i’m waiting
until i can’t feel
your fingers
hoping they will stop
sliding down
my body
i’m hoping
that some day —real soon
i’ll shed the last
of the skin
that you touched
i’m ready for the day
when you don’t come up at all
when i don’t even
remember your name
much less,
your touch
i’m looking forward to
what my reality looks like
without you in it
when you’re not even a thought
barely a memory
p e a c e at last
caverns near san diego, ca with family
the memories left etched into my skin
are the only ones I’m sure to remember
when I’m pissing on that fire
or riding faster than I should
at least I know—this is happening
i am real because I am alive
when the engine cuts out
or I run over that nail
my heart sinks
that’s the last thing I feel
back into the hazy glow of my memory bank
my feelings storing themselves away into secret little spots all over my body
instantly questioning the validity of my experience
seeking out only those experiences that are rare unbelievable to begin with
my whole existence feels unbelievable to me
as if it were happening to someone else
i’m having trouble remembering who I am
what do I care about?
because too often when I think back about my own life
all I hear are other people’s voices
when I write about my experiences I feel pressure to tell the truth—
the whole truth and nothing but the truth
[[so help me!! GOD]]
that’s when I used to stop writing
for fear of accidentally bending the truth
due to the automatic predictions of my brain
i can’t always say what the truth is
because I’ve always lived in an alternate dimension—a separate reality
i may not be the truth bearer,
but I surely know the truth of my own reality
please stop calling my name— I hear it echoing in the empty spaces between us
it snaps me back so fast
sometimes I forget to breathe
I am a slow creature, existing outside of time
for me, every hour holds equal potential to the last
a minute just as potent as a month
talk to me about time after you’ve experienced
every single second in a 24 hour day
with bloodshot eyes
clarity of mind unparalleled
in the short cycles of time we refer to as days
are my days still days if they drag on
into the night and endlessly on into more days?
under the cover of darkness, I am all that I can see
all that I can imagine
i close my eyes, but I don’t dream
i travel, trailing along through the oft dark & stormy
skies behind these eyes
gliding through different universes
uncovering my subconscious
i exist in another plane,
yet still somehow still within this one
in between dreams is where I plant my reality
never truly asleep, never truly awake
swimming in the ether above,
as I slip between the cosmos
every night wandering back to my Cimmerian roots
of shadows, fog, silence
please remember that I am transitioning between worlds
even if only when the stars are shining (
( ( they never stop )) )
please, allow my name
to rest with my body
foraging eucalyptus for my passion project floral hangings
the eucalyptus bark strips itself
repurposing it’s dead skin as the forest floor
never weeping for what is lost
nature always deals in trades
who are we to believe we are exempt
from the energetic contract of the universe
Our bodies share in the wisdom of the earth
Because that is where we originate; we are of the soil
Is this body not just a synergistic mashup of the elements?
Propelled by sparks of electricity, nourished by all things transformational
Every breath its last until the next one comes
The earth ready to soak her back into it’s womb when it doesn’t
What if death is not the grief and sorrow we have always envisioned?
Our bodies are here, borrowing matter and energy from the universe to exist
I feel the truth of that under my skin and in my bones
When I am still with the earth I feel her wisdom, her gentle nurture
The earth is a patient, loving mother
She sacrifices herself so that we may practice living
Ever gentle with us, despite our constant thrashing of her
She knows that learning takes time, so she stands ever present in her revolutionary wisdom, even as she shows symptoms of our callous and greedy mistreatment
She speaks to us in the language of our bodies, in whispers and sensations, teaching us that we find ourselves in the soft spoken moments of reverence
And when we ignore her she speaks to us in benevolent violence, just as our bodies do
In the end, we’re all borrowing our lives from the ones that have passed before us
It is only right that we do our best to live well, and at some point to return our constituent elements better than we found them
Therein lies the selflessness of death, surrendering your vessel to be broken down to become the rudiments of all life, once again
Death is an ending, but perhaps not such an egregious one as we always imagined
Since it is only through death that new life can emerge
a morning in the first truck i lived in
I love the stories that are told through our messes—
though little specs of sticky tar on the sheets
slightly darker spots of joyous filth stained into the foot of the bed
the neat, tiny piles of sand that walked itself in between my toes
telling of beach days, bare feet, hot pavement
The calm green highlighter marks,
subtly violet, speckly blueberry smudges
barely there drips of coffee and blood on the creamy linen duvet
chocolate stains on the pillows—
speaking to me of sleepless nights, soothing the soul with the littlest of life’s pleasures
whispering about the mornings that follow after
barely holding it together
absentmindedly sipping a creamy cuppa
warm liquid dripping slowly down my chin
they tell me about afternoons wide awake
head spinning with the thrill of new thoughts to hold onto
new dreams to explore
curled up in the twisted sheets leftover from disjointed mornings
sheets that obtain the last remnants of lingering pain
from the unexpected pregnancy
that I begged my body to release as my only wish on my 29th birthday
reminding me that wishes may come true
even if they din’t give me time to make it to the toilet
before the grainy gush of hot blood poured out of me dripping on everything it shouldn’t
pooling on the far side of the bed, a welcome, if not gruesome tide
an accidental image taken as i sat on the window sill of our moving truck trying to capture the creatures in the road, and the dog took it upon herself to try to jump out the window after them, nearly taking me with her
I love the ripples and creases in a messy bed
the textures of the textiles carefully chosen with sweet dreams in mind
with heavy glass beaded sleeping masks to sooth heavier eyes
I love the feel, the aroma of slightly snagged silky black pillowcases
whose fibers hold all the salt my body wouldn’t
my tears, my feverish sweat, my midnight crumbs
I love the peanut butter cup smooshed into the dark grey linen fibers
in the middle of the bed at the height of my back
slowly transferring onto each costume change throughout the week
the stories that are told through our messes
are the stories that build the sensory narratives of our lives
the mistakes they’re made up of
wrapping our humanity in tiny, imperfect bows
I always thought I would regret the messes
mask them, scrub them out of existence
I always thought I wouldn’t want to remember the times
when I was weak, vulnerable, existing out of necessity
not purpose, not pleasure
sugar free campfire ribs after driving to canada to see brand new
Now that I’m here, seeing the truest version of my life I’ve ever beheld
i’m thinking what a miracle
these messes have imprinted themselves like cave paintings
in all the parts of my world I always thought were insignificant
i’m thinking what a miracle
that these are the messes i love the most
for these are the messes that remind me who i am
All of a sudden I understand negativity in a flash
it was never mine
it was yours
which is why i couldn’t hold it
it didn’t belong in my world
replacing the wheel bearings // truck troll
because i saw pain, not negativity
I saw hurt—
I saw anguish—
I saw a raw human soul.
