Yes, and. I love you.

I get fixated and fascinated with the loving.
The love in life. Seeking it and feeding it and needing it.
When you sense deficiencies it drives you to seek all the more,
demand it, incensed at the loss of it.
But when it encloses you, surrounds you in droves,
other aims reveal themselves.
The sky opens up and you see the great beyond.
Beyond, beyond it.
It's odd and foreign that I don't feel nearly so grasping,
so desperate, so scared.
Even the scary parts feel freeing.
Beyond that great divide, between myself and me.
This heart and mine. This heart, mine.
Even in such a short time,
to sense growth and stretches of understanding.

Just today I was thinking of future aims,
debt repayments and timed arrivals and Mama.
I can't help but consider you and this.
But even so, I'd be remiss to not think of myself.
Where do I envision going?
With or without you.
Where to travel and venture and explore confusing matters.
Aye, so this is love. Cinderella told me long ago.
Maybe that was some floundering and ill advised manner,
but this version feels just right.
Warms up the coldest bits and softens the toughest truths
that once I thought I knew.
A foundation to build something strong and steady upon.
This world feels so fresh and now so new.
And it's no pressure, no pressure at all.
Because even though you're a bright guiding star,
I aim and speak that I shall not possess you, not neglect you.
But mostly, I'm learning to not neglect myself,
to hold love for you and for me all together.
Do you feel your footing, too?

The yes, and. The ultimate yes, and.
Yes and, would you have lunch with me tomorrow?
And maybe other days after that.
Yes and this is thrilling and make believing and
no, I'm not dreaming.
You're real, you're real. I'm really here.
Yes and until it's no longer what we feel
that there is so much love and longing
and endearment and rapture and grounding and realness
and my heart. My heart.
Yes and, this breathing, this life.
Yes and, a start.

Some Self-Inflicted [Feelings] Barbarian

It's true, I haven't exactly approached this lightly.
Not so long ago, I clenched tightly the remaining jagged pieces.
Tracks of searing tears and clenched fists.
In and out, most moments defined by labored and paced breathing.
Yes, I feel it still. The shards have rounded ever so slightly,
tumbling to and fro in these remaining veins.
My very blood and guts may yet come unfurled,
any moment, any time.

I do leave the door open, wide open.
Step in or out, come and go rightly as pleased.
No longer am I one to wedge it shut
or demand what color or adornments pertain.
Comfort and security is some kind of illusion, isn't it anyway?
Nothing one could say, nothing to demand or mean.
That's not the cynic in me, I'm just learning life, you know?
I'm sure of nothing because nothing is assured.
Saith likely death and taxes.

Still, I can't help but hope we float along the same way.
On the road, in this babbling and so often tumbling stream,
through barbed thickets and dense walls of ashy stone.
Of all the choices, all the glimmering pathways.
I see you on mine and hope the same from you,
but you see, nothing is promised or quite so sure.
As honest as honest can be,
rightly and wrongly claiming some need to be.
To be special or important or noteworthy,
some inextricably enhancing quotient.

So, you see, onward I seek and stumble,
ready to release it all, to let it be.
Even my nails, painted green, remind me of days I once was
fresh and new. Untainted and unmoved. Ready to fight,
to do and take whatever it takes.
But you learn sometimes what it takes is more than one should bear.
Tears you asunder, an unknowingly self-inflicted barbarian.
It is this, this knowledge, which left you for dead
that renders you stunned and stammering and gasping for air
when you find yourself yet again at this renewed precipice,
thinking it was the end.

I look my beloved deeply in her eyes
and wonder, my dearest, my love, how are we here still again?
I saw you die, witnessed you bleed out and fragment
into billions and dozens of awkwardly shaped bits.
Was it the music, the writing, the talking all-nightly?
The time or space or nights of showering,
sobbing freely and assuring myself 'it'll be alright'?
Was it the occasional drinks and dancing to soul?
Or the struggle of acknowledging hard-to-grasp addictions?
The words of wisdom from ones most dear?
The tight hugs and assurances a new beginning was getting near?
I don't understand you and your commitment to feeling,
to belonging and seeking and sensing meaning.
You delight and amaze me, truly. Teach me lessons I never knew
could be rendered from within. Grow out of pained and blacked places.
Sometimes I'm angry and bitter about you. We never agreed which way to go.
I died, didn't you read the DNR I left for you?
Then I crumble down again, soften and realize just how awestruck I feel, how unreal.
Made anew, ready to jump and nearly effortlessly proclaim I love you.

Real and Connective Tissues

Lately I've just felt like images.
But I still have things to say.
Oddly at peace lately,
more than ever.
I knew it could be like this,
wished it true.
I'm doing the work and I do care.
I do the work because I care,
about healing and wellness
and learning from who I was and who I want to be.
Just me and me and me.
Coasting and gliding
past familiar terrain.
Odd to think of you now,
as I'm fresh and shiny and new.

I don't approach it lightly,
this thing called love.
Still quite guarded to those undeserving,
who intend me or themselves harm.
Hurt people hurt people,
and you hurt in the way I've known well.
It's ok, it's alright.
Just as I'm not fearful of being sad for awhile.
An emotion like any other,
I also know such joy and luxury these days.
The cost of being reborn, being remade.
Of being burned out and burned up,
carefully chose which pieces to pick up.
It's not that I feel invincible or beyond reach
of damning waves and steep cliffs.
But I've scaled it and learned to climb,
bridged the gap between heart and mind.
You don't scare me, dear.
I'm not going anywhere.
Not delusion, nor grandeur.
Here is where I am, as long as it feels right.
Right and here and real and connective.

Nothing but Waves

Perhaps it is true,
that I want nothing from you.
But just now that nothing feels like everything.
Like really something.
Like energy and fire and power and flame.
Peacefully powerful flame.
Like you and me,
riding waves and crashing dreams.

Cloud Surfing by Trash Riot

Her Love is Tempered with Fear

tem·per

/ˈtempər/

verb

gerund or present participle: tempering

1. 1.

   improve the hardness and elasticity of (steel or other metal) by reheating and then cooling it.

   • improve the consistency or resiliency of (a substance) by heating it or adding particular substances to it.

     synonyms:

     harden, strengthen, toughen, fortify, anneal "the steel is tempered by heat"

2. 2.

   serve as a neutralizing or counterbalancing force to (something).

   "their idealism is tempered with realism"

   synonyms:

   moderate, modify, modulate, mitigate, alleviate, reduce, weaken, lighten, soften "their idealism is tempered with realism"

3. 3.

   tune (a piano or other instrument) so as to adjust the note intervals correctly.

Living this life. Thank you.

Blood Oranges and Sweet Nothings

Beaming. Walking in even late, the smiles couldn't help but pour out.
They know, they know something is off. Something is new.
Smiles, smiles and eye glances for miles.
Hair in braids, carrying a pie.

All this corny shit. It comes to me, quotes and temptations to pontificate.
I know not if it be fleeting or longer and drawn out.
And the odd realization is, it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.
So present and in the moment.
Gratitude seems an over-utilized verb as of late,
but I can't say I've ever quite been here.
Out of my head, yet settled right in my body.
Grounded, yet floating high.
Here and now, but capable of dreams and future fantasy.
Feeling free and non-possessive.
“You must love in such a way that the person you love feels free.”
Falling, but standing up tall. So tall.
Lady Gaga and cuckoo bananas,
wide-eyed and curious and determined still.
Still. Still me. Still all those cracks and fixes.
All of me with pieces and parts of you.
Beyond where I once used to be.


Otherwise inconsequential dances tell tales,
maybe realities yet unseen.
What's it to you? What's it to me?
Everything and nothing and something
really something.
Even life changing. Could be.

And the goodbyes.
The goodbyes.
Did I tell ya about the goodbyes?
The challenges that change ya.
Elevate you to new and freshened levels.
Demand the most and see you at your best.

