Flattened crow from a few days ago

April 17, 2014

Flattened crow
On the sidewalk
Entrails out
I shudder
as death disturbs suburbia

Blush wine the intestines
shimmer
My gut shivers
Microorganisms in my system recognize the death of a host
Mourn their fallen comrades

Or instinctual aversion and fascination for gore
Fear of the vulnerability of the body

Shock

I don’t usually encounter such frank corpses
I have my meat killed for me these days

Another revulsion

Strides after the actual crow
The image is still frozen in my mind
death comes for us all
Any place
Anytime

Morbid thoughts
For dull weather

Anonymous bird
drenched in the rain
never to fly home
played Russian roulette
with the tires
one time too many

This cruel fate screams symbolism for a seedy underbelly in this city
Which may or may not exist

After all
Reality is often what you choose to believe

There are sparkles in my benzagel.

April 17, 2014

There are sparkles in my benzagel. My adult acne – I mean, my over the hill, bacteria on my face rage fest, subject to hormonal fluctuations and stress, has a glitter stripper sheen. (There is never enough hormonal roller coasters or dense stress parties in my life. Please send me more.) Every red dot is screaming, “Look at me! Aren’t I sooooo pretty!” Sigh. I could wash this off but chances are, more flecks of disaster would appear upon reapplication. This whole process feels like a ritual, only someone keeps tossing candy pink sparkles on my voodoo doll. You’d think they’d move onto needles by now, but my torturer is subtle and insidious. I may burn down the world due to a smattering of fucking glitter. Or I may not. I may rebel and say, “My lesions are worthy entities deserving of respect and individuality. If my acne wants to wear sparkles then who am I to force societal expectations upon them and say no?” Or the rebellion may be (is) based on plain ‘ol laziness. No matter the cause, I have glitter in my benzagel.

Home for a spell

April 10, 2014

You speak with a kind of certainty that’s rare
In this world
And I’m under your spell

For we all want a place called home
It’s calls us from in our hearts
No place else we want to go
And if we’re not there now
We sure as hell
Long for home

Yeah
You speak like you feel
what you sell
I’ve got some free time
So what the hell

I’ve always been dazzled by the thought of fate
Always been told of my soulmate

Yeah
You seem so strong in your belief
That’s its a welcome relief
To let go for awhile
And just keep
Holding your hand in mine
For a time

Whether forever is just sitting on a feather
only time can tell
But you seem to believe what you sell

Fingers like wings expand
You take my hand
And we can fly together
The sky seems so much bigger
When shared

So much bluer

The sunset
So much truer
To the colour of the blood pumping in my veins

Yeah
I gotta tell you
I feel you
Care for you
You’ve got me transfixed

But most of all
Your pitch has worked so well
I will
Invest for some rest
In a
Home for a spell

so rare comes the softness of kind words

April 9, 2014

So rare come the soft whispered words of kindness that I can feel the flush of gratitude when they are said by a fictional character (NPC) to a character I am playing in a game. A completely artificial setting causes a reaction of natural emotion within me. I am not my avatar but I feel the appreciation to be my own. There is little to no distinction.

Is it the rarity of sincere unguarded human kindness that I should sway for something not entirely real? I mean besides the necessity of excellent writing.

A video game is more than a movie or a book in that you are a/the participating protagonist affecting dramatically the course of events in the game world. There is also the acceptable and inevitable effect upon yourself because of the role playing. You become less a person working 40 hours + a week, with a mortgage and spouse, children; and more a central heroic figure in an exhilarating story in some fantastical setting complete with deep forged bonds of friendship/love. These fictional people you become attached to and fond of.

Do I care for the NPCs because of the safety in the belief that these inanimate conjurations can never change their affections? They simply cannot leave me. They are there when I power them up without fail (save power failure or corruption on the disc). They are as constant as the sunrise. They are programmed to never stray from me (unless they are secretly a villain).

And what harm could come of a human who felt loved even if the love orchestrated was an artificial thing?

Shouldn’t that human be more likely to succeed and less likely to self-sabotage once they felt confident and secure?

