Belly-ache?

Hardly.

So, here I am with no concept of who I was, with writings tucked away in a closet reminding me of how I got here. No photographs to speak of because we burned all of those. A document or two from someone like me, years ago, written all in second-person narrative.
And all of these are my tether?

Ha.

A lot of crying about the past that I don’t even recall — that’s right about where we are. So, fuck me.

I’m coming apart at the seams like James Joyce.
If only I had a Beckett to transpose, translate, write it down word for word. But then, I’m not there quite yet, am I? Find me when I’m blind on bad days and we’ll see how well I respond.

I saw a sign today about retirement and a plan. I could only laugh. My plan is to be dead before I can’t take it anymore. It’s a shit plan, I know. But there’s always hemlock and I hear that’s a quieter way to go than the other options.

It’s not a solid plan. But then, art follows life and the other way around, so what — exactly — did you expect? Nothing else but me fumbling my way through the dark, I hope. All I can think to do is paint some images upon the wall, and then probably fall asleep or down into a hole. Either way, let’s face it: it won’t be pretty.

But then, I’ve heard when you die you piss and shit yourself, anyway. So, I’m not after glamour here. I’m just going to acceptable. Passable. Manageable.

Like everything I’ve ever done.
No sense of where we’re going, only knowing and regretting it when we’re done. Wait, that’s not what I’m supposed to say. If anyone is going to listen, I better have a bright and positive spin. The future is full of opportunity, or some bullshit tripe like that.

How about this:
I have a high capacity for peace and love and positive things.
I have never hid in closets in the dark.
I have a smile on, even now.
It’s not sarcastic or cynical at all.
Clearly.

Help me

charcoal-activated
I have to process what I have done.
私はひどいです
ごめんなさい
ごめん木炭ね

You let me violate you.
You let me desecrate you.
You let me penetrate you.
You let me complicate you.

Help me, I broke apart my insides.
Help me, I got no soul to tell.
Help me, the only thing that works for me:
Help me get away from myself.
Help me think I’m somebody else.

I want to fuck you like an animal.
I want to feel you from the inside.
I want to fuck you like an animal.
My whole existence is flawed.
You get me closer to god.

What if I wanted to break, laugh it all off in your face?
What would you do?
What if I fell to the floor, couldn’t take this anymore?
What would you do?
Come, break me down.
Bury me.
I am finished with this.

What if I wanted to break?
Bury me.

Your defenses were high.
Your walls built deep inside.
I’m a selfish bastard, but at least I’m not alone.
My intentions never changed. What I want just stayed the same.
And I know what I should do.
It’s time to set myself on fire.

Was it a dream?
Is this the only evidence that proves it?
This photograph of you and I?
Believe me when I say goodbye forever.

With the lights out, it’s never less dangerous.
Even with a stranger, it never gets painless.
Don’t be afraid.
Every time, I think I’m gonna change it –
it’s driving me insane.

Maybe tonight we can forget about love.
It could be just like heaven.
I am a machine: no longer living, just a shell of what I choose.
Do you live, do you die, do you bleed for a fantasy?
Automatic, I imagine I believe.
In your mind do you see? It’s a fantasy.

Sit back, matter of fact:
teasing, toying, turning, chatting, charming, hissing,
Playing the crowd.
Play that song again.
Another couple Klonopin, a nod, a glance, a half-hearted bow.
Oh such grace, oh such beauty
And lipstick and callous
And fishnets and mallice
Oh darling-
You’re a million ways to be cruel.

I should…
I wish I could…
Maybe if you were, I would…
List of standard issue regrets.
One last 80 proof, slouching in the corner booth.
Baby, it’s as good as it gets.

Having spent your entire life exactly where you are tonight:
in the valley between intent and deed.
You must have masterd this: the fragile art of a good excuse.
The little things that get you to believe.
They get you to believe it.

So listen, I’m not trying to prove anything at all.
But don’t you think that, maybe, this time, you were wrong?

You’ve spent your entire life quick tongued and always right.
But hasn’t being right just let you down?
Right just let you down?
So listen, I’m not trying to say anything at all here.
There isn’t much left, anyway, that hasn’t been said.
But don’t you think that, possibly, this time, it’s different?
Dont’ you think that, maybe, this time, you were wrong?

Ice age upon catastriophic ice-age of selection
And only one result has trickled in:
The house wins.
The house always wins.

If evil were a lesser breed, then justice after all these years:
the righteous would have freed the world of sin.
The house wins.
The house always wins.