Meet you where I'll meet ya,
where we meet and you meet me.
On bridges and edges and the precipice.
Maybe it's not true for every person that beyond fear is freedom,
something bright and blustery
demanding, but not at all.
Out of my depths, and swimming just fine.
I've learned to pace my breathing down here,
to make my own flotation devices.
Roll myself into that ball,
complete and lovely and craving you still.
Filled up beyond the brim.
Thirsty and eating it all up,
bit by bit and each moment,
closer and closer.
Not afraid really, not even a bit.
I'll dance with you, if you want to dance with me.
Right here, right there.
With you, darling, anywhere.
I'll leave it at this,
whatever may come, be it nothing more or more bliss.
All of it and all of you. Lovely you.
Thank you, I mean it. For existence.
For sharing and giving and blood oranges and sweet nothings.

“I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other,” it said.

The Angry and Beautiful Truth

I think the anger is buried. The anger is buried and it carries a weight
that I don't even know to acknowledge.
I'm angry that you're gone and missing
and maybe still not getting help.
I'm angry that no one ever put up boundaries that made a damn difference,
that money was equated with love and caring
and that we now have none to give.
I'm angry you didn't know better and thought I was mean,
that I didn't care. That I wasn't willing to enable and shield.
I'm angry that this week was your birthday
and that I can't say it to you.

The truth is a brutal bitch
and the truth is I miss you.
But I can't be with you.
I'm angry that I have become some default secretary and gatekeeper of data.
It's not what I wanted for me and for you and for us, all of us.
I'm angry at so many enabling people,
at toxic behaviors and beliefs perpetuated for so long.
I'm angry that we were made into adults as we inhabited children's bodies.
That other adults meant to guide us acted like children, so we couldn't.
I'm angry for the pain in the world and that things really aren't fair.
I'm angry that that's not how it works.
That cycles of abuse perpetuate until someone is ready to feel it.
And I've sat through the fiery remains of all we were, what family became.
Examining and cultivating new definitions. New realities.
Without Mom and without you, dear sister. Without Grandpa.

I'm angry that she can't remember and even when she could,
didn't have the tools to wrangle you or to know the love she deserved.
I'm angry that they told her if she didn't like how it was she should leave.
For the cycles of abuse, for desecrated definitions of family.
Of love and caring and closeness.
It became insanity and chaos and meanness.
I used to be so angry for the drugs and drinking,
but that's old news now.
I realized I can't really be angry, not at her.
She doesn't remember all the times it wasn't safe.
She also doesn't know just how much I love her,
doesn't recall all the beautiful times and moments
that defined and guided me to the woman I've become.

And really, I'm angry that I'm not really angry at all.
That I carry this weight around in my body and being,
not sure of where it has settled or how to view it most clearly.
Anger only serves a purpose for a bit,
then you decide if you turn to wine or vinegar.
I've found that to ring very true.
Because what I'm left with now is
gratitude and gladness for the things that remain.
For my dearest brother and father and stepmother
and memories of goodness to treasure near.
I'm grateful even now to want to be alive,
because there were surely times to pain was too great,
too near, too overwhelming to bear.

I'm grateful to have stumbled upon the closest thing to prayer,
to have the ability to send you love and warmest wishes.
To wish you the very best
even as I know I can't be near you, can't see you or speak with you.
I'm grateful for the times I channel strength
to get organized and respond to inquiries of where you are.
I'm grateful at learning to find contentment in the gray spaces,
of not knowing what tomorrow brings,
if you'll survive or cease to exist. All of it must be ok.
For any outcome, I love you still.
Always have, always will.
Dear sister, dear mother, dear universe,
give us strength and love and the abilities to carry on.
To hold tight to one another and ride this storm through its end.
It's ok, it's alright.
Much of life is alarmingly not right
but I'm emboldened and assured that this too shall pass.
It has and it will and we survive, still.

There's so much beauty to behold and I'm finding it, bit by bit.
For friends and family and loving friends that are family.
For glimpses of sunny skies and the agency to breathe in and out.
For free will and the best damn brother, Will.
For knowing I'm quite a strong and resilient person
and for finally believing it and claiming it as a badge.
For the patience and ability to sit still,
for letting the tears stream down and heal my own wounds.
For channeling the hurts into good,
and showing others an example of what growth is or could be.
For survival and all the ways we stand tall,
while holding strong to the truth
that life really is suffering and total shit and awful
and still,
here I am, here we are.
Thriving and striving and seeking for love, still.

In Gratitude

Craving and wanting
waiting, then staying.
Staying over, severely shortened the commute.
The touches and glances
got me beaming ear-to-ear.
Sure, I'm nervous, but equally thrilled,
grateful and present beyond compare.
Bringing out the goodness,
once a week or two.
Whatever it is, whatever it becomes or doesn't.
Glad to know it, feel it, sense and believe it.

And of me, of me, of me.
Moments with just this one.
Looking at myself back in the mirror,
grasping the reflection and nature of loneliness.
Not lonely, but alone.
Seeing myself, still,
as I see you. See you. Really see.
See you seeing me.
Seeing me and not forgetting.
Being open and not disregarding the feeling
of knowing a shattered state, of healing,
of protecting this tender and lovely soul of mine.
Breathing it in, breathing you out and in and out.

Walking this line and that.
To see and know the risk, learning of the possibilities.
"I will never understand you, but I want to learn you."
Correct you are, yes. And the same. All the same to you.
If it's the same to you,
being enamored with each precious second and space.
To be heard, to be seen.
I shall listen and listen more, still.
To this, to the beats of each soul.
Of to there and me to here.
Back in a later time and space.
Refreshed will be my eyes and arms and memory.

Ready for more.
I can't get enough of you, he said.
Yes, I know that feeling on my skin.
Enough until it is enough
or not.
The door is open and closed and open
and ready for whatever might waltz in.
Into this once broken woman.
Anew. Afresh. Awoken. Aghast. In awe.
In gratitude. I go and come in gratitude.
Here I shall remain.

Art by Eugenia Loli. 

Around

Patience. I've channeled so much patience.
Proud and patient and learning,
growing while yearning.
In moments I realize myself amazed,
in awe of people I'm with and how far I've come.
The beautiful souls in my bed,
fresh on my mind and yet,
I'm doing my damnedest to avoid familiar patterns.
Carve out brain space for only the smartest folks and things,
new habits and pleasure hobbies.
Free time is free, overwhelming and free.
Ukulele and Spanish and Chorus Girl dancing.
Or lifting barbells whilst watching Netflix-y shows.
Knitting or baking or even candlestick makin'.
Anything or everything, could be.
Even moments of nothing, purely nothing.
No social media, no phone, no tv, no remote,
just the programming I might usually tune out.
The one that runs me around,
runs me sometimes into the ground.
Odd to realize I really am doing alright,
giving myself insights into peace and quiet.
An observant to my own experiences,
watching the world rotate around.
Sitting here or there,
with myself anywhere.
Comfortable as alone, as with others.
I've become what I aimed to be,
so yes, I am proud.
Proud and patient and learning,
growing while yearning.

Tea Leaves

I have things to say, you know.
Mostly I'm not afraid to say it and share bits of my essence,
and even if I was, I do it anyway.
I'm aware it leaves me exposed and vulnerable,
open to exploitation.
It also renders me accessible and open,
ready for possibilities and corresponding feelings.
The good, right along with the bad.
The risk and the possibility.
The possibility of you, of me,
of growing into some new human
I only dreamed once I could be.
Fake it until you believe it, they said.
So maybe I did, maybe I have and now believe
I am likable and lovable and everything in between.
Not everyone's cup-o-tea, dream maven to-be.
To some, these leaves might seem unpalatable,
undesirable even when steeped, served with biscuits and sweets.
To others, something exotic, something to seek,
use up until the appeal is no longer visibly seen.
And still to others, maybe to you, all that and more,
desired and edible all the same.