Shall, in the future, our nannies be perfectly programmed to instil in us a sense of confidence so that we may be able to take on the world without fear or shame or doubt and a solid sense of our self worth? Shall our nannybots ensure our compassion for others is weighed as heavily in a fundamental upbringing?

What would the world be like without the harm done by the frailties of human egotism?

What would the world be like when you could never feel abandoned? Never feel worthless? If you always felt loved?

What would we be like if artificial affection was deemed a valid and acceptable source of connection?

Would we be able to program a machine to teach us to love ourselves and others?

Would we want to?

we live forever

April 9, 2014

we live short lives afire
cut down by any number of random things

we are by nature
fragile mortal beings

but we are immortal in the hearts we leave behind

we live on in the thoughts and minds

we speak in the deeds done in memory of us

we live forever in the love that goes on after us
because of us

Remote wanderer

March 30, 2014

the infinitely changeling landscapes
flickering before me
as I stand on barren tundra
a vast horizon before me

I am torn between staying where I am and moving forward
there is no salvation in sight

restless state

change the channel
press the button
find something alluring enough to quiet the mind again

I am a remote wanderer
until I find a 60 minute home again

salt tossed

March 24, 2014

salt tossed across wet cement steps
snow ceased falling
melts across dashed asphalt
puddles form

bonds of hydrogen and oxygen expand upon cooling
precipitation freezing in the ambience of shortly below zero

third day of spring
forecasts of snow into May
there is a hint of warmth in the cold breeze
there are spots of wet leaves in plumes of sooty snow banks

it will thaw eventually
but there’s a quiet fear in me
caused by this extended bitter weather

it will thaw eventually
but what if someday it did not

what if they are right
while we are too busy in the now to ever think of the after

someday the snow will thaw as it has forever

but what if
someday
because of us

what if
someday it did not

would we go back to worshipping the sun instead of ourself?
would we survive the next man made disaster?

would the snows last as long as the dust drifted back in the Great Depression?

would we all fly south forever?

What if the salt strewn across ice
is the familiar sight
in late March
til may
Through July
On into September

until the salt ran out

this year the snow will melt
but someday
it may not

because of us too busy in the now to ever consider the after

stream of consciousness (14/02/22)

February 22, 2014

I see you in the uv hues
pink skin
in the heat sensors
brilliant red heart pounding
deep blue jeans
running
scared to death and searching for
home

Homed in on you
in the fog of war
glistening green
in the night vision
no place to hide
I wish it was colder
so I could see your
crystallized breathe
appear on screen
I want to know more of you

love is 9/10ths
possession
and obsession
I want more of this

hate is 9/10ths
obliteration
and I will erase you

wish I had a crystal
to break down
what part of the spectrum
you fit in
I want to know you better

I want to be able to predict
how you and I
best fit together
without the
drama
without the trauma
of separation

could give a fuck
about the unconditional
the acceptance of it all
I am barely surviving
the snipers
have a fix on me
and I’ve got you
square centre
pull the trigger
and you’re mine

I want you
mounted
stuffed
atrophied
on my wall of trophies

I want you
skinned knees
and blood pumping
as you give in
I want you to beg for surrender

until then

I got you up on the monitor
sensors
measuring

always watching
always waiting

ANTICIPATION

The drones humming from far above

one split decision
air strike
collision
acceptable casualties

dissection of decisions
dissolvable responsibilities
on the other side of a screen
disassociation of humanity
absolvable guilt

better a quick war
than a stalemate
better a mushroom cloud
than a loss

better a whirring machine
and bombs from above
than the loss of life

these wars we fight are never ending

I want this to be over
I want to know you better than you’d ever know yourself
I want to push your buttons
Until you make a mistake
I want to be there and tear you apart
limb from limb
and be sure that you’ll never come back again

winning is everything
I shall know you better and see myself
you eyes meet mine in the drone’s camera
soul mates we are
I will remember
you in your absence
from a place in history
in the silent whispers
of the atomic winds
and wonder what different course
of the multiple strings
if you lived would it have been me to die
does any of this make the world better
does it soothe the pride
does it cease the corpses piling

for a little while a victory
a calm celebration
a drink to soothe the nerves
a series of actions to find the bottom of the bottle
to kill the deepest wells of self

for a little while the price is too high
but then the anger swells
and nothing to quell the beast
inside me

