Loose Ends

I can’t seem to keep the dog from stealing my seat,
the screen door from flying open in the wind,
the breeze from sneaking in through the crack in the window seal,
or stop the overpriced tv from shutting off in the middle of my program

I can’t seem to stop the kitchen faucet’s brain-numbing dripping,
the buffering, buffering of my too-slow connections,
the fucking updates from making everything slower,
or stop the dishwashing detergent from making everything taste like soap

I can’t seem to wash away the smell of woods and pine hanging on my every thread,
the linger of bourbon-soaked conversations between sweat-soaked sheets,
the feeling of your fingertips gliding across my skin,
or stop the electricity from crackling between us in trails of gooseflesh

I have so many loose ends, it seems,
too many to list

but, Baby, you aren’t one of them

-image via Pixabay


On This Bed

on this bed,
nights last forever;
they begin before a suitcase is unpacked,
before dinner is served,
before the moon bids its farewell,
before noon

on this bed,
I dream things,
I dream sideways-looking things I can’t discuss with anyone but him

on this bed,
dream-like love making happens,
the kind that overtakes us so that we don’t bother to lock the door or make certain the window shades are pulled,
the kind of love making that makes me cry out loud,
makes me beg, then dissolve into him,
that urges me to do things I’ve never done before

on this bed,
I know it’s always been me;
that’s what he tells me,
and that’s what I believe;
it’s the way it has always been,
from the day we met, young and limitless,
to this day, nearly 24 years later,
when life tethers us to the ground

on this bed,
we don’t listen to the birds calling out from the treetops;
we let the hours pass by –
it’s all a dream, and it’s all ours;
it always will be

give in to it,
that’s what he whispers into the crook of my neck,
and I do what he tells me,
I do it all night long

for, on this bed,
night lasts forever

-image via Tumblr

Weapon of Choice

I am alive,
so awakened by the magic in my life I chose to create,
I’m bursting at my seams to explore,
but this life’s constraints allow only so much exploration

I’m afraid if I don’t explore these parts of me,
I’ll explode

and if I do get the opportunity to explore them,
I may also explode

so, here I am,
a caged bird,
pulling out my own feathers to keep my mind occupied

ravenous for something food can’t satisfy,
though I sometimes try

this extra weight my battle scar,
the tangible evidence of my fight against myself,
and not taking care of myself my weapon of choice

-image via Tumblr

Worth the Wait

“I forgive you,” he said, so easily,
as if it took no thought at all –

my heart wasn’t prepared for that,
how could it possibly be that simple?

it became glaringly evident that love is a stream of mindfulness,
of choice after choice,
of forgiveness,
tiny currents of trust, which compound, gaining strength,
a path of morsels, each one made of bits honor, of memories, one after the other,
that leads you back to the person who is waiting,
who wants to wait,
who believes there was something worth waiting for

I followed the path,
I forgive you, too

we were worth the wait

I Awake

I awake to vibrations of electric blue,
afloat in a sea of me and you

where time is waves of thrashing heat,
and space is endless as our bodies meet

eyes still unfocused, yet clearly I see;
my soul knows every inch of the flesh against me

molding together like sinking feet into sand,
or aching clay resting in the palm of your hand

pushing and pulling like the moon and the tide,
as my body to your commands does eagerly abide

-image via Pinterest 


my hands smell like cigars
and the cigar box smells like you
your knock-off Rolex has some tarnish
it’s charred hands no longer move
my lungs are full of tar
and white smoke fills the room

my hands smell like cigars
and the cigar box smells like you
your silver zippo lost its polish
as your fingers searched for truth
the photos all wear fake smiles
and the eyes are empty rooms

my hands smell like cigars
and the cigar box smells like you
my handwritten letter sits in folds
words unspoken split in two
my lungs are full of tar
and white smoke fills the room 

you slipped through my fingers
like the smoke that filled the room
my hands smell like cigars
and the cigar box smells like you
these memories are ashes 
and this cigar box is a tomb

-image via Pinterest


words, words, all around;
what was lost, now is found,
I took off the shroud

that’s how my spirit feels;
diving deep, keeping it real,
my heart offered, your next meal

devoured with skimming eyes,
white lies, no replies,
the ‘like’ a disguise, bleeding me dry


sometimes I drown in this digital sea;
can’t see the real me,
lungs choking on hyperbole 

-image via Pixabay


“If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive.” ~Brené Brown


He’d heard her, she was sure of it; his face was so close to hers, she could feel his whiskers on her cheek as he moved, like the stab of needles tattooing her skin with unwanted ink. 

“No,” she said, again, a little more forcefully this time, the word scraping the inside of her throat, which was beginning to feel constricted, pure panic coiling itself around and around, from the inside out.

All she saw was his eyes. Blank, as if he was looking through her, his eyes spoke for him, they gave his response.

Pinning her down, one arm crossed her chest as the other pulled down his own pants and ripped her black panties aside. His full weight upon her, he pushed her back further into the couch. She tried to push back at him, to wriggle beneath him to get away, but her own muscles weren’t working like they should. 

Her body went cold. She could taste his scent in the air, a toxic, slur of smoke invading her lungs, fighting for what little air her lungs would allow. Absorbing his vile presence, it was black sludge melting into every pore, her stomach twisting and wretching. She could feel her body’s resistance in the rigid freeze between them. 

But, she didn’t scream, even though her friend was just upstairs with the other guy. She didn’t struggle. Fear kept her quiet, and not just fear of him. She was immobilized by her own voice. 

Fear of her own voice.

Jerking his head upward, he looked into her eyes again, and she felt his muscles tighten even further. 

No,” she whispered again, reminding herself. 

He invaded her. His hips worked ferociously, grinding and impaling, his elbow digging into her chest.

He took without apology. He took and took and took. 

Behind her eyes, it all slowed, each slam into her, every recoil, in slow motion, his elbows becoming knives, his arms boulders, and his incessant body the evil, leaded blanket reminding her of her own silence, of her smallness. 

He took what he wanted.

When he finished, she stood and quietly adjusted her clothes, never looking at him or speaking a word.

Walking up the 18 stairs, her feet made a shuffle-scraping sound, and she knocked on the blackness of the wooden door until her friend answered. Thank God, the look on her face must have spoken for her, because her friend followed without her ever needing to speak.

She walked back down the 18 stairs and out the front door. Automation took her feet toward home, still in silence. She was halfway home before she realized she was only wearing one shoe. 

Along with her shoe, she’d left behind the last of her voice, the one which spoke up for her. 

It would be years and years before she began to find it again…..but she did.

~image credit waleoladipo.com; #metoo 

“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they’re never weakness.”

“Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen.”

Quotes by Brené Brown. Let’s kick shame’s ass, Warriors.