you said,
“but that is negativity !
i know because it hurts me to look at !
it pains me to see.”
by that logic
pain must be wicked
negative—
destructive—
because it fucking hurts !
it stabs.
“it can drown you,” you tell me
i counter,
just because a thing is destructive
does not make it villainous
is it not a greater act of kindness
to demolish a structure
that no longer stands on its own ?
to tear it down
so that it can be built anew
afresh
a-free
is it not more hateful
to allow it to s l o w l y d i s s o l v e
itself + everything it touches ?
because every structure
requires support
is it not more vile
to steal opportunity of new life
for f e a r
of negativity ?
you said,
“i don’t want to find the strength
because i’m still reveling in my weakness,
in my pain.
i hide it, even from myself
because i f e a r
that my pain is too much already.”
you said,
“i must call it n e g a t i v i t y
because anything else shatters the illusion.
the illusion
of p a i n l e s s n e s s
that I hold
d e a r e r
than i hold myself.”
I couldn’t understand it until now
because to me
pain is not n e g a t i v i t y
negativity can be excruciating
painful, yes
but negativity is what you get
when you d e m o n i z e pain
negativity is the overwhelm
when you refuse
t o h o l d y o u r s e l f
when you refuse
to let yourself
b e c u r i o u s
because you’re afraid
of your own p o w e r
of your own m i g h t
of your own v u l n e r a b i l i t y
so you shame mine.
because you believe
it will help contain yours !
to shove it in the darkened corner
with t h e b i g s c a r i e s
where spiders build
towering webs
around your dark secrets
further cementing
the wooziness
of t h e b i g s c a r i e s
the overwhelm
of the blanket of shame
that you believe to be
your invisibility cloak
i can’t see it your way because in the past i have tried
& in a brief flash
i knew my life would be over
my alive would have no chance
of ever returning
camping on a beach in utah alone under the stars
if i chose your way
if i had accepted your definition
that you forged
in f e a r ,
abandonment of self,
& d i s g u s t
at the dirt in your own mirror.
my pain is not negativity
my pain is my power
or at least, a crucial part of it
my pain
can sometimes
even create
your m i r r o r
it will not be ignored
it will not be swept aside
not for your false comfort
not for your judgmental misappropriations
not for your world
in my world, the world i choose
the world i build
for myself
[ and for you, too ]
my pain will be felt
like the thousands of daggers it is
my pain will be h o n o r e d
for the generations it has survived
my pain will be s e e n
for the cuts, wounds, and punctures it inflicts
and my pain will be h e l d
like the tiny child who often experiences it
because when i am cut
the darkness o o z e s out
demanding a container
because when it is held properly,
as it very much demands to be,
i t t r a n s f o r m s
with l i g h t left in its wake
light that pierces
light that enmeshes
light that binds
light that moves the pain
to its proper resting place
in this place
i do not see my bruises
as wounds
i cannot
because they are healing
beautifully betrayed by their coloring
poetically guided by their p a t t e r n s
& fucking p a i n f u l to the touch
but they heal nonetheless
at their pace
the pace
ordained
by my own body
i know of their healing
only because
i endeavored to learn
the language
of anguish
i cannot see it as negativity
i won’t
i refuse
because i see it
as l i f e
life a b u n d a n t
life u n a p o l o g e t i c
life lived in color
is never truly appreciated by anyone
until you’ve experienced, firsthand
life lived in the transparency
the depth
of the m o n o c h r o m e
of the big scaries that will begin to seem so smol
for these reasons and more
I couldn’t understand your view
because it was not mine
it was only for you
it was a shrine
to the power you give away
because you don’t see it as power
because
you’ve enlisted the wrong definitions
to label y o u r s e l f
& your life
sometimes chasing all the right things
still leads you down the straight & narrow
yet, how utterly b o r i n g & unimaginative it is
to walk a straight line all your life
my ‘treehouse’ feat. good friend
in lieu of your fearful view
i implore you
to try living each day
e m b o d y i n g
just one color
just one shade
before you try
to meld them all together
as i have done
i did the w o r k
of understanding
your s i d e
does not equal
m i n e
that your side has a function
that i hope, for your sake
is short lived
‘but it can drown you,’ you once said
“only
when you’re not c a r e f u l
only
when you’re not r e s p e c t f u l
only
when you don’t h o l d i t . ”
i finally muster the courage
to say back.
try to tell me that it is not better
that it is still negativity
just try it
then tell me
i dare you.