I started to write this to whom I consider a friend. He would read this and I feel never place judgement…It is in that I trust and in that sense I’m able to be vulnerable to him…there was more I thought I was going to say to him, but as I started spilling my words  I realized I was just purging. Not directly addressing him, but ripping open another layer of scarring.So I just gathered my words and brought them here. My writing place to dwell, to write, to be, to breathe, to become and to let go…

You are lost in dreams by now and my night draws near…I am emptying… Purging…of what I do not know…Perhaps contempt or hurt, or pain that has long been a stranglehold. Perhaps my guard says let this light in, reveal what you hide in the dark still. And I want to…I still leave me parts of me in the darkness. Because when I let her out, just as her eyes have adjust, just as her strength returns, there appears thieves that rip at her (my)heart… And she (I) retreat in shame having trusted. Yet I remain. “Here I am!” But who am I?

I’ve never really found who I was until I started writing. I never knew how painful writing could be. How mournful it is to see this part of yourself that just falls out with murdering clarity. Never seeing how much you’ve remain hidden inside your learned behaviors. Never realizing just how much power you have to change it all. And then, with each word written, as you place it on the page, you begin to to see this truthfulness. Slowly coming into view as you peel away layers upon layers of scar tissue.

It’s a bloody massacre, hacking at yourself, chopping limbs, stabbing your eyes, your ears, your own heart with bluntness. Then you slice your neck, your wrist, your inner thigh to release the pressure of pain. And briefly you are freed, but also made aware of the strength of chains that tether you. 

Yet as much as it is painful it is equally beautiful. I’ve seen changes in me. That what I once thought ugly and shameful,  is in truth, something quite astoundingly exquisite.

I rather like this aspect of me. This creature that unfurls into the liquid warmth of my pen…tantalizing my lungs to breathe, seducing my heart to beat, lightening awakening my sex, torture and pleasure pain to my mind!

I’ve felt my roots grow longer in search of fresh flowing water and I began to drink. Refresh my thirst…
I’m awakening to things I know that are in the depth of me. Of things I’m certain I need to be whole and complete 

I have yet found them all. As I age I know there will  be growth, and my needs and wants will change. Before I was never certain of what it was I wanted. Call me a late bloomer. Even now I feel as a toddler taking some very unstable first steps. Wobbleing, waiting to fall flat on my ass. I do question so much of myself… Especially to the extent of my utmost desires. I think there is so much more inside me undiscovered. 

For now, what I feel to be at the core of my soul, what I believe to be my greatest desire is to let someone see every speck, every tiny little dirty fragment of me. And have them say…

Oh my love, you are everything dark and mysterious, light and glorious…I am in love with you…in every dimension, in every lifespan, in every skin. I am my beloved’s…



22 thoughts on “waterfalling…

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