Gnawing Tendencies: Rewiring this Motherboard

Gosh, you're cute.
So cute and so smart.
It's all a rush and I need to keep my head on.
I am and mostly, I am.
Here and not there.
Present and not absent.
Learning to fight addictive and gnawing tendencies,
seeing you or any other as just another.
Not inhuman, not a fantasy, not some rescuing force.
A human with weaknesses and flaws
none ever capable of filling in for me.
The space I'm learning to hold, must hold.
For me and myself and me and a bit for you.
My hand tremors to and fro,
as unsure and resounding as my tenderest heart.
Soft and fierce and soft and sometimes fierce,
back and forth, guessing the validity of asserting oneself.
Standing this ground,
strong and transparent.
Ever so soft and fierce. That's me, that's now.
Final conclusions can almost never be reached.
Merely you get insights into tendencies,
snippets and bits of who we project ourselves to be.
But damn it, you're cute anyway.
I like you and could maybe one day love you.
But for now, I'm sitting and stewing in this
sensation and putting stop to undue fantasy.
Learning healthy habits and brain waves,
while getting to know all of you.
Each and every adorable damn one of you.
My dials are set, the path is clear
gearing up as I get nearer and nearer.
Further from before and the past.
Here upon the present and foreseeable more.
The irresistible shall be resisted,
tempering these cravings with collages and books
and orange eyeball throws. My comforter has that design.
Resist and persist and re-wire this motherboard.
You. I see you. I see you and want you and see you all the more.
Breathing and breathing and seeing it through.
Cute person, cute person, let's just take it kinda slow.

Scatterbrained and funny haired, with red nails.

Charismatic, they said.
New red nails, I said.
Brainstorming and dreaming of ways to channel money,
more resources towards debts and towards savings goals.
Travels and tattoos and couches and cosmic adventures.
True story, they said.

New earrings and a pin,
to express a thought and capture a style.
Get out these ideas, get them out.
Give me the chance to focus and get it right.
I've saved almost 2 grand towards goals, after all.
Things to do, places to be, people to meet and see.
Here and then there, scatter brained and funny haired.

I aim to create collages,
glued together images, here and there.
Condoms and borax acid, an unlikely tag team.
Arose at 5, made muffins using apples.
Washed and scrubbed, dressed and left, un-rushed.
Good muffin, they said.

Little pockets of Monday joy.
Already dreaming of what I'll do after.
They said I'm beaming, full of joy and happiness.
Happiness on my own, in my own way.
Without you or any of them.

Giving it all to me, mostly all to me.
The love and leisure and otherwise confusing thoughts,
getting to understand this beauty before me.
Counting the cadences from here and through this heart.
The rhythm of my words and apples on the tree.

Perhaps it's all too confusing to care,
but this is therapy right here.
You're killing it, they told me.
You're doing it right, doing it well.
Living and surrendering to this one and only life.
Try and tried different methods and directions,
stumbling upon tactics that warm me up and gas up the soul.

Running and not running on empty.
Fill your own bucket, light up your own beams.
Sunshine and hearts and roses or whatever it may be.
That day, this day. Caring and concern looks different.
Different for geese and different for ducks.
Sat there and watched them meticulously
scrap and remove the yellowed chips and residue.
That was caring on Saturday, yesterday it was wine tasting and photography.

These nails are red, they rounded the tips.
These eyes are brightened and full of blue,
looking and seeking meaning and reasons to continue seeking.
In the future, a no-spending month or sweetened delicacy.
Each day and week, another chance to explore my own giving tree.
Greened and new and gasping fresh air.

The agency, the honor
of being alive and wanting it, too.
The freedoms to write and challenge the status quo(s).
I didn't hear anger, she said to me.
Though it's there and it's there,
rendering it un-buried and treasured within.

On and on and out and out.
Thought one, thought two,
all of the more.
Goodbye, farewell.
It's done for now.

Kind Strangers and Tea Ceremonies

Maybe it'll never happen again,
maybe it was a one-time exclusive.
It's not fear, exactly,
but feeling alive and present is nice.
I'll take it when I get it.
Run with the sensation and treasure it near.
Thank you, kind stranger.
For opening and sharing and spreading yourself
in my life, on my soul.
Perhaps it's worth it to grieve and celebrate all at once.
For sensing greater possibility reveals the chance for loss
and nothingness, but also everything.
Life can be everything and nothing.
Embracing each and every nook and cranny,
I want you and it and all of it.
The fudge and nights of cleaning
and late night teas and coffees.
Agency and will to do as I might,
hope as I might.
I'm grateful, all the same.
Watching the ebbs and flows,
writing just because, just for me.
Doing laundry and staying occupied.
Not sure of the best sleep schedule or bed time.
Last night I fell asleep after midnight and woke up on time anyhow,
hardly any rhyme or reason to it all.
Perhaps I could exercise, get my body fit and trim.
I find inspiration in that stranger,
full of dreams and aspirations and bodily quarrels.
I know it's not for me to focus on others
and I don't intend to, not now.
For if it's not this one, it's another.
The only one I'm left with is myself.
The comfort and love and dream about,
to pleasure and charm and not able to live without.
Let this yearning and fantasizing become nothing more
than that. Just here and now. Taking it as it is.
It is.
It is as it is as it is.
My heart grows stronger the longer I'm away from you
and you're no longer part of my life and psyche.
Broke it. Broke it all. We broke it and you broke it and I broke it.
Broke it. The gift and box and darkness and light and love.
Left it to wilt and die. And die it did.
And growing again, I am.
Growing and giving and living
and dreaming of more than now. More than ever.

Apples and Surprising Pleasantries

I ended up picking apples by myself,
it was just fine. Munched a baked potato and listened to old country.
We spent so much time in the corn maze and then again, I was late.
So often, I am late. But embraced all the same.
I'm so blessed with the team and work family that I have,
they see me and hold me near. As I do them, too.
It's a blessing, it's a gift.

"You're one of the most grateful people I know," my friend said to me.
Funny, I don't think it was always so.
Depression humbled me in more ways than I can count
and now I just run with it. The highs and lows and new found talents.
The silver linings and sunnier skies

I'm receiving things I've typically given freely and it feels odd.
A happy, pleasant odd sensation and reflection.
Massages and food and giving and wow,
so much I still have to learn. I'm ready for the lessons to continue.

Of Glorious Fortitude

I've been getting rid of things. Trinkets and toys and forgotten clothes. Books and cups and various assortments of kitchen pots. The more I let it go, the more I see what I have. The more I have thoughts flying free, ready to grab like a key. With wings, flying around and around. Waiting for the one, just one that I need. Less and less things. Getting rid of 450 and more items, not dreams. Maybe I could even do it again, lessen the load a bit more.
Even as more suitors present themselves, I find myself ever so curious about her. About me. How she feels to be in this time of contentment and relative peace. I haven't cried, not really. Not longing and wishing or begging for a different reality. This is the only one I may ever hope to possess. What a glory, what a joy. I'm my own dream master, soup chef, and telephone telecaster. What does it all mean? Does it matter if it rhymes or reads with ease?
The zinc made my tummy ache and the chicken stock was warmly soothing, but didn't aid in relief. I set tonight aside to heal and fix and soak away the dread. What dread? I hardly even feel dread, really. Tomorrow shall come early and I shall rise, sooner or later, sooner the better.
Swimming in gratitude. Maybe a flotation device or round tube is all I see. Enough to keep me alive and give me air. This cat, this home, this lovely peace. Heaven has shown herself to me. It looks different to me now. Not really anyone is near to me. It's a new leaf or different shade, realities I never knew laying themselves bare. A gift that was carefully, but also haphazardly communicated. Mashed into life out of raging heat and searing pains. The broken iron pressed profoundly into this existence, leaving an unmistakable commitment to knowing truth. The real and revealing truth I never wanted to see, it's now all I see. I'm glad, now, and regrets are few and not in between.
The tears only come now from joy and heartfelt relief. That I've made it out, made it out in all the pieces. Melded and made stronger with golden bandages and heavily profound months and months and grueling years, really. We run and run and distract from this true reality. Because it hurts and it pains and rips us through. But that will happen anyway and the smiles you discover within the suffering are wide enough to bridge the biggest gaps and burned out holes.
You're strong and brave, they say. Now I know it to be unmistakably true. Those battles I threw myself strongly in to, the wounds I apologized for I've learned to embrace. To shed the layers of misleading representations.
Strong and brave, yes she is. Look at her hair, blowing on through. Running into the waves and channeling the flame, feeling it burn up and down, tip to tip and toe to toe. Walking and squawking and laughing a bit, too. So much strength in getting to know weakness. A warrior, a hero, a spirited goddess of glorious fortitude. Can't you see it now? If only you could. I'm here on my own, like I said. Taking baths, and eating veggie stews, and singing tunes. Writing to myself in this very time and space. You're a vision, my dear. Can't you see it? Look at you now.