You don’t have to be alone to be lonely.
You don’t have to be sick to be dying.
You don’t have to be lost to be lost.
You might as well give in.

I am losing ground.
Well, you know all this work can beat you down.
I am made of clay.
I feel I’m the only one who thinks this way.

I do not want this.

Don’t you tell me how I feel.
You don’t know just how I feel.

I stay inside my bed.
I have so many things all inside my head.
Don’t tell me that you care.
There isn’t really anything, now is there?

I do not want this.

I hurt myself today to see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.
The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting.
I tried to kill it all away.
But, I remember everything.

What have I become?
My sweetest friend: everyone I know goes away in the end.
You could have it all – my empire of dirt.
I will let you down.
I will make you hurt.

I wear this crown of shit upon my liar’s chair.
Full of broken thoughts I could not repair.
Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear.
You are someone else. I am still right here.

What have I become?
If I could start again, a million miles away:
I would keep myself.

お休みなさい木炭
{Oyasuminasai Mokutan}
=Good night, Charcoal=

Vows and Penatence

Depression presses close and fast against the ribs of those who refuse to succumb to the pressures of society. Fire comes fast to those who fight against — tooth, nail, blood, and guts. Stagnation settles in those who can’t be bothered.

The fall is coming.
Can you feel the rush of wind?

In my head are endless streams of consciousness. A hundred, a thousand, tens of hundreds of voices — all at once. I talk to them when no-one flesh and real has anything to say. I take refuge in them when no-one true and living has any solace to afford. I hide in them when I cannot stand to be discovered.

I think this is defined as insantiy.
I think all good artists go insane for the sake of the art. The message and the words. The voices that call through dark shallows and endless halls to us that carry on.

I have no idea where we’re going. Some do, I’m sure. But for me, the bright flash of my muse is blinding. Only, the sensation is addictive enough that I stumble on through the dark every time. I’ve never been one for flashlights and finding one’s way. I’ve always kept to darkness and stumbling through ill-lit corridors into the bittersweet unknown.

I am all about hindsight.
What can I see behind me now?

This deep depression leading, inevitably to death. It cannot be mine so it will be someone else’s. I name them burnt up things and I dream of how distraught we’ll be for missing them.

The truth is that their strength is my weakness, and their foresight is my lack therefore. I wander while they boldly blaze the way.

Good little puppets, living for me where and when and how I simply cannot. I only do it for the thrill, the release, the catharsis of emptying these demons from my chest. I am not as much the devil, the puppeteer, the tied up master of strings as I may seem. Am I? Is this heart all black and hollow? Is this darkness, this winter soul I have condemned, as such, to hell?

I don’t believe in hell or gods anymore. And this — more than religion and more than fervor and more than enlightenment — may be my only reason. A fear of being, somehow, proved to be just that. The devil and the damned.

This may be a fault of self-perception. I admit.
It’s hard to tell since I’ve stopped praying, reading, waiting.

Instead, I chose to take another view. One in which Fate is the cruel god to worship. And yet, a god we cannot help but bow to. So, bow we continue to do. Explain that with ritual and smoke mirrors, if you dare. I cannot put much weight behind it. I think it’s just the pulse of time. I’m beginning to think life just leads to dying. Funny irony there, but true.

I’m becoming a hard-core cyncic. One who’d rather spend time weaving these threads that, for lack of a better image, appear to go nowhere significant. What’s significant?

I’m getting very methodical in this cyncism, at any rate.

Fifty Shades of Fantasy

I had to stop reading the Fifty Shades book. I call it a book because, while it may be bound in three separate “books”, the thing is really only one story. Five days between books doesn’t — to me — count as a sequal. Give your characters some time and space to mature, to change, to get fucked up, and I could get on board. Tell me that your character stopped eating for five days, sat around moping, and lost so much weight their clothes don’t fit, and I’ll probably accuse you of never having fasted for five days.

Oh, and if your going to create characters who are simulaneously into BDSM and complete fuckheads, can you please make some form of vague effort to assure your readers that you don’t hate on the BDSM crowd and think that they’re all just a bunch of fucked up sickies? Because that’s what I’m getting by the end of this, and your pandering to the other side with your one or two off-handed “consenting adults” comments just isn’t cutting it.

Oh, and I was so positive on the book back in the first third of it.
Needless to say, it failed me fast and hard.
Oh my.

