Mirco-Aggressions of the Entitled Man

Mirco-Aggressions of the Entitled Man

This notice should be better addressed, as many of you are ignorant of your entitlement. You think that sexual violation is a plot line for Netflix series or that asking a fourth time for sex is ok because that’s your girlfriend anyway, and on some level, she owes you.

Newsflash: she doesn’t. No woman does.

Allow me to speculate. You were raised by a woman of the Second Wave, but you might not even know it because why would you? You are given the mixed messages of our time: sex is critical, but here’s a million scare tactics about the risks. Here’s misinformation and religious propaganda funded by our separate-from-church government. Our generation had access to porn that typically takes female pleasure for granted and sets a standard for impossible expectations across the board. Despite being told that girls can do anything, you didn’t see girls doing everything. Most teachers were women, but most doctors were men. Secretary meant female, congressman meant male. In history you’re told that the man’s last name marks the whole family. That first born sons, and then all other sons, inherit before women, for centuries. Queens beneath Kings. At church, the Sky Daddy explains his Word through men, discussing men, and heralding great men. No matter the lessons preached on afternoon specials, you knew you were better, more, somehow greater than your gender counterparts.

Given that background, and since I’m living in the Deep South and people are actually wasting their time fighting to save Confederacy monuments in 2017, let’s just assume you’re a Good Ol’ White Boy. You have so many advantages that having them pointed out leaves you feeling threatened. One more reason for you to lash out. Despite being raised by strong women who worked and reared your spoiled, selfish ass, you never took the time to learn to listen and hear. Your communication is shit, and you have no excuse.

As a teenager, as a young man, you have been steeped in this ignorance and safety for years. Your hormones start to rage, and maybe men can’t think as well when that happens. That was one of the many lines I was fed to compensate for violation. Whatever the fucking failure is on your end, that’s where it starts and exists and implodes. You grab your sister and force her into sharing her time in the bathroom. You squeeze the ass of that girl in gym class under the guise of playing volleyball. You invite yourself over and insist on one more kiss, one more embrace, one more feel before you go.

These are not the ones out there committing rape, although I’d wager one leads to the other. I’m specifically talking about the man-child community in America that acts the toddler, pushing his boundaries inch by inch. The boy that pushed his mom to give in is now pushing his victim with the same tactics.

And why wouldn’t he? It worked when he wanted that game system or that extra $10 for the movies as a kid. It works in school and sports. Ask one more time, maybe ask for a bit less. Make a compromise, strike a deal. As long as you get what you want.

Your wants are clearly more important than anyone else’s.

I’m trying to be sympathetic. I get that you’re ill educated and maybe unable to work Google. Maybe you don’t understand that one in four women have already been raped by age eighteen. And of course you don’t know that, because you are not someone a survivor would feel safe disclosing around. I bet you think you don’t know anyone who has been raped, assaulted, grabbed without permission, or taken advantage of, do you? Must be nice.

I’m tired of feeling guilty and weird that maybe I’ll offend you when you violate my space. I’m sick of worrying about telling my allies or minimizing my truth. I live in a victim shaming culture. Most women who are killed are done in by a former lover. You’re dangerous and more likely to be believed. I’ll be grilled about my alcohol intake and wardrobe. I don’t have the same safety to even explore the idea that you crossed a line. If I say the wrong thing, I could ruin your life. And we’ve already established how your life is the greater good.

Still, I have a ray of hope. I’m not the only one who sees you. I’m not the only one getting fed up. We’ve almost all been harmed now by you and your kind. My kind are talking. In the shadow corners, where you discard the girls and women you use, we’ve been whispering to each other. Our numbers are vast. Our strength is building. Our wounds are healing, and soon…one day soon.

For now, spread the word to the rest of your disgusting kin. Respect our lines. Stay within yours. And fear the worst if you can’t be strong enough to see us as equal creatures on this planet.

“But to be fair to myself, which I always like to be, the writing’s no good.”

Tonight I can’t sleep, so I don’t try. Or I haven’t yet, I should say. If writing doesn’t help, I’ll be cleaning the bathroom next.

Two nights ago I woke up in a cold sweat. Not usual and still, not expected.