Here

Tunes loudly in my ears.
I recenter the keyboard on my lap,
close my eyes
and breath deeply.
Look up and down my arms,
realizing I'm in this moment.
Ready to unwind and unleash
thoughts and musing and dreams
upon this medium, these keys.
Lady Gaga and laundry and Lara Croft.
I'm not in love with Judas, baaaby.
Not any more.
All the tension and fear I drug to and fro
has all but dissipated.
You've done so good,
done so good.
you've done it.
I splay my arms open,
acknowledging the immense relief.
Remember this. This space and sensation.
The breathing is not labored or calculated,
it just flows in and out. Out and in. In and out.
Wild hair, wild heart.
She's always here, always been here.
You can do this, Alex. You can do this.
You're doing this.
You've done so good.
Power mix, inspirational jams.
Who cares if this reads well or makes sense,
I'm alive.
I'm alive
after all.
Here. Just here. Thank goodness.
I'm here.

Focus. Try to focus. Write and focus.

Could I ever write enough to feel relief? No, doubtful. Because discomfort comes with the territory. Of being and breathing and being conscious. I write and write and scribble bits of this reality, this one I know. I woke up on time, gave the cat kibbles, and started a pot of coffee. I watched porn and fantasized and realized if used well, fantasizing can be a healing tool. I procrastinated and did things other than what might be wise. I contemplated more sleep and plans for the rest of the day. Work and structure can be helpful, but other times hindering. I do feel proud. I feel strong and accomplished and almost indifferent. It's good, it's all good. But even when it's not as good, it's ok. It's a continuum and I'm glad for the energy and focus to produce, to make this thing in this moment. To have the ability to think and dissect thoughts and ideas. To have the capacity for social connection and interaction. To reflect and know gratitude, even through the pains and aches.
I want to challenge myself, but not destroy myself. Hold myself accountable, but not shred my attempts at improvement or just getting by. Today is an off-day and a struggle, but not every day is and I've made positive and healthy changes. I'm in the midst of a med change. Focus feels out-of-reach at the moment, but I'll try more in the next few hours.

What Healing from Heartache Can Look Like: A Timeline

There was a stretch, immediately after, I found myself seeking a formula,

something to consult and reference for guidance. I asked all my friends and close confidants. 

Of ways to chop through the brush and breathe amid the noxious gas and poison.

I was looking to in-part, survive. To eventually thrive, but also to escape.

It introduced me, in big ways, to the intimate reasons folks use coping mechanisms and self-medication.I have my own ways, sure, but mostly none have impeded an ability to function. But now I understand, and more vividly understood why.

People share shards of knowledge, tried and true phases that feel somewhat infuriating in the moment. Time heals all, things happen for a reason, you're better off, isn't it better?, et al, et al. 

But...they made it. That strong person you know that was once broken into a million bits is standing, still. Look at them. One day that could be you. You'll get through. Just keep swimmin', just keep breathing. You're stronger for not being afraid to feel weaker. You hold your very heart in your hand, wondering how you ever found it a good idea to pass it along to a relative stranger, so unassuming. It's ok, really, it's a testament to the beauty and belief of love. There's little rhyme or reason, it's just a feeling that compels one to charge full-force, without reservation and over analyzation. Only later might you know regret or concern or fear for what you've done, the pieces of yourself you so willingly gave over. The unassuming pain of a love known and lost. It's just gone. And you hold yourself tight and dream of days when you might breathe again. 

Indeed, the first 6 months following the breakup were pure hell fire,

left me gasping and sobbing and burned into nothingness. 

I knew it was happening and hated it mostly all the way, yet embraced it.

Hoped for light on the other side, told myself this was a type of penitence 

and reckoning for traumas and trends never fully examined. 

Not that I deserved it, not more than anyone. But pain is painful.

And women in my line maybe thought they'd deserved it, too. 

A catharsis, in the way that happiness can be, too. 

I scribbled poems that seemed like emo lyrics, I wrote angry and impassioned letters to my ex lover,

ones that I never intended to send. But after realizing I couldn't do it in one letter, I started a notebook. It became a friend, something I held to and consulted when emotions boiled over.

In that time I learned what boundaries could look like, something I had never really practiced. Told him I couldn't text, couldn't talk, couldn't see him. And something I still practice now. Something I aim to do until I am at least indifferent. Indifferent to them and that past and dreams of what I thought I wanted and knew. All of it, gone. 

Made plans for myself, week-by-week and month-by-month. Things I'd been waiting on others to do or never believed myself capable or worthy. Planned more and more, made times just for me.
Haircuts and times of no cuts, just sitting still. Getting nails painted, having new experiences or old fears exonerated. Feeling angry at everything and then at nothing, because you start to see the waves just as they are. Not good or bad, just there. The only thing to do is to ride them. Design your board or piece of drift wood. Create a divot for your head and lasso yourself tightly.

Look to others who have survived and made it out alive. Remind yourself it won't be this way forever. It won't. And turns out, it didn't.

Months 7 through now, I grew sea legs and learned to start walking again.

Realized the time frame is much less noteworthy than what I do with it, what I've done. Kept thinking it meant something if I wasn't visibly healed or different or re-made. So much of this newness and growth is visible just to me, but still others see bits and pieces of the person I've morphed and come to be. The number of smiles I have to share or outfits I wear, the ability to somehow date again. I remember the moment I realized that's what my grief meant. Believed I had to be fully well and whole again to share time with others, but you get back to yourself ever so carefully. It takes months and months and sometimes years, still. It doesn't mean you can't open up to more people still and see yourself a bit in them and learn differently of what care and sometimes recklessness can be. Ah, those nights that fade into mornings. The ones you'll never call again, but are maybe glad to have stumbled upon either way. You're not that person that for so long you were convinced you must be. I would never, I could never. Turns out, sometimes you can and it delights your soul more than you knew. I'm wild and funny and carefree and indifferent and all so many things. Part-adventurer, part-homebody, all-Alexandria. All real. Part that person who might jump out of a plane or dance by myself and another time, got my car towed and cheeseburgers alone at 4am. All of her, all of me. Curious to so much, open to all and each situation, because what are expectations? I'm a Buddhist-inspired, open dating, come-what-may, dating goddess of the future. That's me.

And still, unafraid to be scared. So much so that when I encounter circumstances that feel so good and honest and connected, they are terrifying. But I don't stop. I take my pulse, gauge the emotions, communicate them, evaluate this moment, and keep moving on, feeling just as free. I speak of love and what it could mean, indulge in so many kisses and frantic grasps and longings, and fewer and fewer thoughts of who he was and who I used to be. Because growth isn't linear and the path might be wild, but it's filled with so much fun and moments to feel such freedom. In me. In living that early 20s existence or getting to know un-explored parts of just me.

There's this inconsequential and exceedingly sweet tactic that came to me, in a moment of pure fear and vulnerability and alone-ness. So simple you'd miss it if you were looking at me. I touch my own thigh and remind myself, "I'm right here, I'm never going anywhere. I'm with you and I love you. Always will." Nothing I needed from anyone, nor anything anyone could give me. That silly self-love that is touted and spelled out as a cure-all. Maybe it is real, but surely it looks different for each person, in each time and space. But these moments I have with myself, no matter who I'm with or not, I feel seen. I feel sweet love and joy and serendipity. "I've got you, boo. I'm right here," I say to myself, with a smirk.