I want you
mounted and stuffed and put on my wall
I want you out of the equation
I want to go home and know
safety
I want to rest

the eyes open
there is no time
no time in this race
in this space
this spinning orb
where we have had a peace
all encompassing

ashes to ashes
dust to dust-

the worlds on fire
button pushed
and now there’s time to sleep
the atomic winds
bring
sweet salvation
rest
for once

ashes to ashes
dust to dust

Relay: Chapter Two

February 21, 2014

(If you’ve missed chapter one, you can find it here.)

(This story contains violence, nudity, coarse language, and mature subjects. Reader discretion is strongly advised.)

After the Grey: Currently

Her eyes were closed; her eyelids fluttered as she recalled the dream.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she had said.

“It’s time,” came his reply.

“No. We had a deal.”

“You told me to give this to you..”

It had to have been a dream. No one should have been able to reach her that far out.

A dream. Yes. That was all it was.

She opened her eyes to find herself stepped down out of the neutral relay. No one ever used this one. It existed from the times before the division between the government and the veil. It was located in an old motel on the riverfront: room 13. Used to be owned by a retired reporter Daniel Bach. When he went missing and part of the place burnt down, Daniel’s brother had a relay built in hopes that they could find Daniel with it. First and last privately owned relay. The Architect went missing after that. Rumour had it he is holes up in the Dominion’s dream prison; locked up tight.

She couldn’t remember whether Daniel was ever found.

Room 13 was decorated in velvet stripes and modern tastes at one time; only now in its abandoned state the room had gone to rot. The windows were boarded up long ago to keep out the dust. The bed removed and some ratted chairs strewn around the room. The whole place seemed of mould.

She remembered the dream and reached down to touch the necklace dangling on her chest: a gleaming silver Möbius strip with a blue gem inset within.

Her face grew tight with regret. Her heart heavy with grief as she said, “I wasn’t ready to go.”

A tear fell down her cheek. She touched the wetness: she had forgotten what it felt like to cry. She had been gone a long time. So long a time.

She shivered. She wasn’t wearing much, just a white undershirt and a pair of boy shorts. Coming home was always a cold endeavour. The Grey had swallowed the suns years before she was born and now it was always freezing. No place like home.

The voice from the dream she knew so well it haunted her replayed in her mind.

“Don’t say it,” her dream self had begged.

“We are bound soul to soul, you and I. You are never alone.”

“I’m not ready,” Orleans repeated out loud.

Slightly muffled from outside in the hall, came footsteps and voices steadily approaching.

She came to her senses and quickly faded out of sight back into the embrace of the relay.

Two men dressed in jump suits stepped into the room.

* * *

The well dressed Bartender wiped his bar down with a soft white cloth. A radio played behind him softly filling the room with music. There were few patrons in the bar as it was still early. The lights dimly set in the high ceilings barely casting shadows. The windows as always boarded up, the glass having been blown out of them years ago.

The Bartender rolled up his sleeves revealing intricately detailed tattoos on his forearms. His concentration on ridding the wood finish of a particularly sticky stain was broken by something he heard.

“Shh,” he whispered to the patrons sitting loudly discussing something nearest to the bar.

“What is it, Swain?” asked one of them.

Swain ran his fingers through his silver and grey hair messing up his neat slick. He shook his head then turned the volume up. “Did I seriously hear that right?”

“Breaking news this hour: the Dominion and the Sector of the city known as the veil, have finally reached a landmark deal which will end what Minister Providence has labeled ‘the single biggest threat to the repopulation efforts’.

‘Leaders of both parties inked out a deal late this morning to officially ban any and all forms of time travel.

