Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category


Posted: May 25, 2011 in Uncategorized

I wish my insecurities would leave me alone for once.

I’d like to at least have coffee with confidence.

I am still holding back. I really need to think about that one. It has been said to me by different people in different contexts numerous times. Is it one of those times when the universe is trying to send me a message? I’m trying to pick up universe . . .but I can’t understand you through the static of my own bullshit.

I am still holding back. Help me internet. I have forgotten how to let go.

I’ve been afraid for so long I can’t even recognize my fear because it’s all I’ve ever known.

Even when I think I am showing myself I am just changing hiding paces.

Damn it!



This is the way that it feels to survive
This is the way that it feels
To be the desert, empty
Stretching endless in all directions
Toward the horizon
Straining to hold onto it
Like a rope, to grab on
To pull yourself out of yourself
Like a weed

This is the way that it feels
To grow up before you’re grown
This is the way it feels
To store up every drop of love
Like a cactus
And grow needles
As a defense against being touched
This is Life without Water

This is the way that it feels
To be circumscribed
By the horizon
By things you need
And can not have

This is the way that it feels
To surrender
To let the wind
Build Dunes and draw ripples
In your possibilities
To let caravans
Of camels and Distant
Travelers leave
Footprints on the canvass
Of your longing

This is the way that it feels
To be uninhabitable

This is the way that it feels
To be the ocean moving
Swallowing secrets
Like Shipwrecks
So deep no technology
Can bring them to light

This is the way that it feels
To be unknown
These are the strange
And terrifying creatures
That eat each other
Within my black and icy depths

This is the way that it feels
To have your past
Hanging round and white
Above you in your sky
To rise and fall as the tide
At the demand of distant
Influences you do not understand
After the beatings
Have lost their Force
But not their power

This is the way that it feels
To break in waves
To try to find yourself
Between ebb and flow
To bang your fists repeatedly
Against beautiful shores
You can never call home

This is the way that it feels
To be an old and run down house
Slated for demolition
To be a silent vessel
For broken stairs
And memory . . .
The peeling paint
And crumbling edifices
To stand out unpretty
In a line of painted homes
With manicured lawns
To have people
Glance side ways at you
And quicken their walk
As they pass

This is the way that it feels . . .
To be broken into
To be used
To be pissed on
To be forgotten
To be in the way
To be abandoned
To be condemned

This is the way that it feels
To try to stand tall among people
When you are falling apart

This is the way that it feels
To wear metaphors
Like dress-up clothes
Because the Truth
Is too naked

This is the way that it feels
To use the inanimate world
As a mirror to see yourself
Because you can not
Find yourself
Among people


Posted: May 5, 2011 in Uncategorized


When I was nine years old my Daddy kicked in the door to my room and pointed his gun at me.

Later he said he didn’t remember doing it.  Luckily for him, the drugs and alcohol had taken him some place far away.

I used to try to get myself far away too.  I read a lot and daydreamed.  I hoped one day my mother would really take me away.  She didn’t.  So I did my best to remove myself.  Stayed in my room and barely spoke.

It didn’t work.  I was there that night and I remember everything.

I remember how he was naked from the waist down and how I was as shocked and scared to see his penis as I was to see his gun.

I remember how he closed one eye to size me up, his target.  How I threw my Barbie comforter up in front of me as though it were a shield, still a child for a few more seconds.  Still, I knew better than to ask for help.

I remember how he told me he was just playing a game.  These are the kinds of games my parents played with me.

My childhood was over that night and in that way he pulled the trigger and killed me.  I was not the little girl I had once been, but I was not yet grown up either.

I stayed in that twilight limbo a very long time.  I went through the motions of growing up, but I was just serving my time.

I was still in limbo in high school when I barely spoke and had trouble making eye contact.  They called me ‘ugly’ and ‘freak’.  The teachers let them because that’s just what kids do.  I let them too because the teachers taught me better than to ask for help.

I was still there when I went to college and couldn’t stop crying.  Unlike my father, I still remembered.  They told me to get over it.  They were young, privileged, and in pursuit of happiness.  They were hot on its tail and I was slowing them down with my stories.  They gerrymandered me out of their lives so that my voice lost its power.  They called this boundary setting.  Boundary setting. . . as though I had been a naughty child who needed a time out.

The therapists nodded and said ‘tell me more about that’ as though I were someone who had been taught to talk.  When I told them too much they locked me up.  They said it was for my own good.  My father used to say that too.

The Dr.s wrote prescriptions for my purgatory and I learned to swallow pills like they were my pride, like they were the silence being thrust down my throat.  I learned my lesson.  I knew so much better now than to ask for help.

Purgatory is quiet.  I hear the birds whistling and the passing of the traffic outside my widow.

Hell is where you go when you are hated.

Purgatory is where you are sent when nobody gives a shit, not even God.

I have surrendered my belief in God, mankind, and A Reason for All Things.

I am here paying for someone else’s sins.

I was too young to be Saved.

These words are a message in a bottle so that some stranger on a distant shore might wonder who I was.

But I know better than to ask for help.


Honest to Blog

Posted: May 4, 2011 in Uncategorized

Yeah, I got that from Juno.  Interestingly the screenplay was written by someone who got their start blogging, but I digress.

I don’t actually know that much about blogging, and to be honest (this is a blog after all) I’m woefully unnetworked, especially considering the fact that I am a twenty-something.  I hate Facebook and don’t even get me started on Twitter.  Even if I didn’t hate the creepy Big Brother intrusiveness of those sites, I still probably wouldn’t post a link to my blog there.

Am I weird that I don’t want anyone I actually know to see my blog, at least, not yet?  I want to be honest . . .really Honest with capital H.  I’ve had such a defecit of honesty in my life.   Who can be totally honest, completely themselves, when everyone they care about is watching?

It’s ok if no one reads this.  It’s actually kind of romantic that way.  Like being a teenage girl with a diary and a whole lot of secrets no other human could possibly understand all over again.

I do spend time reconnecting with my inner 14 year old.  She needs a lot of attention.

Honestly, blog, I don’t have any real friends.  It’s a long story.  I’m sure I’ll get into it all one of these days.

So what is it that I’m afraid of?


Searching . . .

Posted: May 4, 2011 in Uncategorized

Where are you?

The weird ones?  The ones who have to play a part to be wanted?

I’d like to shake your hand and introduce myself, but my fingers are cut raw from all the mosaics I have tried to make from brokenness.  Is it art yet?

Show me something beautiful.  Give me a sign.

The truth is I’m looking for you.

I want to tell you everything, like you’re my lover or therapist.  Except, because you can’t see me, I can reveal myself completely.

I’m looking for connection over my wireless.  Isn’t that why the Internet was invented?  So we can all play games of hide-and-go-seek and know that someone, somewhere, will find us?

Tag.  You’re It.