And to think, this all came out of the biggest pain and heartbreak and anger and bitter and alone and hopelessness. It grew and got so big that I can no longer separate from who I am. Until you feel it grown in yourself, it feels impossible to ever believe it so. 

But I share this to even for a bit, help others know, it's possible. That feeling of worth and belonging and sense of oneness is there for the taking. Fake it in all the moments you don't think you'll make it. The phoenix teaches us something that usually feels corny to say and there's no exact image that might not feel tainted or sucked of real meaning. From fire and ash and nothingness can grow a new human, a renewed existence, a raging flame. To be, as they say, a wounded healer. To realize that often, on the other side of fear, there is freeeeeedom.

Thank you all for supporting me and seeing me through this chaotic and messy and necessary and self-making journey. In all the moments I felt so alone and impossible and far from reach, you saw and helped me. Thank you. xoxox Alex

Something More or Less

I'm taken

but not taken away or taken down.

See the clouds 

but not floating in them.

Feel the high

but am not high.

Grounded in the goodness

of the moment and space and person and place.

Is this what it's supposed to feel like?

Maybe even has,

I forget.

Grounded in myself and what I want or don't,

what and who I am just now.

Not obsessing and ruminating and wondering 

how and why and when.

It just is or isn't or will or won't be. 

Who is this I now am?

It's not with each person or moment or connection.

Nay, some drive me mad or leave me indifferent and feeling bland.

Out of my mind and out of my head,

directed by fear or misconstrued fantasy.

Who they are, where they've been.

Do they text me enough or mean what they said?

Let us not become some drug, some species to marvel at.

Let us not grasp in desperation, nor fear.

For each other and the connection we could so easily cling to.

I've attached here and there, 

I've attached myself everywhere.

To him and him and him and still more.

Don't leave me. Don't you need me?

Don't you want me? Say it's true.

Say it again, in every language and way you can name.

Lest I believe it, for certainly I can't be worthy

of love. Of connection and wanting.

It's not the way, 

not the way and path on which I want to walk.

Not in fear and with anxiety tight in the chest.

Easy and more carefree, perhaps there's something there.

Do we attract what we are? Maybe, perhaps.

But the concept of "deserving" is so damn fickle, who's to say. 

Love is a confounding concept and practice to grasp,

even more common to throw around, sensationalize,

something on which to capitalize. 

The broken road, it has blessed me, it's true.

All the trials and tribulations and looking at myself, straight on.

Uncomfortable truths and unsavory realities,

they're right there along with the most glamorous and shiny parts of me.

Dark and light and glossy and matte,

the color gradients and variances of the messy beauty I am.

We all are, each of us. 

There's nothing that hatred or shame or stigma can render clean,

the power in acceptance and letting it all just be.

Belief in a deity isn't necessary, even.

But there were moments a prayer or two saw me through,

shown some beams of hope into the most abandoned corners of my spirit.

I think now, more than ever, I see myself most visibly.

Clear in the knowledge that I'll change, 

things won't always be predictable or comfortable.

But that's nothing to say about me or loving or leaving

or the care and attention I want and will always be needing.

Digging that well deeper and deeper and filling it up 

with goodness and gratitude and forgiveness. 

I realize now the eagerness and receptiveness and general unattached demeanor.

We become what we believe we are and what we "deserve", eh? 

Perhaps some of my experiments and rewiring has gone through,

taught me new realities I didn't used to believe.

Take the lessons and leave the rest, 

don't employ the same tactics again and again and again.

Try it new, try it fresh.

Make yourself uncomfortable and explore what hurts or is wrecked.

Then, be absolutely and immensely surprised by what comes next.

Enlightening and precious,

something more or less.

Away

She moved, she moved
she fucking moved.
Away.
I remember the day she told me,
had put it off because she imagined I'd be upset.
Maybe yes, I am.
Because you left, always knew she wasn't destined to stay.
When you run and run and run away
from unpleasantries, things that don't rub you the right way.

In the middle here I see it rather crystal clear.
You had to go and he forever aimed to stay.
In the middle is where I shall stay.
Aware of that future I always dream and hoped for
and the reality I've been lucky to settle into.
There is more I could do,
make more money and help get her better.
The help it costs money, you see.
The power to arrange a life that feels best and right
heals her spirit and anxious soul, too.

But we're in that middle place.
Neither hell nor peace.
Without you in it, we survive any how.
And where are you?
Alive and well? Dying and compelled to hell?
I'm only as mad as this sentence is long.
Mostly I hope for better days and not feeling an arrow
when I hear your name.
Stuck in my chest and drops of dew upon my skin.
You're with me until my very end.
Not a day goes by I don't imagine you real and here,
even there and away.
Either way, as long as you're alive.

In my dream of dreams you'll return.
Back into this world,
healed and transformed.
Lessened of the anger that drove you so mad,
caused you to hear terrible and awful things.
But for now I'm just sometimes angry and sometimes grieved.
That you're there and not here,
out of reach.
Beyond the sanity and light and reach.
Be there as you are, we'll stay right here.

Where Does the Pain Go?

Where does the pain go? she asked me.
Since last night I've asked myself again and again.
In the moment I said "in my body."
I think it's in my body.
Where else could it go?
I've become so versed and confident in speaking of pain
like some familiar friend.
A person I know in and out.
Here, let me package this loss in a way that doesn't harm you,
doesn't make you squirm or generate looks that seem like pity.
I believe I've been dealing with it and processing it,
but it's possible some got suppressed.
In repackaging the complications,
I added new complications.
Muffled the way to my heart.
Protected others at the expense of my own processing.
It's entirely possible, I said.

Why do little things feel so hard?
Like getting up on time, doing dishes, cleaning the liter box.
Why? These little, small things.
I surmise because I had no choice with these big things.
Maybe it's existential, she suggested.
I am existential, that makes complete sense.
No say in the bigger, all encompassing, impossible feeling issues.
Compartmentalizing is survival, it seems.
I forget, sometimes, about all the different compartments, until I begin to disclose.
"Wow, that's so much. That's really heavy. But you're so happy, so nice" they might say.
Yes, maybe I am all these things.

My loss is no different than any loss, except that it's mine.
My Mom. My Sister. My sanity. My reality. My heart. My damn pain.
I've not given much space or permission to indulge in it for long because well...
it could be worse. It's not so bad. I'm lucky. I'm lucky.
That's true, too. I have gratitude, so much gratitude. My Dad. My Brother. Friends upon friends.
Safety upon safety and heart-to-heart, moment to moment they bring me back.
Remind me it's not so bad. There is goodness.
But also, there is pain and loss and awful situations and we all have them. Maybe, yes.
Maybe it's both and all. Coffee and tea. Cinnamon and sugar. Bitter and sweet.
Yes, all of it. Together and separate and mixed into a big beautiful pie.

Buddhism teaches that life is suffering
and initially I found it to be so uncouth and off-putting.
How pessimistic, how negative, how uncool.
But much later it returned to me a comforting persona,
frameworks and guiding light in an atmosphere of chaos.
Sense of togetherness and shared struggles.
The good just as long lasting as the bad, neither here nor there.
Just is. Just is. Just is as it is.
But along the way I feel the feels, temper the pain with remembrance of the good.
Sure, I've survived and made it on through. To here.
To the location of this pain. I'm finding it, seeing it, being it.
Suffering the healing beauty of it.

So, where does the pain go?
It's here, it's there, it's everywhere.
You and me and he and them and she.
We are all this pain,
but for now I'm starting with me.
Here with this pain.
My body, my body, my temple.
Walking the path through my soul,
getting to know every inch and cranny, day by day.
Thank you, dear pain. I'm alive and well and seeing you through.
We got this, ok? We really do.







Work by Eugenia Loli

To My Sister

I just had the thought
will I ever be ready?
Ready for the day I receive an update,
the news of where you are and where you've been.
Are you alive, are you dead?
I miss you and think of you often
and maybe I shouldn't
but whenever I do I send warm wishes and hope.
I send hugs and place my hands to the sky.
Because you're my sister.
Because I've seen too much beauty in you
and know too much to think you are beyond hope.

