Category Archives: Personal Prose

My Odyssey: Missteps to You

First man I unraveled myself to smelt of cedar wood, alfalfa and hay. He was of the earth. As brazen as rock; as mercurial as the sea.

Four years my senior, I let him guide me. Through naive wonder I ignored his wicked grin, the kind that said, “I am the alpha and the omega of my universe. You are but a distant star.”

He soiled my dresses in blood. Cut out my innocence with deft surgeons hands. Corrupted the sum of me, leaving black sludge where pristine beaches once lay.

He fucked three woman. I made love to only one man. I made love to one man and three women by default of his actions—-

One woman with tainted sheets who tainted my bed thanks to him.

The other two lovers to follow weren’t very remarkable at all. I swallowed their false starts and callow confessions simply because I was wanted.

Not as I should have been wanted (like I was a tender daisy you fear picking in the sunshine or a beloved family heirloom to be treasured). I was wanted as a body to be plucked: all my juices drained for the harvest.

I crumbled with each touch. Repulsed by myself; disgusted by how easy it was and is not to love.

So, I wrote to ease the ache inside my breast. I wrote to smother the shame of all I carried. I drowned the past in inkwells. I shared these thoughts too freely. A wolf soon snuck inside my henhouse to make a pretty meal of me.

He never felt my flesh. He lived under a different sky and breathed a different air than I. He won me by being wounded himself.

I drank his bitterness as if it were a fine wine. I ate his contempt of women (of me) like it were some sort of communion. He reminded me to hate myself constantly while praising me of my use of words.

I broke free of him. But, sometimes, at night, I swear he’s whispering into my ear again. He’s saying, “I left you more shattered than I found you. I left you because you deserved to be left.”

The fiance scoffed at these men. Jackals he called them. Jackals for tearing me into too many pieces. Jackals for ignoring how I beamed like a yellow umbrella in the rain.

And saviors he called them.

Saviors for leading me in circles to him. Saviors for pushing all my pieces into trashcans so he could later scavenge them, and make a mosaic out of my misery.

He pulled me along with him. Swept me up in the security of his world. Swept me up in the tornado of his lies—-

When his glass house cracked and fractured beneath our feet, I waited for him to clean the wounds it inflicted. I had shards of glass imbedded in my skin in every which way. He never came. Never even said goodbye.

Oh, broken . Broken. Broken. I was shattered again. Fingers agitatedly searching in the dark for one red thread. My invisible tether linked as the twin heart to my single one. My one precious string of fate.

Red as the blush of my first kiss. Red as the apple plucked from my youth. Red as the hope stitched into the fabric of a long since tattered wedding dress.

I plucked and I pulled at time itself. I plucked and pulled until I felt a swift pull back, a gentle tug that sent warm shivers up my spine. The pull of you.

Yours the thread that is my thread. Yours the name that always hung finest upon my tapestry, yet I was too blind to see until first your eyes spied mine. Until I swallowed the moonbeams of your heart.

They tasted crisp. Cool. Like the fresh dew which lingers after an autumn rain storm. Like the thrill of your first drink settling on your tongue, all sharp with alcohol and sweet with rebellion.

You, the last man I’ll ever unravel myself to. The last “I love you” to escape my lips. The last thought before I fall backward towards sleep and the land of dreamer’s dust. My first brush with happiness—

My final destination. My forever lover. My future. My dear heart. My you. My everything swirling inside warm flesh, sweet sinew and beautiful bone. My truest friend.

I have finally come home.

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Pitiful: Personal Essay

Trust can be such a fleeting wisp of a notion. You think you know someone thoroughly; that the construct of their heart feels intimate and familiar in your hands. Almost as if you and your partner shared the same cardiovascular tissue. Almost as if the panorama of their genius seemed the neighbor to your own psyche. Funny how easily we can be mislead. Sitting pretty atop our heads sits a dunce cap, while our compatriot (our universe made flesh) laughs at our gullibility.

You see, love itself can deceive better than any conjurer ever could. In a perfect world such a sacred emotion would never lead us astray. Our eternal flames could and would only be sparked by one person and one person only: A soul-mate. That missing link to our genetic and spiritual code; that mythic “other half” we so long for. This, an individual born of the same cosmic star stuff that’d no more betray us than they could ever betray themselves. A nice thought isn’t it? Sadly, such a being only exists in a perfect Utopian society where Eros reigns supreme. We, my friend, were not born to such a realm.