So, there I was, sitting in my cozy new studio trying to remind myself that buying used books supports the book store and not the author. Trying to convince myself that paying for the third installment of this shit-storm was somehow acceptable, even though I’ll never pick it up.
If I did, I might just throw it across the room.

Point is – here was something that struck me as amusing. So, I figured I’d write a little unfan-fiction for the story that started out as fan-fiction and probably should have stayed there.

We are in his playroom. I’m trussed up and he’s spanking me, making me count. One, two, three, four. We get to four and my head is spinning. I can’t take this! What was I thinking? Why did I ever agree to let Christian Grey — Mr. Fifty Shades touch me like this?

Something in me wants to explode, to unravel before him and all his fifty shades, but then he stops. He comes closer, dressed in nothing but a pair of ripped old jeans. His chest is right near my face. He’s so close that I can smell him. He smells like body wash and Christian. It’s a heady mixture, my favorite scent in all the world.

He’s so close to my face I can feel his breath brushing against my skin. Oh my…He burries his nose into my neck and kisses me, his hands massaging my shoulders as I lay across his bench in his playroom, waiting, waiting. I’m waiting for him to touch me…there. But, instead, he pulls his hands away from me.

No! I want you! I’m screaming and begging in my head as he’s panting, eyes staring directly at me. He leans in a tiny bit closer so our noses are touching.

“Oh beautiful Ana, I love you so much. You are my lifeline. I want you just like this, forever.”

“Oh Christian,” I want to reach out and touch him so badly, but I know better. I strain against the silky ties he’s wrapped around my wrists to keep me in place.

“Settle down, Miss Steele,” he says and his voice is suddenly throaty, his breathing heavy. He takes a finger and trains is down my spine as he walks around behind me. I can’t see him! I hear the crack of leather and realize he’s gotten the crop down off the wall.

He comes around where I can see him and kneels down in front me. His eyes are so tender, so full of…what? Trust? Fear? Longing? He caresses my cheek with the crop.

“I’m going to spank you with this.” My breathing hitches and my whole body stands to attention when he touches my face, my shoulder, my leg with the leather. He trails it down one leg, around my thigh, and in between my legs to my sex. Oh my.

Christian stops and I’m panting, begging for more. “You just tell me to stop if you can’t take it. Okay, Ana? No safe-word. You just tell me.”

“I will,” I gasp, waiting for him. My inner goddess is doing some flips or something. I’m too distracted to notice her right now.

“I love you, Mrs. Grey” he kisses the tip of my nose as he stands.

And that’s when the phone rings. And keeps ringing. Irritatingly, it won’t stop. Christian is doing a fine job of ignoring it, eyes hooded and dark watching my every reaction, love blooming like flowers in his eyes. Why can’t I just ignore it too!

I hear Chrsitain calling my name, “Ana? Anastasia?”

“Yes, please,” I’m begging him to go on, to make sweet love to me, to take me all. To make love to Mrs. Grey.

But, the answer I hear doesn’t make sense. “Please what, Ana? God, are you day-dreaming again?”

I snap out of it, my head heavy on my sore, aching wrist. It’s sore from the weight of my head, not ropes and trussing. I feel the corner of my mouth and it’s damp. Drool, not a passionate kiss. When I finally manage to look up, I’m staring into the face of Jack Hyde, my boss.

“Ana, your phone’s been ringing off the hook. Can you please pick it up when it does that?”

“Oh,” I start. This asshole is out of a job. What the hell is going on? I go for my Blackberry. Christian is always shouting in shouty capitals at me to use it. I guess it’s time to listen.

Instead, my hand finds my old phone. The one from BC — before Christian.

“Jack?” I bark.

He turns slowly toward me, a weary look on his face. “Yes, Ana?”

“Where is my Blackberry? And what are you doing here?”

Jack’s face is all confusion. He looks at the clock on the wall. “I’m about to take lunch,” he shrugs. “Did you want to go together?”

“Ew!” I practically spew it from my mouth. “Not with you, you sick bastard!”

Jack raises his hands in a sign of epic defeat. “I’m going to have to fire you, if you keep this shit up Ana. Seriousy?”

I glare at him, ready to use the office phone to call the police. No — better yet, I’ll call Christian. “I’m calling Fifty,” I let the nickname slip for the first time ever. Seeing Jack’s exasperated expression, I blush bright red. “I mean, Grey. Christian Grey.”