PTSD is the process of being re-traumtized. It can happen when a survivor is triggered, when they are in unhealthy relationships, or when they self-harm. I’m sure there’re other ways, too. I sought out a church that fed, unconsciously, into my need to be a “bad” person. The brain wrinkles around what it knows. Trauma survivors know how to be traumatized.


I had been standing in the…I don’t know what the family title was for this room, but it stood in the center of Jim’s house. You passed through this room, elevated by a few stairs, to reach the living room from the kitchen and vise versa. If you went down the hallway leading off this room, you reached a bathroom, the master bedroom, and the double-size kids’ room. I was standing in the that unnamed room. My shelf was in that room. It was where we sang Have Mercy on a karaoke set. This wasn’t a place that existed anymore in reality. This wasn’t real. Granted, I feel that frequently. I make a note that from here on out, I am an unreliable narrator.

The light is on in the kitchen, and I slink along the inside wall of the room. I’m listening. There are two people speaking in the kitchen. One is using an inflicted accent. No, more of a squeaky sound? Higher than normal pitch and with unnatural giggles at forced intervals. The reply to this sickly sweet tone is a deeper, thicker voice. An older man replies between coughs, words sloshing from his mouth like excess bourbon. I prepare to see a younger version of myself with my father. I’m having a flashback or a nightmare. Depending on which, things could get really outrageous. Nightmares deal far less in logic. I breathe deep and steel myself. Facing my fragments are the best way to reform the way my brain works. I was taught to fear and harm, but I have proven that I am strong, able to challenge what others think and able to deal with this insane shit. Yeah, I tell myself. I’ve got this. I slide further down the hall and can see the pair. Down the four brick stairs that lead to the garish yellow kitchen, I see my father seated at the dining room table talking to a woman seated before him on the dining room table.

It’s my ex girlfriend. My ex and my father are acting out…something. Something I can’t watch.

All of the air in my body goes out of me. My gag reflex is suppressed by the fear of being discovered. Niki can see me if she looks up. I don’t know if she has her glasses on or not. Wait, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter if she can see me or not, because this is not real, and therefore not happening. I start to recite my current reality: I’m an adult, a thirty year old adult, living with a dude who loves me, and a cat, and my paintings. Jim is dead. Jim’s been dead. This isn’t happening. Breathe.

I’m cut off in my mantras by my father asking, “what happened?” in the way Niki liked being asked that rhetorical question. My stomachs regains my throat. Pushing it back down gives my mind a moment to try and find reality. It was just here, and I can’t still be having these nightmares. I can’t still, fucking still, be depressed and broken over this old bullshit. My anxiety rises as I circle back on how mentally fucked I am, to have this unconscious pairing.

Niki starts reading those goddamn texts. The ones that didn’t have anything to do with what she needed to fess up to me, but totally, explicitly, in graphic detail, explain what she and Daddy Mike were gonna do in my bed. Those text messages. Yeah, and she’s telling my father how she wants to be treated. Every thought in my mind is a train at full speed, followed by another, and another. I’m being rushed down by huge steel monster thoughts with blaring lights and screaming horns, hopelessly warning me about my eminent death. What the fuck is happening? Where am I? When am I? This didn’t happen. This couldn’t have happened. Do I save her? Does she need saving? Jim isn’t alive. Jim can’t hurt anyone. Niki can hurt herself if she wants, she’s an adult. Niki does hurt herself. I can’t let Niki have Jim hurt her. She has no idea what she’s doing. It’s not my job. I couldn’t do it if it was my job.

He’s going to rape her. I just know it. I don’t know what to do. I can’t fucking move. I can’t cry out, I can’t stop him, and I can’t stop seeing this nightmare unfold. My brain is melting. She’s got a pacifier in her mouth and I hear a chair groan across the floor. Jim’s standing.

I’m so angry her. I don’t know if I could ever be angry enough for someone to deserve this, though. I hate that woman; that child; that idiot that I was in letting myself be strung along. But I can’t let this happen.

I’m not breathing. I see my skin start to fade into shades of shadow purple. I’m fading away into the dark of my hiding spot.

The room is presented to me through a new lens. I’ve moved to the back part of the house, where my father added in a spot for Alex’s room. I think he spent one partial summer there. We don’t talk about it.