The reality is you (I) belong to a harsher grittier dimension. Some call it Earth, others still call it their own personal hell. Either term could suffice. In this our home of uncertainty nothing is set in stone. Passion, fidelity, tenderness, sensitivity, devotion and commitment sometimes seem unnecessarily constant to a Romeo or his would-be Juliet. Honesty seemingly even less vital. Romance for many is just a past time; a game of chance to boost an ego.

Pitifully, I have found myself willingly led down a gilded path more than once. Whispered promises of a shared lifeline continually sculpt me mute, deaf, dumb and blind. Always my dress is tattered by brambles, yet I implore my guide to blaze us forward on the trail. Logic and reasoning I abandon because I so yearn for acceptance. I was (am) a flying flitting girl, white as cream, suffering from the “Happily Ever After” complex. I have ignored propriety for fantasy and worshiped at Venus’s alter in vain. My devotion has offered little reward. Moments of bliss have been brief as a sunset.

Just when I figured I had their outlines memorized (their bodies charted by cartography) I am bloodied. Lies spun from serpent tongues pierced the skin, leaving me searching for a paramedic. These moments, these all too frequent catastrophes, have corroded my faith in Truth. Because you say you love me does not make it so. You can serenade me in flowery song until calamity strikes us dead, but declarations aren’t anything I can suckle warmth from. I desire a hearth and a home, not wasted breath.

I fear I may be finding myself lost in the woods again. Fallen for the same misdirection as before. This creeping suspicion is one I cannot shake, no matter how vigorously I twirl myself around in circles. No, we can never truly know someone. Not really. All we have is their word. . . and words lately have been making me ill. For however well we swim in another’s ocean, we will never reach the depths of their soul. Perfection in anything, especially love, does not exist. We are all fools for love friends. All fools. More is the pity.

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Chrysalis: Personal Prose

Lately, I feel bigger than my body. I almost expect my bones to grow fissures and splinter off within the cage of my skin. I breathe lightly, fearing any small movement will cause an internal calamity. My chest constricts under the weight of this uncertainty. As I fish words out of my brain, the pressure folds into me, causing my shape to become ever more accordion like.

Sometimes I think, “My spirit is much too fearsome for this hovel.” That the sum of myself glitters and shines and spins much too capriciously inside my body. True, my vessel is all odd angles and bloated archways; an awkwardly built ship, unfit for any port of call. You see, the dreams I have had since youth have metastasized, spawning bigger and wilder dreams, which have nourished my soul. She (I) have become gluttonous on whimsical imaginings—-on an non-existent world.

The very essence of myself is throwing tantrums, pounding fists within fleshy walls. The woman I wish to be is battling the woman I have become for dominance. She (I) desire a life profound from adventure, exhilaration, and beauty. A life fully dedicated to the pursuit of happiness; a life where I demand the best from myself. A world that isn’t bogged down by self doubt or listlessness, but is ever weightless from laughter and song.

Currently, I reside in a realm of hard lines and rigid formulas. I see no grace peering out my eyes; I recognize no blush in my cheeks. I daresay I am as unremarkable as white washed walls. I am blurry. A figure without any true silhouette. Yet. . .there is a butterfly that stirs inside me. A creature of impish glee flits it’s wings against brittle marrow, wiling it’s chrysalis to fall away. Willing me to die in order to be reborn; willing me to love myself anew and without shame.

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Rollercoaster: Personal Essay

I offer no encouraging words this January. I can’t. I’m not in a place to. The previous years have bestowed too many tricks instead of treats. Any glorious adrenaline highs are soon coupled with unprecedented lows.  You become engaged, only to lose a child. You declare your independence, only to gain 1500 dollars worth of debt. A job opportunity arrives, only to transform into a short lived nightmare. Life is chaos. All I’m saying is, every year has its own trials and tribulations. Nothing will ever be perfect, beautiful, or easily packaged. With the good must come the bad.

Because of this duality, any sort of “Happy New Year” tidings sound, to me, disingenuous. The year, my friends, will be what it will be. I cannot allow myself to placidly grin and pretend that 2014 will be some glorious banner year. Honestly, it’ll be filled with as many mediocre days as it will exceptional ones. Such is life.