“Ana, you left him months ago. Are we really doing this again? Look, you’re good at your job and all, but I don’t think we can give you the help you need. You should see someone else, Ana. Get another opinion. I don’t think your doctor-”

“Are you asking me out again?” I’m standing, getting really aggressive now. My eyes flash dark and angry at this perverted little boy in front of me. I’ve become Dominant Ana. I’ll show him who to mess with. If only I could find my Blackberry!

I hear Claire on the phone as I’m standing up.

“Yeah…send someone over please…she’s out of control…No, she’s not armed this time…Yes, Christian Grey…Yes…No…Okay, thank you. Goodbye.” Claire looks up at me as she places the phone down.

“You called him? Did you call Christian?” I’m desperate for a saviour here from the sleazy Jack Hyde. How did he get back here, anyway?

Claire is shaking her head. “No, Ana. I didn’t call Chrsitian. You left him, remember? Look, why don’t you have a seat. Dr. Lincoln will be here soon to pick you up.”

“Mrs. Robinson! I don’t need to talk to that bitch! I need to talk to Christian. What is everyone’s problem around here?”

Claire and Jack Hyde, the sleazeball, share a significant look that I just don’t understand. And, the next thing I know, Jack is going back into my office. I stand up.

“Hey!” I scream, my voice taking no prisoners.

Jack turns around but doesn’t come any closer. Good, you had better not. My Fifty is going to lose it when he sees you.

“Ana, look, I’m sorry.”

I reel at this. “Oh, it’s way too late for sorry’s now, Jack.”

“Right,” and he lowers his head. “I am sorry that whatever happened with you and your…er ex-boyfriend was so traumatic for you. But, we can’t help you. Maybe you should consider applying to some other options.”

“What are you saying Jack?” I’m about to storm into his face and show him who’s boss around here. Doesn’t he know that Christian bought the company? If I could just find my Blackberry and all the messages from Christian, I’d show him.

“I’m saying I have to let you go, Ana.”

“You never had me, Jack! You pervert! You think this is getting back at Christian? Is that what this is all about?” I’m crying now, hot bitter tears oozing down my cheeks.

“I don’t have anything against Mr. Grey, Ana,” Jack snarks at me. The liar!

Claire cuts in to try and rescue him from himself. “Jack, her doctor will be here to help. Why don’t you just go back inside and I’ll handle her. Okay?” she looks so defeated. I would be too if I had to deal with you, Jack Hyde.

Then, from outside, I hear a throaty male voice and I know its my white knight, my black knight, my Fifty Shades come to save me.

The door opens and in stolls a man in his mid-forties who I’ve never seen before. He’s dressed like Christian in the usual plain white cotton shirt and black pants. Something about him reminds me of Christian. It must be those eyes, so dark and sad and full of fifty shades of fucked-up. Oh my Fifty

I practically run to him, staggering on my stilletos. He catches me in his arms and I can feel his hands, cool and damp from the Seattle rain outside, all over my arms and shoulders. He steadies me and gazes down into my eyes. I could stare forever into those eyes. I’m already biting my lip. Oh my…

“Anastasia, I told you not to come back here.”

Still so bossy! “I go where I want to go, Christian.”

“That’s not my name, Anastasia. Come on, let’s get you home,” and Christian, so Fifty, is dragging me away from my office, my work, my life. He’s saving you from youself! my subconscious is shouting at me, sprawled like a damsel in distress across a velvet chaise lounge. My inner goddess is nowhere to be seen.

“I can walk on my own, Christian!” I snap and yank myself away from him.

He stops and gives me a stern look, jaw clenched, lip in a tight line. “We can talk in my office, Miss Steele. Will you please come with me before SIP staff call the police?”

“The police!” I laugh hysterically. “They aren’t going to call the police because you’ll tell them that everything’s alright. Right? Won’t you Christian?” I feel tears stinging my eyes and I dash them out with the sleeve of my very nice blazer. This is not the attire or the place for crying. I storm off toward the Audi SUV.

I stop dead when I don’t see it. Christian comes up beside me with keys held out. “My car is over there,” and he indicates a beat up old loaner that I can’t even bother to know the make of. Is this some kind of joke? My inner goddess glares at me through namebrand glasses.

“Is this some kind of sick joke, Christian?” I bark.

“My name is Dr. Lincoln, Anastasia. I’m here to help you. You seem to be having a szchizophrenic break-down. I’m going to drive you to the hospital. You’ll be just fine.”