From this vantage point, I see the dining room dead on, save for the black stripes of shadow. My view is filtered by old wooden slats over the bottom half of the door. I’m shorter now. I sit with my knees bunched up to my flat chest, and try not to rock back and fourth. The door might not be locked, but checking would draw attention. The room still houses the same two hosts of my horror, but the surroundings are silent. I can see her mouth moving, I see him pulling, pushing, her screaming and laughing, his lack of stamina due to drink, ashes falling from his lit cigarette onto her back and it’s slow. It’s all happening in deafening silence, in slow motion, before my stupid, stupid eyes. As I try to talk myself back to proper height and time, I start to hear three sounds. They layer like a mix track no one wants. I hear the brown Crown hitting the inside of the bottle before it enters inside him. I can hear the paper on hisCamel burn closer to the filter as he takes a shaky drag. And lastly, I hear a child crying.

I don’t know if it’s me.

I wake up. I’m sitting upright. I must have cried out because Jared is awake, talking to me. He’s rubbing my back, telling me that we’re safe. It was just a nightmare. The cat was disturbed from her slumber as well. An indignant noise is made softly as the tiny lion circles her people, seeing why we are moving. I breathe. I hold one hand to my face and try to find my center. I pull the blankets off and the ceiling fan blows over the sweat. My body is suddenly chill and I am tall again. It was a nightmare. Jared is making soothing sounds as he lays down again. The cat sits between our heads and is unhappy when she’s moved to the foot of the bed. I’m at home.

I am ashamed for even having such combinations of ideas in my mind. I’m disgusted that people do this shit: to their children, to themselves, etc. I fucking hate Niki, which is kind of annoying. I’d hoped that bitter phase would be over rather than out like the tide. A glimmer in this shit pile is the realization that while I’m comfortable hating Niki, I’m not okay to hate Jim. I’m afraid of him. I feel fear, shame, guilt, doubt, suspicion, and any other number of emotions; not hate. I’m not brave enough to hate Jim. Niki is easy to hate because she’s a blip on my late twenties that I regret, in part. I don’t like regretting things. I regret not talking to Brian for months the way we did in the last week. I regret that I lost good friends and a sense of family when I ended things. I really regret that I didn’t dump her when I first thought to do so. The hate part is probably more about me hating all the dumbshit things I said and smoked to keep myself blind to Niki’s drama. It helps that several people have told me that Niki downright fears me, and that she goes to great lengths to avoid me when I’m up north. The image of Niki in my mind is that harried girl who obviously had been up for nights crying, but still couldn’t manage to form a goal after eight days of thinking about “things”. She isn’t a threat to anyone. So, without fear, I feel hate. All the hate I would feel towards Jim, towards the situation, towards my whole general trauma, is easily sloughed onto my ex. Again. lol

With Steve it wasn’t quite like that, but I did have Steph comparing him to Preston, saying he’d financially raped me, etc. lol Steph telling me about boys taking money they didn’t earn. And with Steve I mostly hated that I’d sold my car. I still can’t believe I sold my car. What an idiot I was. Am, potentially. I feel and fear that I am an object with unlimited potential motion towards idiocy.

Aside from nightmares that have made me fear sleep altogether this week, life is pretty grand. I have amazing love surrounding me. I’m doing good meditation work. Mindfulness progress. My Carolina jasmine is climbing with gusto and my creeping Jenny is dropping down vines over the fuchsia bird cage turned planter. I can’t quite remember the day, but I haven’t bailed on commitments or social things. I had open, honest talks of note with my sister and mother this week. I entertained the idea of aloping over the long weekend but choose to sleep in. I finished season three of Grace and Frankie. I took pictures of a frog in the bayou. I sang, had it recorded, listened to it, and fucking shared that nonsense. I’m facing the challenges. My challenges feel like privileged, first-world, pretend, and highly unrealistic challenges, but they knock me on my ass all the same. I’m fighting. I’m waging my own battle and I’m trying really hard here. What else can I do but that?

What the Water Gave Me Last Night

I float as much as I possibly can in the 14 inches of warm water I have in the old claw footed tub. My body folds into a bow shape. My legs part open and my elbows fold behind my head. The daughter of the sea king may have stitched me into existence with her magic sewing needle, and now I float like flotsam. I close my eyes and let my head slowly sink into the bubbles.

