Dominion

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Sometimes the truth is too hard and brittle and must be snapped into pieces to become palatable and even still gets stuck in your teeth then your throat and cuts holes in you and it works its way through your system. Perhaps it was safer to keep it whole. But still, the corners were sharp. And how uneven was this truth shape? Where was the symmetry? You harboured such distant thoughts that were withheld for such a time until you felt it appropriate. Sin by omission but never dishonesty. I, however, ate the fruit and spat it out. I told you it wasn’t me, and I picked up the chewed rot off the forest floor, tried to feed it to you and convince you it was a balm to soothe your aching throat. It ached as though scratched raw with the words you refused to scream. How I longed for you to scream them. I told you a story that was true. And then a story that was not true. And yet, both were the truth, this smashed truth, pasted together with a shimmering glue that reflected unto us both the shiniest and best moments so that we did not notice the dirt in the grooves. I wanted happiness, but it was just out of reach. You had happiness in the moments that were not mine. You found it in the trees and the light and I tried to share it. But my piece was too big. You said: you can’t have that and eat it too. But that’s what I wanted. Was I selfish or were you ignorant? Was I ignorant or were you selfish? I will tell you a story that is true. I will tell you the story that is not true. I am a sadist, a masochist and seek the pain within existence if only to share it with another, such that misery loves company. I am whole and good and rejoice in the wondrous gains of others who have worked hard to display their glory. I am jealous. I am not envious. I wandered through willow branches and bead curtains until I came to the counter with the jars. There were so many jars. Which one do I choose? What does it contain? Pass me the one I am not allowed to have. I will drink to my purposeful demise. I will break until my pieces are contained in this vessel, and I will let you find the truth – if there is one.

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Mother wit

Does my son mourn for the loss of his mother?
What does unconditional love feel like
When the expectations stacked so high
to build the tallest straw man,
hollow man,
beautiful appearance man,
a college man,
a student man,
a want-to-make-you-proud man,
addicted-to-the-drama man,
so do you miss your mama, man?
Which one do you miss, man?
Shall I call you son instead?
Or would that be weird after we wed?

Wanted you for me, man,
and wished you were a soul mate.
One of many, fighting fate.
Guess we lost and it’s too late.
Unless you’d like to really wait.
And prove you’ll never give up, man.
No one wants the weak man, sad man.
Should you fight the man, man,
then we’ll see your goals and plan, man.
Show your passionate side, man.
That’s how you’ll be defined, man.
Not by some weird past, okay?

My son, I can’t be your mom anymore.
I’ve always fucking hated chores.
You think I always get my way, son?
All my battles easily won, son?
Could not be further from the truth, son.
So many times I’ve given up my fun, son.
I wish I could make you better, man.
But you must give it all you got, man.
Seize your moment, man.
Choose your battles, man.
You’ll be all right, man.
Don’t mourn the loss of your mother, man.
She never was a mother, man.
Didn’t know how to raise one
that was older than she. And she was old already.
Life not over yet, working forever.

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

The middle name in a house, in a home,
shrouded in dark secrets and contrived plots.
And the second, third, and fourth:
they were not mothers and you could not be their father.
Fairy tale spells and timeless norms could not be applied!
Nice try, man.
Know what to give up, man.
It’s not your life, man.
It’s the chains, man. The fears, man.

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

Stop chanting, man.
Quiet your mind, man.
Don’t give up, man.
Evolve, man.
Already-proved-yourself man.
Just-believe-in-yourself man.
Ignore all else, man.
Good luck, man.

Commemorative Dream >Landscape<

Here – I can meet you somewhere after we fall
Asleep. Somewhere with blue sky, warm air, hot sand between your toes,
Pooling waves, refreshing and cool, your refuge from the heat and hundreds of tide
Pools dot the beach, each one waiting for exploration and discovery.
Yes! Each one is different than the last. You haven’t worry for comforts – Here.

Air. The weather is kind and the evening breeze rocks your hammock gently.
Now. Warm skin pressed against yours takes the shiver from your spine.
Need. You can wrap your arms around space, more than air. Solid. Grounding.
Insecurity. Leave this place in your dreams. Do give yourself time to sleep and dream.
Vice. And do not be haunted. Far worse could befall you. But it won’t.
Ecstasy. Let your senses come alive to the sound of the waves, and the sting of the salt,
Roil. Turbulent wind rousing flesh to dune as the course sand piles.
Sun blinds you in day. The darkness curls around you at night.
And tonight when your eyes are closed, you can set your intention to the beach.
Rest. Do not miss the sunset, the sunrise, and a better day.
Yes! You deserve it. Come Here.