“Lincoln?” I reel on him. “Are you that bitch’s husband! Why don’t you keep your wife away from my husband. She’s a sick child molestor and she’s ruined my Fifty and I won’t have you coming around and getting involved in my children’s lives!” I’m at full scream now, face red as a cherry.

Lincoln just stands there, mildly holding a hand out in the direction of the beat up old car, waiting for me to do something. I slap him in the face.

“How dare you meddle in my affairs,” I growl and storm off.

Behind me, Mr. Lincoln is coming toward me. I can’t think like this. I need to get away. Take a minute. Deal with all of this later. I keep storming around, around, around Mr. Lincoln who just won’t leave me alone! I get up in his face.

“Leave me alone! I don’t need you to protect me, okay? I’m a big girl. You don’t even love me. You and all your BDSM fucked-upedness. You don’t love anyone or anything! So leave me alone!”

I’m screaming, shouting accusations for what feel like a lifetime. Then, eventually, I exhaust myself. Dr. Lincoln eventually scoops me up and drives me to Saint Mary Catholic Hospital, where a pretty blonde nurse checks me in to the pysche ward. I’ll spend the night, take some pills, talk to Dr. Lincoln, and do it all over again in a week.

Next week, maybe we’ll get to my binging and purging. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight over the last six months. So everyone tells me. Sometimes, when I’m doing okay, I hear them. Other times, I just see Christian Grey in my head. Those hooded dark eyes swimming around in my head, judging me. Weighing me and finding me lacking.

I can still feel that last moment. The last hit and me crying so bitterly. Dr. Lincoln tells me I’m having serious symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder. He says that I pushed myself too hard to do in an area of my pysche that I wasn’t mentally ready to breech. Jose, my last and only friend, tells me that I should never have put myself in that situatoin without a contractual agreement. Kate tells me that Christian was sick fucked-up son-of-a-bitch. Elliot, her new boyfriend she met in our apartment complex, tells me that BDSM just wasn’t for me and I need to get over it.

My mom doesn’t even know how many shades of fucked-up I’ve become.
Oh Christian. If only I had been what you needed. If only you had known how to love. If only I hadn’t ran away that first time and left you behind. What do you think of me now? Will I ever know?

Will I ever be able to love again? Everyone is so positive. Yeses, all around. I don’t believe any of them. I hate them all. I only love Christian, and they keep telling me Christian — my sweet fucked-up Fifty Shades is gone. I will never believe them.
Leaving Christian behind that day in the Red Room of Pain was the worst mistake of my life.

I sob as I scarf down another cookie, practically whole. I’ll finish off this bowl of pasta with some garlic toast, and then I’ll vomit the whole thing back up before bed. I’ll be starving by the time I fall alseep.

Starving for Christian and his fifty shades of grey.

Burning alight

I didn’t sleep for two nights in a row, for completely opposite reasons.

In one, I laid pressed together in a close and cozy, occasionally over-crowded warmth. Skin soft and burning against my back, my arms, my side. A number of heads filled with thoughts and dreams, questions and possibilities, sleep and nothing else. In the morning, the space cleared like petals falling from a wilting flower. And by breakfast, you were alone.

In the other, I laid wrapped around a sleeping bag and coldness. Twisted into a knot both inside and out. No space to breathe but space enough to feel, to think, to fall into that old darkness where pain on the surface helps you forget, helps you feel, helps you break through the too-tough skin that you feel like you’ve been living in.

You aren’t cool enough for this to be cool or mysterious, not interesting enough for this to be something you’re admired for. You’ve always been just pathetic enough to disappear, fade into the background, not exist. Just like the marks you’ve always had the guts to make.

Nothing permanent resides in you but the desire to be and/or do more.
And the failing, ever, to be and/or do so.

So, by morning, nothing will have changed but the shape of the space you’re lying in.

A single other viewpoint, you know from that non-persistent past, could help to clear the clouds, the air, the smoke from your burning up. It could tell you all the things you already know, but stop believing in the moment their existence is all that counts. You could, then, see how wrong you were in the long moments, the endless empty spaces of the night just before.

Because for you, perception is a fickle thing you try to grasp as it slips away. You have never drawn near enough to see well enough. Instead, you persistently manage to skirt the edge of it. The hollow places, the empty shadows, the space in the room where no-one else ever goes — that’s where you belong. The ignorable one — that’s you.

You think you long to dance in full light, sparkle and glitter — but I’m afraid you never will.
Be happy, at least, for what you do have. With your fading lines and your impermanent marks, you’re far better off than some.
So they say.