When I talk about Jared to other people, one of the first and last things I announce is that he loves me and that I haven’t lied to the man. I feel at a deep level that only someone I’d have to trick would be this interested in a future with me. I don’t even notice I’m saying it until it’s out of my mouth. It floats above me in incense air and my mind trips over the sentence. I stumble back. Of course, I don’t lie to him. Of course, he loves me. He’s been with me for years. I’m moving in with him. We love each other. How long until I can stop qualifying my worthiness? No one else is doing it but me.

I’m reading five books at the moment; it’s something I haven’t attempted since college. I’m also taking classes online. I’m gonna learn how to pressure wash a house and the inside of a garage next week. I’ve scheduled shoots for this month and am discussing future dates in multiple states. Studio lights are being shipped to my house.

My girlfriend sends me pictures, texts, Snaps, and her voice across the miles, but I miss her deeply. the freedom to love without fear of a paralyzing trigger is bliss. Sometimes when I’m walking (listening to book #4: It by Stephen King) the air will shift and I think I smell her shampoo. My chest rises and falls and I hear the water compensate for my moment in the tub. I exhale loudly, imaging myself like Calvin in one of his baths. I picture myself blowing all the water out of the tub and Hobbes getting soaked in the corner of the bathroom. I slide back out of the water. My hair is streaming across my face. Because of my brilliant whale impersonation, the bulk of my thick locks parted beneath my nose. I laugh alone in the bathroom. the sound ricochets around me. I only hear responses in my mind.

Split will be on DVD soon, and I want to write about my feelings concerning the movie. I want to be vocal for those of us who aren’t. I’ve always been that girl, despite the many encouragements to maybe not be.

Stephen King delivered a beautiful death sentence to Little Georgie in the first few chapters of It. “…and George Denbrough knew no more.” The file of philosophy was pulled up in my mind, thinking about the concept of thinking and therefore being. When one knows no more, they cannot be. I felt I’d seen a gleam of gold among the silver.

For the first time since I lived on Poet’s Row in Cap Hill, I’m going to hang my Costa Rica keyholder. Vilma and my foster family gave it to me when I first arrived in their home, along with a stuffed monkey and beaded lizard bracelet I wore that bracelet every day until it broke off of my wrist. There was a hand-written sign in a quality of English that surpassed my Spanish welcoming me home.

I’m one and a half books away from the end of the Baudelaires’ dismal plight. I just realized that several of the orphans guardians have had the initials J.S. and am excited to see what that will come to mean. I can’t imagine it’s accidental.

Despite the burns I’ve received (and am still enduring by having my things held hostage) recently, I’m going to make lunch for Jared to take to work. He may take it as expected within the week, adding tips on how to better improve his eating habits without asking after my own, but I doubt it. He might start expecting me to cook all his meals, all the time, although it’s highly unlikely. Or he could become ungrateful and decide the efforts I make at home and for him personally aren’t worth respecting me or our relationship, but years of evidence does not support that theory. At an admittedly slight risk, I thrust myself forward into acting upon devotion.

The more news I watch, the more music I add to my “(Ani) For the Revolution” playlist on Spotify. I am ashamed to know so many people who still defend this fool, 45. I am plotting revenge via consciousness-raising movie nights. I’m waiting to hear back about training to be a clinic escort. I’ll be giving blood next week. I have to do what I can, or we stay with things like this. And this, this sad situation for immigrants and women, Muslims and Jews, trans folk and anyone who wants to have a planet in 100 years, is not acceptable.

In between the work of moving into the house and shifting Jared’s things, I’m listening to the Gang’s wackadoo schemes and wondering if Prezbo will stay on teaching. I’m slowly seeing friends. I’m trying to take extra time with Jared. There’s no rush. I’m here now, and we have time.

I stand up in the tub, pulling the white rubber plug from the drain with my toes. I reach for the bathrobe my aunt gave me the year I started healing. It was sea foam green originally but now is white. I wrap myself up. The robe engulfs me now compared to the size I was in college. Water drips from my purple, green, and gold colored toes onto the tiled floor where tiny puddles that reflect only steam form around my feet. I flip on the fan and open the door. The room is cleared almost immediately, the air itself having been too warm and looking for a breeze to ride down the hall to the living room.