‘In a statement given this afternoon at a press conference, Minister Victoria Providence declared the truce a ‘momentous occasion that will unite two great powers towards protecting our fragile repopulation efforts in this post apocalyptic world. Never again will any of our citizens have to fear the disruption or chaos that unregulated time travel terrorists can cause.’

‘John Hunter leader of the Veil Sector is declining public comment on these stunning turn of events.

‘Now here’s Jill Taylor with the weather report: ‘it will be dry with a chance of drifting dust, high of -’”

Swain turned down the radio. “Well I’ll be damned.” The faces of the patrons were blank. Swain’s left eyebrow raised on its own accord as he wiped his hands and discarded the bar cloth. Drying his hands on his white apron.

His lips were tightly set as he said, “Hope everyone got home or somewhere safe before they shut it all down.”

* * *

“I am the shadows of an empire. I have no name. I am the aftermath of all civilization. I am the Dust of what remains.” (Dust, Cell 145, unknown date)

Oswald the Third had a terrible habit of jumping on the kitchen counters and it vexed Mr. Bishop to no end. No matter how many times he swatted that damn cat off the counters, every morning there Oswald was.

“Get down, Old Man,” snapped Mr. Bishop as he pushed the cat gently down. “Remember your manners, now.”

He opened the refrigerator and retrieved some milk to pour into Oswald’s bowl. The cat purred happily and lapped at the offering.

Mr. Bishop poured some more milk into his own coffee mug and put it away back into the fridge. He sat down at the little yellow Formica and chrome table. Before him was a grand spread for breakfast, including buttered toast with the crusts cut off. He took a slice and spread some orange marmalade over it.

These are the good days; the days of home; the days of regularity; the days of your own bed at night;and of sunshine in your mouth for breakfast. None of that cheap artificially flavoured crap they peddle as marmalade. No, Mr. Bishop preferred the real stuff hand made by his neighbour Marjorie who lived near the park.

A satisfied smile grew across his face. He looked out his kitchen window to the busy street. The school bus was picking up the young ones. The other cars were waiting patiently.

Of all the places he’d ever been to, and he’d been to plenty, Mr. Bishop preferred this quiet little part of Ottawa, where the world seemed little changed by the ravaging effects of time. He was very tired of travelling.

A knock came at the door. Mr. Bishop hadn’t seen anyone walk up. “Who is it?” He called through the slightly opened window.

No one answered and the knock came again. Mr. Bishop realized the knock was coming from across the house at the backdoor.

He rose and walked through his unused dining room into the sitting room that looked out on his own little patch of fence and grass. There on the other side of the sliding patio door was a sheepish looking Lucas Phelps dressed for business in a sleek black suit with a steel grey dress shirt. Two shiny silver pins decorated Lucas’ collar. He was carrying a black leather briefcase with silver accents.

“Lucas?” Mr. Bishop opened the door. “It’s a bit early for a walk don’t you think? On your way to work are you?” He started back for the kitchen and Lucas followed.

“Is it early? I just got back yesterday.”

Mr. Bishop sat back down to his breakfast. “Oh, I see. Jet lag then?” He motioned for Lucas to take the other seat. “Would you like a coffee? It’s a fresh pot. Help yourself.” He slathered another slice of toast with marmalade and bit in.

Lucas went over to the window and stood looking out at the passing traffic. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night and I’m still wired. How have you been, Bishop?”

“Pretty well for an old guy.” Mr. Bishop finished his toast and wished he could lick his fingers. He wiped them on a napkin and furrowed his brow at his uninvited guest instead.

“Make any trips lately?” asked Lucas as he went to the coffee-pot directly behind Mr. Bishop.

“Not too many no. I get too tired for anything more than waking to the park.”

“Well get your coat on. I’ve got a little surprise.”

“Oh how nice. Let me finish my breakfast and we can be off. Where we going? The museum again? I liked the paintings.” Another slice of toast and more marmalade.

Mr. Bishop felt an arm come down around him from behind to hold him down. Before he could struggle he felt a cold needle prick his skin and something was injected into him. He tried to speak out but couldn’t say a word before slumping into his chair.

Lucas still having hold on Mr. Bishop, let him down gently to the floor.