No, I know you're a fighter. To your very core.
I oddly found myself praying for you
when I realized there was nothing else to do.
For years I watched as person by person gave you their version of help,
be it money or pleading or distance or some other thing you might be needing.
Did it ever really help?
Maybe yes or maybe not.

I just know I miss you and I'm not one to give up,
I think of you so often and pray and hope and wish like hell
you find the strength and courage and love you so deserve.
You owe it to yourself.
Life is a fucking asshole and it breaks us down,
what you've been through is nothing short of impossible.
But you're a fighter, dear sister.

Please fight and heal and come back to us.
I can't help you the way you wanted me to or us to, perhaps.
But I held your face in my hands,
fully aware it might be the last time I ever touched you
or saw you with my own eyes.
It was ages ago now and even then I knew we couldn't convince you
to swim away from that which was drowning you.

I've found it a challenge to acknowledge so many hard truths,
mostly about myself and the nature of life.
It tears you the fuck down and doesn't care if you stand back up.
But I care, I found a way to care about myself
and I care about you. Gosh do I miss you.
Worry and think about you.
And remind myself to send joy and love
and moments of prayer. How odd to be a person who never knew I'd pray.
But I do, just for you.

I love you, sister.
Please heal, please fight, please know your feelings are just right,
but don't let them kill you. Don't let it grind you down.
You are strong as hell, we women are.
I'm fighting for you, I take you with me each moment and day.
I love you, beloved sister.
Please know you are loved today and on and on,
through and through.

Paths

What if
what if
what if.
I can't know.
Won't know.
Ought need not know.
Does it make a difference in my reality?
In how that memory lands?
How that time felt and what it could mean?
Maybe not.
Maybe it's important to have fewer answers,
we are complex and autonomous and separate entities.
Even with information presented, there's no sure fire way to verify.
What if
it's ok.
What if it was just one lesson, not a reoccurring class?
What if it means nothing either way?
What if I'll never know?

Ships in the night, momentarily passing by.
To learn the lesson of catch and release,
let it go, let it be,
release attachment and be with peace.
Goodbye and hello
hello and goodbye, kind soul.
As you come and as you go,
I'll be here and there.
Maybe we'll cross paths again.

Rumble, Ramble

The rumbling glee
the reluctance and falling face down, free.
Previous versions of me are there
right next to this newest and shiny identity.
She's lovely, she's thrilled, and basking in the glow
of adventures unfolding and moments of not-quite knowing.
Shit. I like you. Shit.
Forward, onward, yes.
Riding the wave, alive and alone.
The glee, this anticipation,
yet seated steady and embracing open ended
situations and people and
me and you and me and you and all of them.

To Know Free

Things to write, things to say, things to do.
The vices I stumble upon cause me to work through
the uncomfortable bits and lasting scars,
even bits where I can't quite identify the cause.
People to see. More and more people to see.
I want to see them all, spend time, and consider you.
But what about me, what about Smee?
The drugs in all the forms that we choose.
Let it strip me down to a bare boned skeleton
before realizing what even happened.
Led them right down the path, hands wide open.
Energy fields, is that all we are?
Yours and mine, I feel you and you feel mine.
Maybe it really is that simple,
not complex and full of logistics.
Simple as just me.
Art and music and sex and honesty.
That's it. What more could there be?
Just a coupla souls, aching to know free.

Laments on this Truth

A little bit freaked out, a bit more grounded.
Sometimes I miss you, but mostly not at all.
Often I can't write exactly what I mean,
can't spell it correctly or use it well.
Feel myself growing ever-so-slowly,
yet I believe myself stuck.
Immovable and convinced of my place.
Back and forth and back and forth,
you're just as unsure as I am.

In these explorations and musings, we're all together.
I've been the abused and the abuser,
knew my role or found it after moving through
the pain, the pleasure, the fear and the love.
All of it exists side by side and next to one another.
I want to be everything and nothing,
everyone to everyone,
nobody to everyone.

It's nice to feel like somebody now and then
a somebody to all of them,
sometimes only in message and other times in the flesh.
Learning parts of myself I didn't know could exist,
the joy of getting to know who the hell I am.
I'm complex and sometimes just so simple,
but not basic. I laugh at the clarification.
The poetics amuse me, after all.

Life is a gamble, a rhyme, something to know.
I know I am 30, ever-so-nearly 31.
Grasping and cawing and thriving and striving
to be the better, the best
version of Alexandriaaaa.
That's my name, my name.
Though I doubt you'd even recognize me anymore.

Digging up that courage and conviction and confidence
that was once long-ago buried.
Digging and digging and digging it up.
Myself, my love, my heart, my flame.
Fan it and fan it and watch it reign,
it speaks of me
and the shit I've been through.
It speaks of my sister and my mother and brother and father.
They're all with me, each and all of them.

It's not burning me alive, it became me.
I became that fire. I'm burning and it doesn't much hurt.
That fire, that fire
it once drew you in.
I'm channeling it, babe. Maybe you'd even be proud.
I don't want to hate you and really I don't, never did.
It's true sometimes, I miss you.
Who I thought I was.
But she wasn't me, I left me long ago.

I'm grateful, it's true, to have loved and knew.
Thank you, thank you, I say.
Thank you, dear love. I wish you the ultimate best.
I'm not afraid, no longer afraid.
It's real, it's free, it's honest.
The flames they rage, but so do I.

Beautiful and blue, clear and true.
Words and more words, still, like I always have done.
Some like the words, I know I do.
You once loved my brain and many others do, too.
I'm going on and on to places most true.
It's lovely, it's beautiful, I'm honored to know this place, too.

It's ok.

I worry.
I just do.
It's one of the first observations my therapist ever shared.
For such a simple word, it holds so many things.
Carries so many connotations and implications.
I worry that I can't trust myself or my feelings or thoughts.
That I'll die before realizing peace and truth,
that I'll die alone or just exist alone. Really alone.
Even though we are alone, we all are.
That I'll never make the leap with school
and will forever be chained to this desk. Any desk.
I worry that I'll never feel at home,
that I'll never be at ease with the loneliness and fear of existence.
That my words mean little or not at all,
to myself or anyone.
I worry about measuring up,
about finding a purpose.
Surrounding myself with folks who care
and will put it all on the line.
That life has no meaning.
I worry that I can't be in the moment,
that my brain holds me hostage in this place or that.
Just not in the present, as I'd like to be.
That I'm not fun or magnetic or joyful enough.
I worry I'm too serious,
that I'm everything I always feared.
I'm everything and nothing and it's ok.
It's ok. It's really ok.
I worry.
It really is...ok.

I water me

It seems I have the energy to spread myself around a bit
more than I thought.
I've realized how dangerous and limiting it can be
to get stuck in the stories we tell ourselves,
about ourselves.
I spent so much time feeling angry and bitter
about who I wasn't or thought I couldn't be.
But the truth is, those are just untapped facets.
My potential is great, just like anyone.
You can do many things, but not every thing.
I'm smart and witty and courageous and kind
and sometimes silly and real and full of hope.
All these things and more.
Strengths Quest shared the lesson of focusing on strengths
at the top, not all the rest below it.
Harmony. Empathy. Developer. Relator. Restorative.
All of those things and more.

I write to become visible,
to remind myself I exist and have words and vision.
I exist. Just as I am.
I'm growing my own damn garden. I water me.
Planting those seeds and watching 'em sprout.
It's fun, it's real, it's sometimes confusing,
but I'm not scared.
I've survived that controlled burn.
I'm growing my own damn life.
One bit and moment at a time
I evaluate what I like and don't
directions I'd like to sprint
and when it's ok to just be.
To just sit and be right here,
right now.
Just me. Just me. Just me.
So so free.


What the Water Gave Me. Frida Kohlo. 

Even though I struggle still, always will.

Things I took for granted.
Couldn't see the tree you are.
The forest, you see, it grew unwieldy.
You forget and seperate and fantasize
of green, green grasses.
Of laughter and joy beyond compare,
of others that weren't there.
Maybe your dream came true,
even nightmares can, too.
One or both or each other.