Trump runs the government like a business


In the corporate world, when the executive makes all the final decisions and those who disagree are replaced, it’s called business as usual. In government, it’s called fascism. The reason democratic governments are not run like businesses is because there’s a different set of risks associated with the concentration of power. When you refuse access to unfavorable press and discredit judges for checking executive power, you have just gone after the two basic firewalls between us and fascism. This is why Michael Moore says that a coup is underway in the U.S. and no one realizes it. In fact, Trump himself may not realize it, as I suspect he is just managing the only way he knows how, oblivious to the historical implications.

I think U.S. institutions are strong enough to stave off the coup, but people need to stay vigilant and vocal about the implications of Trump’s manner of using…

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The People, United, can never be Divided.

Early in the morning, I write.

On Saturday I joined at least 10,000 unknown allies as we chanted and ranted our way through the Quarter. It was fucking beautiful. In a manner quite unlike myself, I did not take pictures. Well, not very many, and only on Snapchat, lol. I didn’t want the lens between myself and the river of righteousness. I needed that cleansing sweat down my neck. The buzz from the booze and the newfound friends, friends from college, friends from the time people called me “that feminist girl”; I was infused. The range of ages, gender, orientation, and religion that all, despite our massive numbers, feel alone and unsafe in our home.

I have been feeling unsafe in my home since I can remember. Even before things got physical, I fell asleep to the sounds of screams between my parents. Even as recently as last month, I was ejected from what was misrepresented as a home. WalMart is following through with their attendance policies like whoa, and homelessness is real.

If I’m anything, I’m my mother’s daughter. I have her quick wit, her compassion, and her lung capacity. I hope that I am always my own person, with a separate destiny from my mother. She carried me, and I hope I learn to carry myself at a pace that is improved. Does that make me cold or pragmatic?

How does a realist reconcile an unbalanced relationship? Marriage, by historical tradition, is a male-promoting (white, straight, cis, and usually wealthy males, specifically) institution. This is not to say that married women can’t be powerful. I know many who are. Nonetheless, the foundation of this institution is patriarchal bullshit. Can strong, motivated people make it work despite the system keepin’ us down? Yeah. But it sucks that we have to do that.

Since dumping my ex, I have benefited from life in the following ways:
-better eating habits for myself, not those who pretend to be vegan when it suits their menstrual cycle;
-an exchange of chores that does not involve me asking, begging, pleading, or just doing it all myself;
-regular, increasingly difficult exercise routines that empower me, not dedicated to guessing the physical needs of someone who doesn’t know in the first place;
-encouragement from friends in a variety of time zones;
-therapeutic confirmation that I, once again, did the right thing for me by shedding away a weak partner;
-grounding work to consider myself having a room of my own, a home in my own right, and the freedom to breathe easy there has begun;
-the mental clarity around my value of integrity, and the personal assurance that I do embody that, matched with the confirmation of allies;
-enforcement from people I feared losing that I am of value and bring concrete benefits to their lives, enough so that they want to keep me around;
-cleaner lungs and reprieve from the smokescreen that cloaks lies, plus whole days without smoking myself;
-reassurance that my limits with kink make perfect goddamn sense for me and I’m allowed to feel sexually safe at 30 years old;
-growth with both my stronger/remaining partners, which was long overdue and more rewarding than I’d imagined;

Since dumping my ex, I’ve gone freaking insane in the following ways:
-stalking her, if possible (it’s not easy)
-fantasizing about ways to harm her person (this is new, and I have so many others who deserved this before her)
-rephrasing the ways I would cut her down in haiku
-practicing the way I’ll greet her DaddyMike when I run into him fucking her in the club (so far: “No, I know who you are. I read up on partners, because ethics.” or “Don’t you have a Mistress? What the fuck does that mean to you?”)
-trying to remember all the shit I want back, because who knows what she may have already done (I didn’t think she would, and haven’t heard that she did, but I also didn’t think she’d lie like she did. All bets are off.)
-told all of our mutual friends that I am irrational with hatred for her, and even called her names (maybe the thing I dislike the most, because I’m breaking my own values)
-agonizing over why a man I’ve intimately known for three years knowingly fucks a girl who he knows lies to him
-pushing away my present and loving partners by drinking to access (something that makes me wonder how many steps I am from Crown Royal)
-explaining ageplay to all my vanilla friends
-setting new limits with safe people because safety has been shifted

She had my things moved without my permission, consent, or knowledge. Well, lol, she didn’t move them. She had Matt go move them. *sigh* So many reasons I should’ve left sooner.