He went back to the briefcase lying open on the kitchen counter next to a steaming cup of black coffee. He took a cautious sip of the bitter hot liquid. Mr. Bishop began to snore and Lucas smiled as he put down his mug.

From the case, he pulled out another syringe: this one was a little different. It had a silver disc inside a light blue gel like substance. Lucas tapped the syringe and examined it closely. When he saw a faint green light blinking, he walked back over to the sleeping Mr. Bishop and injected the disc into the old man’s arm.

Mr. Bishop’s cat stared at the proceedings with his large intense green eyes. Lucas stood up and pet the cat. “He’s okay,” Lucas found himself comforting the animal.

The cat growled and ran under the table continuing to stare.

Lucas took a sleek black device from his pocket and tapped the screen a few times until it read “sensors deactivated”. He returned the device to his pocket. From his collar he took one of his two matching silver pins and pinned it to Mr. Bishops shirt.

The cat jumped up to the window and began to claw at the glass. The scene of the passing traffic and the beautiful quaint neighbourhood hood flickered as the cat scratched madly. Lucas took one of the kitchen chairs and smashed the window to reveal a broken video screen.

He calmly put the chair back neatly as the alarms sounded and the room went black as the power was cut.

“The lengths they go to keep you here,” he said as he smoothed back a lock of his hair the had fallen into his eyes.

The cat hissed and ran off.

Lucas ran and grabbed the bag from the counter and pressed a button on the device from his pocket.

A bright light flashed in the room and the two men were gone before darkness fell again.

Walking Through your heart and soul. (Yes, I finally posted this damn thing, and maybe this time I’ll leave it up.)

January 29, 2014

I wrote this almost a year ago in a completely different state of mind. And no, it’s not about me. It was an imaginary journey of someone’s inner hell and what would it be like to explore it. I still feel like its unfinished but maybe not all things are meant to be completed entirely. Warning: It may be a little disturbing.

Walking Through your heart and soul. Arteries gone concrete sidewalks silently roll out for me to walk upon. Slick smooth tiles mosiaced of the eggshells we all walk on when we are around you. So perfect I can see my reflection in them.

Fingers frozen numb inside of the kid gloves I always wear when trying to reach you.

Eggshells everywhere. Touch one and they all explode. Predestined to from a state of mind set in a wounded frame years ago.

And every harsh word you now hear is filtered through tainted ears who only can hear the first hateful words ever spoken to you.

You had only known of sheltered love before that moment.

No one ever prepared you for the thorny throngs of the otherwise strangers. Who come intimately to destroy you. Knowing your every flaw before you’d ever had a hint of them yourself.

Now these anxious vultures come and pick up the letters and the phrases of hatred and recombine them to spell out war again. Spiralling in a maelstrom of feathers and wings upwards, they let go. These awful words repeatedly shredding the inside of you.

You have darned the resulting ulcers up like an old pair of socks. But the patches are rough and will only heal back up when you release the scavenging carrion from your familiar safety net. Until then you will bleed to death. Every chance you get. Vultures set to make you the suffering martyr again.

Bird of prey, you are perched upon the crux of every interaction waiting for the perfect moment to strike and redecorate yourself victim.

A broken bone would have healed years ago. But an eternal soul. We may never know if it heals. If ever at all.

Waiting on the other side of the road for the last bus out of this all too familiar hell are all those who come to help but secretly wish you’d get over yourself.

They may just return someday but you shouldn’t pay them a penny mindful. They are only tourists and their Polaroids of pain will be souvenir enough for them.

Let them go.

There’s no use chasing those who cannot help being runaways. Save your energy. You have other allies, including believe it or not yourself.

Take my hand and let’s talk. There’s no shame in the way you are. A wound is a wound is a wound whether you can see it or not.

Cobwebs cover the beauty in this place. These portraits of the past chokehold anything trying to grow in this kind of giftless present.

All the apologies you’ve ever made for your existence collect here trapped in the web of never forgetting and never forgiving. All nicely wrapped in the pristine cellophane of self esteem.