Can't say it and won't say it
not to you.
To miss, to miss, to say things
that don't matter anymore.
It fixes nothing,
but my head is clear.
I'm singing and singing to myself
even though I struggle still,
always will.

Love and well wishes through the flags around my heart.
We're bad at predicting happiness, they say.
All along, I knew it had to happen just this way.
Another dollar, another day, another skirt floating by.
We're special because we're not. All the same.
Blood veins and childhood shame and softness within
running around and searching for a will, a reason, a way.
through it, around it, to make sense of it all.

The world isn't really so crazy, neither is love.
It's just that finding it makes you feel faint,
can run a dagger straight through.
Then there's all the ways it might disappoint you.
Expectations and demands and wants and unequal hands.
The only error is getting attached to any of it, they might say.
Attachment is the way and name of the game,
but I'm re-branding what that looks and feels like.

Trying my damnedest to be ethical and fair along the way.
I'm a scientist, you see.
Prodding and probing and swaping and trading variables.
Seeking relief, but finding tidbits and bits in the process.
So damn much to learn and retain and re-train.

Today I put on mascara and captured my hair blowing in the wind.
Captured who I was in that fleeting moment,
sitting here and still here.

Bite Down

Relief reveals itself ever so slowly,
but I'm grateful all the same.
It's true what they say about time,
it does heal
but more so quickly with a calculated eye and ear
to what you feel and what it means
and how to learn and grow.
To have perspective.
It seems some get stuck in the process,
and that very well coulda been me.
Stuck and stammering and angry.
But it seems I wasn't meant to live there,
at least not now.
I thank the goddesses for the resilience
and commitment to betterness.
It happened and is happening,
a continuous process
of riding all those waves and tackling battles
of tears, of psyche, of such strong emotions and beliefs.
You fight for so long, it's easy to forget the strength it takes
to get up and go and move on and on.
But then the moments of levity and open air make themselves known.
I've starred up equal parts cursing the skies, yet amazed at grace
and gratitude and channeling strength I never knew before.
Healing is pain and healing is hard,
but you bite down on that rag or wood piece
and complain and moan all the way
one day waking up and realizing you made it.
I made it.
I made it.
Thank the goddesses almighty, I made it.


Art by Sofia Bonati.

Jazz and Soul and Loneliness

Oh what a difference a day makes.
The changes in perspective and moments of reprieve
are all that get me through.
Flirtation and necessary reminders
of what is possible and what could be true.
Thank you, thank you, universe.
I promise to not turn a blind eye,
I am in the midst of a rebirth,
a new leaf and reunification.
I'm a sucker for jazz and soul.
The soul of each new soul I encounter.
Each possibility of connection and togetherness
reminds us the world isn't nearly so small,
so alone, so hopeless.
Though we are alone and struggling with the inherent loneliness
of existence and taking up space.
The trick is to not judge the feeling,
we all feel it and trudge through it.
Let's trudge together, shall we?


Art by Eugenia Loli.

A Sorceress in All that Remains

It's true I likely focus too much on feeling put through the wringer,
without realizing that I competed. I tried hard and for so long.
I wielded the weapons of war,
tasted and knew both sweet love and the bitterness and again sweet.
I fought and fought and loved and loved.

You don't want to believe it will not be quite enough.
Love conquers all, they say.
Love finds a way.
But it's not true, you see?

It's not that I'm tainted or sullied beyond repair,
it's just that I see love all the more clearly.
There are many ways to use love. This love we speak of.
Use it well, use it poorly. Abuse it, lose it.
Take it for fucking granted.

Sometimes love conquers just you,
it shows you the foolishness in believing it's all there was.
It's a fire, it's a flame.
It can rage and roar and burn so quickly out of control.
I felt it, the good and pain and the burns that remain.
To have held such a thing, for even a time.

Mostly I just feel like an untamed sorceress, newer to magic.
Learning the dark and most pure of magics.
Conjured it up and watched as it grew and grew and grew,
never felt concern about it's sustainability.
Oh to watch it grow, to cultivate it
and have someone there with you aiming for it to thrive.

We tried, we tried. My lord, did we try.
But the love magic doesn't care.
It cackles and revels in joy
as it watches you burn alive, toil and turmoil all the same.
It doesn't care that you care. That you tried.

The death of love is an odd thing to feel, to know.
With each memory of joy and happiness,
you feel it drain from you, taken from your very heart and hide.
I think the depiction in Eternal Sunshine is so fitting and fair,
it's true that even as the anger and sadness runs through,
you can't help but feel grateful and want to hold the goodness so near.
The complexity of it all is that it all coexists,
it hurts so because it was so good for so long.

So grieving, you see, it almost feels like a process of honoring,
what you had, what you are, what you hope to one day be.
You memorialize that person and that time and love,
and try not to lose perspective as it burns through the core of you.
It was pain, but it was joy and it was love,
one day, I hope that's all that remains.

Favorite Dinosaur

I'm not sure there's anyone I can talk to,
though not because of lack of willingness.
It's just that there's nothing to say,
no new insights or reflections to bear.
No additional healing or revelations.
Not now.
I'm just breathing, reminding myself this is the way
That today is better than even a month ago.
Do the grief work, feel the feelings.
It's not glamorous to do the work and feel it all.
And the contrast isn't fair, but what of his feelings?
Where do broken hearts go?
I'll never know, mine is firmly lodged in my chest.
Nowhere to go, but here.
And whereever you go, there you are.
I sit with that and think of it and spite it.
I wish you'd go, I wish your spirit would leave my realm.
All in due time, when the time is due.

I once heard that every emotion stems from two places,
love or fear.
Today as I walked myself through breathing,
I identified fear and the fear that I'll never feel that way again.
Who's to say?
Thoughts are not facts. Thoughts are not facts.
The struggle is surviving those impossible moments,
being your very best friend and enthusiast.
I'm learning to do that and have such gratitude
for the friends and loved ones that remind me it is possible.
They prop me up in the midst of blues and hysterics.
It's ok, it's alright. You're doing this just right.

Healing and medicine presents itself in many forms.
What it is one day may not be the same the next.
Seeking and searching and healing,
without consciously using anything to self-medicate.
I've seen what that can do and I understand the appeal,
but I'm trying to channel strength and focus
to feel the feels and work through the pains.
Each day, every moment.
It might be easy to blame you or others,
but I've done that. It's not the way. I've tried it.
Mostly there's nothing and no one to blame.
Life and love is a continuous gamble.
We all and each you and I played this game.
Maybe it's true there are no winners.
Does it mean we shouldn't play?
Doubtful.
This one wants to know what my favorite dinosaur is.

Ambitiously Stuck

Am I ambitious? Am I stuck?
Perhaps, ambitiously stuck.
They say they're looking for a hard worker with goals.
My goals lie in wellness, in contentment,
in connecting and making the world a bit less seemingly big.
The aim of helping and guiding others through the darkness,
formal or informal, a goal nonetheless.
I don't need fortune or fame, per say,
but it'd be rad to be known for noble things.
Crazy classic life.
I don't need to be the person who shows off abs
or speaks of gym visits and far away lands.
It's hard to not at times feel overwhelmed,
to compare and contrast,
though I recognize it ineffective and ill advised.
My goal is to understand and be at ease
with so much that cannot be known.
To know thyself and love every bit.
To tackle the spiritual realm,
to change the world one tear and happy glance at a time.
That seems worthy and important, to me.

This or That

Those moments you feel invisible 

or like you'll never love again

that stuff of the past was a lie.

The brain leads us to so many unproven conclusions.

That existential dread, conundrums.

It isn't pleasant to sit through it alone,

but it's all we have. All I have.

Can't stuff it down, cover it up

date it away or run it through.

The dread, the dread, this fucking dread.

Lack of judgement makes it more tolerable,

tempering expectations with realness

and honest reflection.

What he does, what you do,

not the same and not hinged.

No regrets, no regurts.