Right after things ended, I remember HD telling me that I don’t need to think of it as time wasted, and I balked at the idea. Immediately lists of ways I grew, ways I learned about myself, about what safe fathers might look like, about how emotional abuse can look like physical abuse, how to care for someone who is physically weaker and how to care for someone who is mentally weaker, along with how to paint a room and how to scrape a deck. As time goes on, I do think I’m wasting my time here: being furious. My feels are valid and my anger is understandable, but it’s unproductive. I rage and get nowhere but sniffly. Sure, it’s nice to justify all the reasons I’m the bee’s knees and she sucks donkey dick, but why? What’s the purpose of doing all that personal growth/therapy work if I’m gonna be bitter anyway?

Besides the fact that I somehow think it makes me “win”.

I walked away with myself. What more do I need to win?


I’m on my second night of consecutive not-sleeping. I wish I could say this was rare, but those who know me know this all too well. On the bright side, it is less and less common. Therapy gold star.

Lin sings to me and I see the face of my Northern Love, shining down on me like the moon did this evening. I miss that woman so fucking much. I have been spoiled with freely loving both genders, and now I need that lady. She gives me so much, all the more considering what resources are available to her. Her family embraces me with little to no knowledge of my Self. It’s beautiful how people can come together in a time where the world seems so divided.

I’m dizzy. That’s because I’m sleep deprived. I’ve been eating by the timer Liz sets, so I’m not too hungry to promote dizziness.

The System swings at full force. I am finally less sick than I’ve been for weeks and I want to do so much. I have so much to do. The OKSis is a mental blessing beyond words, but a physical burden on my nose and lungs. She slips her paw under the door and cries kitten mews like Prim’s Buttercup. I tell her that if Amanda can sleep without me, so can she. I haven’t been able to catch my breath yet this year.

I can see, with Jim’s death being thirteen years ago last month, the amount of growth I’ve made since I tried to kill myself and got stuck inpatient. In short, I fucking rock this shit. Check it. Until I pace myself, I see nothing in terms of growth. I am so behind from where I wanted to be. I’m thirty (gasp) and while my breasts didn’t slinky to my waist as the media had me expecting, but I have none of my life together. Charlie makes things look managed by comparison.

This is not a plea for compliments, but rather a grounded perspective of reality. If nothing, I hope to be a romantic realist in the way I am one and many. I have some decks stacked in my advantage, for sure. Despite my advantages, I also face my share of uphill battles. The euphemisms fall short when I try to list my ratio of pros and cons.

I am not normal. That’s a goddamn gospel fact. I’m not awful, not bad, and in fact, may be a good person. It’s quite likely, in fact. I have my failings and my dreamy skills to balance. A Libra deems me long-term-commitment worthy. And he’ll be around to keep an eye on those scales.

Tonight a woman, a teacher, a Master, a wife, a survivor, a fucking powerhouse Lady called me to feel a sense of safety.

I’m worthwhile.

I’m also tired.

I wrote mean things. On the Internet, where my ex can easily find and read said mean things. Mean things. I’m not nice. I’m not sorry. lol But still, goddamn. I’m not bad, but I may be close. Maybe not good after all. It’s murky in that gray area, isn’t it? The lights lead me astray and I fall into the swamps as Frodo. Gollum has melded into Smeagol, leaving no one to pull me out of the death puddle. I’m gonna drown in three inches of muddy Mississippi.

My boy held my bare legs to his chest tonight while we watched The Magical Mystery Tour. His fingertips brush against me like it’s typical to have me in his house. It will be soon. Sooner than planned.

Changing my legal status does not mean I am sacrificing who and what I am. Jared loves me for who and what I am, and would not ask me to change that.