Billboards buzzing just over my head bombarding me with those age old eternity in a thirty second loop messages. Pain is a regift on a möbius strip. We are taught well to never hurt anyone else but ourselves to fit in.

Here lives your fear. And red maw of a mouth constantly screaming drowning all else out. Not many sane things live near fear. I pass by the black hole of the original wound. That devours all your pain and grows a deeper shade of abyssal.

And here’s the time you felt indestructible. Still exists behind these dusty velvet curtains that you’ve got roped off. You knew the trap door existed on your stage even before you fell through it. But you fell just the same. Kinda enjoyed the free fall, didn’t you?

You’ve locked your freedom up.

Like joy is something safe only in small doses. Like it’s important to never show off because to speak of good happenings makes them real. And to make them real is to jinx them. All real things die.

Hard as I try I know there’s no way for me to open the curtains for you. It’s your show, darling, and although it must go on, it cannot do so without you.

Ah the pain, the beautiful pain.

How bleak becomes the only palette we sometimes paint from. What were you thinking? You and the knife that was so thin. Do you even understand how fucking final dead is? Do not pass go. Do not go home. This isn’t a fucking game and you’re no tokened expectation. Dead is done. But in a split second sometimes the pain is too much. And rest sorely needed is not readily at hand in an inner war zone.

You just wanted to rest. Just wanted to sleep. Just wanted a moment of peace.

I don’t want a world without you. But I’m a selfish dick.

You hide that it ever happened well. You don’t want their eyes to flash when that revelation explodes inside their heads. Don’t want them to look at you differently. And they do look at you differently. Hush their voices so as to protect you but more likely to keep themselves from catching suicide.

No matter how hard you try, they do find out. And it’s not their fault really. They just recoiled from the shock and haven’t found a way back yet. A way to make the gulf up. A way to vocalize all the things loss makes them terrified of.

Give them time love.

Here’s the place you go when you feel most alone. I had to cross over a bridge of dissolving stone to get here. The wind cuts to the bone. And the island rock face sheer. There’s nothing out here. And no way to be reached or reach out here.

The wind cuts and slices and reveals the paper thin snowflake cutout you really are: loneliness in the negative space. Pervades. Permeates. Osmosis as the heaviness seeps in. A cloak enough to hide from those trying to get in. All emergency routes cut off by the shame you feel here. Run away. From this desolate place. Come with me please.

Where is the place from when you fell in love? I remember how animated your face was when you spoke of. Them.

Did you rip it dripping, bleeding off this unfinished canvas? Somewhere is there hidden stitches in your reality holding everything in? I feel like embroidering the hems with ivory flowers. And vine towers to reach you some where higher.

Does the absence of love haunt you still? Did it make you give up?

Here is where you played marbles as a kid and the pine needle castles you built in the tree roots. This is where you dream freely. Caught up in laying down in school yards arms intertwined with fast friends staring at the stars.

Why are there markings on these closed doors from when you hit them? Why are the chalk lines laying undisturbed in front of open passageways? What are these places inside of you where cannot go?

Someday you will be strong enough to venture further, and when you do I will be there holding your hand even if your palms get sweaty from fear. Trepidation doesn’t always forecast failure, just risk.

Here is your window on the world. Covered in oily pearlized tears of the unheard screams. The leers. The impaled screens still flashing. Flickering in and out. The fears. Everything you hate about yourself that you wish you could photoshop until you are comfortably blurred. A uniform of yourself. Numb. Perfectly controlled among the cacophony of 7 billion others, most lost never to recover. They pull at you. But they’re half awake. Operating under the database of egoic rage and survival instinct. There’s no sense in Destroying yourself saving machines. But you try anyways. You rip them down tidal wave that you are without hope. You take off any life preservers they throw on you. Until everyone is drowning. Water churned solid into the most serene of glassy seas. Despair is sealed under.

Your sallow pallor can’t hear the voices of those who love you. Words. Just words. Some words call like thunder. They say these meaningless things that can’t stop the hunger that eats you alive. Where everywhere you look the glossy grenades blow chunks away of a healthy image away. Turn this window off. Better yet knock the glass out. Break out. Fuck, set this whole place on fire and crawl out of your own forehead. Be reborn.