This cute stranger just told me New York ruined him

and in that share I feel a reminder.

The appeal, the perspective, the studies

of what makes you magnetic and true.

Down-to-earth and healthy and approachable,

but not entertaining malarkey.

Someone who likes their life,

has ambition and interests and stands upright.

Maybe I'm not quite there yet, but the path is at times so clear.

The profiles only show a glimpse of who we are,

what we think or hope ourselves to be.

I wrote what I wrote.

I'll be glad for group and chatting and feeling seen, even a bit.

Even this, is only a glimpse.

Sharing and typing out what I think myself to be,

dreams and fears and words that fit right.

I watched some Riverdale and Buffy,

they're all so beautiful, but also troubled

and fighting and solving mysteries.

Shows and people and places and apps

that share another piece,

shine a light on things to feel important.

I don't know what I'm saying, but it feels nice to type.

Even if I never posted this and was the only one to read.

It's good. It's great. To write and think and let it run free.

No regurts.

Just Rest

I've begun to visualize the flame and powers within.
Have yet to learn to channel it and use it well.
Good or bad, it's all been cast out for viewing.
Seeking things that seem implausible and impossible,
but I so want them to be true and within grasp.
Intention and mindfulness and specificity,
yet letting it all be and flow through.
That's the aim.
But God does it suck.
Last night I sobbed up against the edge of my bed
on the floor, pressing against it for comfort and touch.
Thinking of the ways I've reached out to others for relief.
Who's to blame?
They didn't know, I didn't know.
I wanted what we all want,
a bit of peace and joy and relief.
I didn't mean to break my own heart or burn down others
along the way.
Didn't know the power, the value,
the need to be with myself and be indifferent.
Attachment is the root of suffering.
I think about that again and again.
I've attached so anxiously, so preoccupied
with others and things outside my realm.
I didn't know, I swear I didn't know.
Turning new leaves, left and right, here and there.
Finding ways to release the anger and the bitter.
Remembering why I grew out my hair, my mane.
Recalling my name: Alexandria.
Mom always said I was a wonder of the world, the library.
She was burned down and with it, knowledge and potential lost.
I don't want to burn myself more than other circumstances have.
Control what we can, leave the rest.
Do not focus on the rest. Just rest.

About Your Dreams

There's nothing to say.
I don't need to know about your dreams.
I'm too busy listening to new Courtney Barnett
and doing my work.
The work that was unearthed though the process
that we were.
And the work that pays the bills.

I said what I said and meant what I meant.
Please leave me be.
When I had things to say, you chose your path.
Doesn't she give you what you want?
Was it worth the times and times and time again,
you insisted it wasn't true?
It was nothing more, nothing less.

The cat and I are just fucking fine.
The truth stings, don't it?
We aren't part of your life and you aren't part of me.
Leave it be, let it die.
I was never yours, you never mine.
Goodbye, ok?
Goodbye.
Let it go, let it be.

I'm no longer that person.
The walls are now up for a reason,
the shields activated and no longer entertaining
the games or lies or however, inadvertent scars and scraps.
For me, it's now just about me.
The thoughts of you, I just say thank you and goodbye.
Faded and jaded,
I can't even think of you
without desecrated memories.

Now coming into my own,
the lie that we were just isn't of comfort anymore.
Is this now what you wanted?
Is your heart filled to the brim, all dreams fulfilled?
It doesn't matter either way.
I'm here, you're there
and the only one I need to worry about
is this lovely lady right here.

Your ego or guilt or whatever it is--isn't my problem,
stop dropping me messages and talks of cats.
What's done is done.
I take the lessons you left at my feet
and I use them and dig down and grow some more.
Thanks for that, but now it's all gone.
Please leave me.
Just leave me.
be.

This Battle for Gold

I got a new battery.
Charged up to battle,
battle through my battle of Waterloo.
This pivotal time from which there is no return.
The heel of Achilles.
I see it, breathe it, feel it.
Feel it to overwhelm,
sob and soothe and gather to fabrics of my skirt.

Find comfort through myself.
You did it to survive, you learned to make the most of it.
Insecure and anxious is the classification I've read,
maybe so, maybe yes.

Just like the election, it's less effective to exercise the demons
if you don't see them clearly.
They are now before me,
clamoring and cawing,
demanding ME me, ME.
Feed me, see me, save me.

In that stage of starving them out,
detoxing not just from you, but from all the fantasy and mayhem.
Unlearning and re-educating,
tracing new paths and seeking new maps.
What's easy for some, isn't for others.

There are such moments of strength and confidence.
Confident this is the path,
this damn rocky path
is the only one I want. I need.
Needed it since ages ago,
better at 30 than another year even later.

Getting reunified with this soul, these lungs, this brain-heart.
To spend less of it talking out and more reflecting, writing,
captivated and analyzing.
Giving myself all the time I've always deserved.
I'm right here with you, I'm not going anywhere.
I say it and repeat it and mean it.
Never again. I will never leave you.

You are strong and so beautiful and hard and soft
and gloriously messy and put together.
A painting all my own,
a story and another story told and retold.
Perhaps seeing myself in ways for the first time,
sometimes so lovely I can't look away.

Learning to love
yourself.
The path is so rife with cliche and distraction,
misdirection and false hopes.
As known from many attempts before,
even when the path isn't clear
I know the destination.
The gold at the end, I know what it might hold.
or I can sometimes pretend and aim to know.

Up these rocks I go, I go.
Challenging addictions and realities
that once and often feel so real,
so unshakable.
On my skin, in this being.
No one or thing to be angry with.

I sit next to and work through these pains carried
by generation to generation, from year to year.
Feeling it and feeling it and doing it well.
The best I can hope for,
the only path I claim and name and desire
even with the overwhelming strain on what I know,
thought I wanted, needed, craved.
I want me. Contentment, free and easy.
No fear, no concerns of who you are or what that makes me,
to have loved and lost.
It doesn't much matter now.
I'm too busy climbing and maybe some day I will go skydiving.

Bead Beyond Bead

I don't like this feeling.
It's uncomfortable as all hell.
The shell(s) are cracking.
I'm trying to stay in my own business.
Examining attachment style and jealousies and insecurities.

Things I'm not supposed to mention
or entertain.
I'm entertaining them and grilling them with questions,
inquiries. Why do you exist? Why do you manifest in that way?
I think about crushes and what it means to be me and free.
Romantically, to not need another.
To hold hands with that little girl.
Re-brand the pains I've known,
the stories I've told
again and again to myself.
To anyone who might listen.
I'm this, I'm that.
Steadfast and stuck.

Getting unstuck is uncomfortable,
being real with myself about what feels non-glamorous.
Channeling that energy I'm most drawn to,
that person I want to attract.
Become what you want to have nearest to you.

Thinking about what drove us apart, what led you astray.
That it happened because it was meant to,
maybe should have unfolded much sooner.
Lost myself in you, in the fantasies of whatever I thought it was,
wanted it to be. Not reality.

Saying this for myself, but as a reminder to all of the struggle
to exist and be in this world and not get lost in it all.
Life is suffering, they said.
I get it now. It's not funny, but sometimes it can be.

I look at the rolls coming over my panty strap and smile,
feel grateful for these lungs and legs and life force.
Spent minutes upon minutes thinking through intentions and
moving bead beyond bead.

Today didn't unwind how I thought and hoped it might,
but I rested and breathed and worked through these blasted insecurities.
A step closer to whom I hope to be.
The hurt that comes out through the healing,
patience is required.

It's hard to believe sometimes that living can be this hard,
for all the moments I took for granted and didn't have to think
through each moment and breath.
Now I feel each step and ache and trauma and memory.
Working and working and working with it and straight through it.
Laughing as I cry and living as I die.

Words maybe can never mean much,
but they are all we have to leverage and share and compare
the dire and lovely means of existence.
I hope you see this and remember you aren't alone.
Even if what is here doesn't make sense,
you can write what you know to be truth.
Eat and breathe and make the most of this day and time.
Goodnight, moon. Goodnight to you.
To tomorrow, another day.