What I can offer you is this: Whatever your year, make it your year. Own each and every experience that may come your way. Laugh in the face of adversity. Do a victory cheer when failure stonewalls you, simply because you tried. And, most importantly, smile wide and toothy because love crossed you, even if it didn’t work out. Smile because you lived. You loved. Life happened to you. It didn’t defeat you. Despite how much of a cheat it can be, it never bested you. Yes, own your year friends. Own it, and never let it go.

We only have so much time on this earth anyway, why not claim every unapologetic minute of it? Sure, some days we’ll scream until raw, cry ourselves sick and grit craters into our teeth. Some days we’ll want to phone it in. The sun will rise high above our heads and we’ll curse it’s very presence, simply because it signals another dawn. Yet, as much as these disappointments, frustrations and melancholy ensnare us let us never relinquish them. I say remember them; become wiser for them.

Make all of your ugly something’s quiet triumphs. Never stop moving forward. Live how you want to live every second, of every minute, of every hour, within every week, of every damn year. Just own the life you live. Don’t deny it. Don’t shy away from it. Greet the world as you would a beloved relative, with a warm resolve to forgive, let go and to treasure all memories, even the sad ones. Embrace the rollercoaster. That’s all any of us can do.


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Sub Zeroed

It’s chilly tonight. My arms are covered in goosebumps. Pinpricks of shivers travel across my self proclaimed curves; the terrain of this body is cloaked in Winter. I could easily grab a sweatshirt or blanket, but I’m relishing the discomfort. The soul itself is uncomfortable from contorting around my rib cage, so why shouldn’t it’s vehicle be uncomfortable too? 

Again, I shudder. This cold is biting. It snaps at exposed limbs hungrily (reminding me of a starved junk yard dog). No matter though. Let it lacerate skin. I need the distraction. Focusing on phantom pain occupies my present, keeps me from looking backwards towards the past. 

All I have been doing lately is gaze behind me. Can’t shake the shadows of “what could have been” and “what I should have done.” Continuously I am cringing over wasted matters of the heart. I cannot change these former experiences as hard as I might try to. It isn’t in the power of my person to undue what has already been done. But if it were… .

I would rewrite history. Go back to that first moment he touched me and shriek, “No. Never.” Save myself the tears of future betrayals and mistakes. Nights spent with his burly arms around me, needling out the parts of myself he found too boisterous, would be erased. I would instantly be put back together; gorilla glue wouldn’t be needed to hold me upright. All those moments of my time that first love squandered would be my own again. 

Almost crazily I think, “Without that experience then none of the others would have touched me either.” The parade of suitors to follow (which in their own ways left scarification upon the skin) wouldn’t have been given the chance to meet me. Surely they wouldn’t! Wouldn’t they? Or maybe they would. Perhaps the reason I allowed myself so grossly mistreated is because I never thought myself worthy of proper respect to begin with. 

On some level, I was probably already broken. I mean, really? Whose to say I wouldn’t have made the same mistakes? If not with him then with someone else, right? What is for certain, is how crippled I am with regret. Grown weary from all my hours lost to self deprecation and unworthy lovers. I am exhausted from dancing to the tune of boys when I wish to waltz with men. 

I have to change; I have to morph into a lioness. Protect the bounty of my heart with wild abandon against predators, ignoring any pleas of mercy or placating apologies. Try to toy with my emotions will you? Then watch as I pounce upon your armor and leave welts of shame across your delicate physique.

People are not born to amuse. Women were not made to be accessories to show off to your friends. Can you not see this? The human condition demands for real connections not petty flirtations. It leaves us wanting after awhile, covetous and strange. Just look at me: I am the perfect example of embittered disillusionment.

The hopes which once could scorch the sky (the idealism of a perfect love) have become no more than a flickering candle on a pitch black night. There isn’t much left of me to give. (And oh how petrified I am to give what little of myself remains! Yet, give it I will. Freely too. Because the thirst within me cannot be quenched without risk). I crave affection. I tremble to be understood. I quake from being misled. 

Boom. Another jolt of frosted air kisses me. It mocks me while I type. All of myself turned numb, thanks to the masochist in me. Numb from love turned sour like old milk, numb from the punishment of the cold and numb from a heartbeat gone silent. I might as well be frozen where I write. I might as well be the ice among all this snow. I might as well be buried beneath your avalanche. Look at me. I am becoming nothing more than an empty igloo. Hollow. Devoid of warmth.