You’ve lost touch. No sane person stays on a sinking ship. And you’re not a captain but a pilot. Now is a fine time to bail out. Light a cigar as you parachute over the writhing things. Is it love that saves us? No. Love too can be caught and drowned. It’s knowing when to cut out and leave. Knowing that constant crises are unsustainable albeit addictive.

The scariest thing about the digital world is that we direct it without disengaging to occasionally give ourselves space away from the current. And it’s not okay to be anything other than perfectly happy.

Fuck that noise.

Inside each of us a world that mirrors the one we were born into, now transitioning into a fully isolated place. We’ve lost balance. And our youth topples – with it our immortality.

I catch you sitting down to a fine dinner of consuming thoughts. Razor bladed beasts you swallow whole until they cut their way out late at night when you’re too exhausted to digest them anymore.

Here are the chasms that open up without warning. The soft warm molten core of pain flowing in canyons that were once peaceful green fields. Tears that you never let yourself cry roll up the rocky sides of the gulf. This is the price you pay for being strong. For trying to holding it all in. For wanting more and doing nothing to change this. Time may soothe the rapturous of ruptures. Though paving it all over and building monuments to progress seems tempting. We will walk on from here.

I know the ache and the oblivious obliteration that remains when intensity is made insignificant. This world we live in. Where you can’t bare your soul without first taking your clothes off. Come on darling stop drowning your sorrows before they drag you down. Sometimes pain is a sign you’re still alive, love. It gets better.

You are all of this. The ridges. The valleys. The Scars. The trials. The trails leading off to nowhere in particular because you haven’t quite found yourself enough yet to go off road.

I know you think that’s not okay. But you need to let go off all that pressures you from the inside and the outside.

Let your foot off the gas. Take your finger off the trigger of the flamethrower.

Nothing ever comes out of holding your breath except blue lips.

Here is what you covet most in this life. Acceptance. Except you search for it outside yourself. Without is no within. No growth. No path home.

Only a sunset on the horizon and who knows where you’re riding off to except the horse. Veins form to those who share with you love or trust. Veins torn when they depart from you. Veins still attached though severed, keeping you captured in this web you’ve built yourself. Perpetually bleeding out for love. Seeking fresh blood. And love can cut you free. But not without losing a part of yourself.

What’s this burning amidst a meadow so startling in its frank greenness.

Is this seriously what I think it is?

I thought hope died out for you years ago. The reason why is up through the wane clouds in the pale blue sky. A small sun shines gently on you as it always has. Only this time you’re letting warmth penetrate the darkness within.

A touch. A gentle touch was all it took to melt through your stainless steel lined atmosphere. That touch was real. That touch was sincere. And now it has created a place from which you can start. Kindness, small gesture though it is, has given you a warm place from which to heal.

There are no gems in the human soul without tears, blood, sweat and fears conquered. And just because they don’t understand you doesn’t mean you are alone.

You have yourself. You have us. It won’t always be this way. There are ways out that don’t involve self destruction.

You are a soldier whose blades have been more than honed. You are not too weak to stand and fight.

A good night’s rest is a place made safe and understanding enough to call home. Somewhere else than in the middle of this self made trench warfare. Get up off the battlefield. And to home for a rest. You deserve peace, my darling. You’ve earned it.

A whisper resonates in the wind. A whisper to your heart. Calling out softly of no matter what. Unconditional love. A caress that undresses the numbness.

A moment in time. We two holding hands in the deepest parts of you. Now we leave stronger from this place. Not weaker or faint with the revelation that such passages exist. But warriors to the core. In complete knowledge of ourselves we accept. And now we grow forth. Never giving up because there is beauty outside of war. Watch for those who come running to the bloody aftermath and forgive those who simply must flee.

Walking in the arteries of your mind and heart accepting you just as you are. I heard your call. And I’m here. So let’s talk. You have nothing to be ashamed of. And you are not alone.


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