This summer when I go to California and introduce my mother to my boy, do I reach out to Steph? I tried to call Aubrey on her birthday and was shut down, informed that my unsealed letter to my niece was not given to her. I haven’t done a thing since. I mean, I’ve cried when she updates her profile picture to her and her other maid of honor and noted the all-caps words of “best friend” in the picture caption. But I haven’t tried to talk to her.

In some situations, I’m as non-confrontational as my ex. Ugh. Another layer of gross shame to my actions.

No wonder I can’t sleep.

Hamilton wrote with purpose. He giving lessons and defense for foundations of the lives we all take for granted now. I write stream of consciousness whining while being too checked out to edit in the moment. I don’t have any right to relate.

Right when I want to lash out at age players overall, I see my friend shine through the fear I cover her with. She is strong and does what she does because she has control and can play within the rules. I was violated, deeply, at an insanely young age. Before I had gender stable in my mind I knew my dad would fuck me and blame me. I cannot separate myself from the rush of playing with a taboo when it comes to this kink. My lack of understanding does not make me bad. It makes me traumatized.

It makes me separate. Disabled. Not normal. Outside of the typical experience.

Why can’t I accept my separation?

I know I’m not worthless. I don’t need to die or even be banished to some blank room on the coast.

Just as deeply, maybe more so, I know I can’t do what Jared does. I can’t do what Niki does. I can’t do what Amanda or Matt or basically anyone I admire does. If I can wake during sunlit hours, go outside, and eat twice in one day, it’s a freaking success.

Where does that leave me?

Awake at 3:23am, apparently. Writing to no one on a blog.

Haikus I wrote tonight

Between Hamilton,
and Obama’s speech, needing
a Revelation.

Between pages of
novels and letters, words give
consistent shelter.

Take my words, my love,
Build yourself up strong, kindle
our passion, for now.

Commitment falls not
like snow, glittering and light.
There could be a trap.

A thin broth is an
odd choice when a person can
go cook for themselves.

Dead relationships
compost before me, new life
stronger for the loss.

Do all people get
wild support from strangers, or
am I just louder?

Hunks of herb with my
gang up north; we blaze for real

I’m made of bricks, built
over the spaces your love
was weak and crumbled.

I hope my words cut
as cleanly as the knife I
keep, clement, ready.

Illusions of
control keep my mind, our minds,
and the world, in line.

Orgasm with a
partner acting as a child
skirts alongside Jim.

Fetishizing the
same toys your nephew would be
drawn to use seems sick.

I know I am blind
to some things, but I also
know my shit. Do you?

Everything is fine
when you sleep most nights. The
screaming is ignored.

I don’t always play
Oppression Olympics; but
I win when I play.

You sit, the victim,
pitied by all for your

It took over a
decade for me to own my
anger. I’ll use it.

My ex and “sister”
fear being their mothers.
Now, they are no one.

If you cannot be
yourself and you do not want
to be others, what?

Avoiding conflict
while bitching about that choice
makes no goddamn sense.

What the Black Pearl is,
is impossible to sail
to Colorado.

Grind and offer greens,
white strawberry diesel hits
sweeter in the south.

Proverbs Thirty-One
was the standard of success
and now I want more.

I want love, truth, sex,
loyalty, a challenge, my
freedom; more pending.

Warm kitty bellies
should be prescribed as freely
as pills we shovel.

I find comfort in
knowing Death will come for me.
My mind will quiet.

The water poured,
overflowing her cups with
promised abundance.

Best friends do not
ask you to go into debt
for a damn wedding.

Have I really been
wronged by those who harmed
me, or was Jim right?

Devils and angels
battle around us, always.
Don’t yield higher ground.

Jumping lunges are
more torture than exercise.
Just waterboard me.

Air purifiers
filter the dander and smoke.
So, why can’t I breathe?

Does your dick dry out
without frequent puss, or are
you just that lazy?

River roaches crawl
patiently, expecting to
be crushed by you.

Jimmy left for work.
I’ve spent another night with
the blinking cursor.

His body hugs the edge
of our bed, enough room for
my absence tonight.

The curve of his chin
covered in stubble, for me,
endears him all over.

At night, when the dark
looms loudly, his arms tighten
to secure my soul.

Days drag on without
kisses from either set of
lips I long to love.