My blue skated eyes stare empty ahead. I have no more to say or send out into this virtual world. There is only images of a lonesome bed now and the knowledge that no comforter can provide me with any heat. The glacial breeze has finally claimed me. There shan’t be any peace in my rest tonight. I’m to languish in the cool; I’m to compose words in the company of snowflakes, jacket-less and unseen. I am slated for the Winter Winds. I am done in from all I’ve recounted and cannot keep.  

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Well Wishing

I went out today. There was rain falling from the heavens; there was wisps of fog caught in my hair. While walking lazy streets I saw them: One young love struck couple. Neither of them older than sixteen.

The boy taller than the girl, shooting past her like a beanstalk, peering down at her in admiration. The girl, brown tresses escaping her winter cap, smiled as if she knew some intricate elegant truth of the universe (all while she gazed at him). Upon witnessing such a private scene of youthful romance, I felt the interior of myself collapse. I made a wish. 

Internally I thought, let them never partEven if their roads diverge, let them love on. Let them not forget these moments when and if things grow bitter. Please. Then I passed the duo, biting my lower lip in worry. I may not look like much, but I know what it means to lose. I know how it is to be the forsaken forgotten one. It isn’t pretty. 

Your tender affection becomes poisonous. It pollutes their blood, clogs their veins and stops their heart. You (once more treasured than the holy grail) transform into a wicked leech, a life sucker. The host you clung to wants nothing more to do with you. The memories you bring taste of bitter ash lined with stale regret. In one clean surgeon’s cut, they remove the sum of you effortlessly. All is done. Any farewells made are rushed without consideration.

May that idealistic couple neither be the crushed nor the suffocated. May such devotion burn, endlessly vibrant among so many stars. I wish, I wish, I wished for that. I did. I wished for happy endings and innocence to remain pure and white and unblemished. Mostly, I think, I was wishing for myself. I was wishing for someone to stand in the cold with; I was wishing for an innocent long thriving love of my own. I was, I was and am wishing for hope. 

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Life Song

Music flutters as melancholy and vibrant as Summer rain through my ears. The hour may be late (or early, depending on your concept of time) but I care little. It is during the blackest hours, lingering with stardust that I somehow come alive. Yes, I slept a little and shall sleep again, yet in this instance I remain impervious to dreamer’s dust.

Amazingly, I do not mind the emptiness; I do not heed the ticking away of breath spent on only myself. I suppose it is because a sense of peace has finally entered this ragged body. My soul is finding solace in itself for once. No doubt the thickness of depression will try to thwart such serenity, and I say let it. My blade is sharpened, deadly in its waiting slumber to stab at my own inner demons. I am ready for anything. I am. 

Life and all of its mess (beautiful, chaotic and sometimes tragic) is at my fingertips. I will touch it as merry as a child witnesses their first snowfall. I am no longer afraid; no longer do I hide within coffins of doubt or uncertainty. Love has found its way. Love for myself, friends, family, seasons, change and for the one who lent me his jacket when I was sick from the bitter cold. 

The blaring of song continues to surround me. The hour has grown even more late (or early) as I sit, ponder, muse and reminisce. There is much to look forward to still and much to revel in the present. Indeed, the world can be yours if you simply meet it head on and screaming. This is what I am to do; this is how I will live, laughing loud while beating my fists against any obstacles. I get it. I am my own melody, an instrument of profound movement that no one can master but myself. I am beautiful, and so is all that is mine. 

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Ink Blots of Wonder


There is nothing like the written word to cheer your spirits. Be it in song, ballad, prose or in books, knowing another soul felt as you did makes the world feel less imposing. I know without these tendrils of struggle or elation preserved, I wouldn’t be half as strong as I am. I walk a little straighter and a smidgen taller because others came before me who struggled, but lived (thrived even) despite their struggles. No matter what heartache I shall face, such knowledge keeps me going. I may be weak at times, lost even, but the words of others (their quiet documents of strife, optimism and love) keep me grounded and pierces me as fiercely as an ocean’s current. For the beauty of literature, I remain breathing as resilient as ever because I am not alone. 

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