O Little One

You don’t want me to hold myself up on my own, but you hate the way I fall apart. A tantrum, you call it. You name it childish. I have held my own from the time I was a child. So, call me childlike. All it means to me is fierce independence and freedom from the laws that bind you and the anxiety that claws your back at night.

I owe you naught, I know you not

You are so far away from me now

You no longer read my mind

You no longer read my body

You have lost my words, my telling

You have lost whispers in your ear
of love and stories that acknowledge your belonging

You have lost my smile, my lips

You have lost my strong arms, soft fingertips,
my dirty nails

You have lost my laughter and my loud voice

You have lost my loyalty and devotion

You cannot speak the language of love to another until
you have spoken it to yourself

Maybe some will believe what they hear, but not I

You have lost the ability to box me into an
idea of normal, an idea of what is expected

You have lost me.

How it Feels to Miss You

I have gone on a trip
I made the plans, bought the tickets
I arrange the accommodations, facilities
No return date, but there is one.

Butterscotch sundae, sticky sweet, stomach ache
On Wednesday, Hump Day, steamrolled day,
forever stained sheets and shirts day,
carried in my bag – one a curse. It’s tears-day.

Missing is a scoop. A hole. An absence.
(Craves absinthe. Craves death.)
Missing isn’t action, but impact.
(Craves symbolism. Fucks regret.)

Carved. I am written with new stories,
more than utterances. These were words
and promises. They held weight but not water.
They were true. They are not true.

Nail clipping, stabbed through sock
ring-stained tub with purple walls
I cannot speak I cannot talk
choked by fervour, crushed by wrath.

Missing is the longing, the yearning
the searching, the dredging, the scouring.
(Oh how many things you’ll find,
but none is that which you seek.)

I am filled with oxymoron,
emphasis on feeling moronic.
Flip flopping and flying and diving
Aerobatic stunts pulled through lusting language.

Don’t stop this pain of endless rhetoric
round my mind and round it goes
a cyclical spiral of memory grows
–how the good times use to flow!

Missing is the angel from a nightmare
(an unsuspecting victim)
Missing is the webs from all the spiders
(and my indecision to call you)

A wondrous passionate feeling of lightness and happiness
that spread itself out between my shoulders across my chest
has been replaced by a pressing, pinching, tightening weight
that comes in a tidal wave with each reminder of loss

Any song that speaks of love shapes and heart beats
threatens me with a pain so deep and cutting
the only way I can survive is to focus on it
wholly and fully and thank the universe for giving

Missing is a rollercoaster ride with an unexpected turn
It’s repeating seven stages seven times and seven times again.
(Some days are so happy that I forget there has ever
been a moment of tragedy in life – how I love that!)

me an opportunity to radiate a strength I hate
remembering I have. For the threshold turns
upon itself and births a hurricane not disguised
gloom in a heart, scary to contain such dark places

I am confused by the simplest situations.
Why the warm bath water feels cold.
Why the best songs process painfully off key
How I am no longer anchored, officially come to form. Air.

Hard. Hot. Husky. Hushed. Voices. Whisper. Push. Shoved.
The game we played, all too often, not enough
Upward, Downward, Cold to Ice. Frozen Tundra
lacking Nice. But oh so beautiful and Vast. Untouched
landscape. Escaping Fast.

Missing you is remembering that I crea-
ted the moments of magic that I loved.
(You fit so perfectly I miss you too
but most of all I miss the me I was.)

So though I long for the return trip,
I don’t have the money nor the armor
nor the capacity to rise to the challenge
just yet, though I drool at the lips

Ripened peach, juicy squeeze
water flows, between your knees
from out your eyes, your poured-out heart
No tact and function, we’ve fucked the art.

Missing is a scoop. A hollow under my breast.
A tiny chip from my front tooth. A sunrise in the west.
Some days I feel I’ll miss you until my last breath.
But I can only miss you until your memory’s death.

I have gone on a trip.
I have made the plans, mapped the route.
I cannot stop moving; feel in constant pursuit.
I keep travelling this hard life if only to find truth.

Goodbye.
Goodbye.
I miss you.
I miss you.