Upstairs in your room, where I watched you clean your spoon; that needle in your arm was a knife in my heart that got twisted a little harder every time you pushed it farther until it pushed me far enough that I could turn and walk away. And now today. A decade and 90 miles away from the choice you made between me and your fascination with a fix. Too many years and an ocean of tears away from the lesson that I couldn’t heal you with a kiss. The words that I told you then; “It’s over. You can call me when you’re sober.” And just walking away bled my tears. And days lead to months became years. I let go of the hope that I’d hear “I’m clean”. And I let my white-knight-knuckled fingers let loose my home-coming beauty queen. The only ever woman for me. Edged out to the periphery, of you I wouldn’t speak. Just a slow leak from my bleeding heart tucked beneath one sleeve. And then-came those words-over facebook–absurd! But I heard your voice in every key: “Kila, I’m finally clean”. And my heart strong sung out in joy! You had finally made the right choice. And with open arms and trepidus heart, I hopefully let you back in. But this time, only as friends. Kept an arms breadth of distance at length. Prayed to the hope of your strength. To keep the needle at bay, and keep our friendship this way, and mended, that way it did stay… That is, until early today. And that familiar old choice now is facing me. And I’m pacing my heart speeding racingly. And I’m cursing those demons you have raised in me. And I question my strength; is there space in me? To be some kind of heroine, and fight against your Heroin. Can I bear with it? Can I carry it? Have my arms and my heart grown in size? Yet again I have let you inside… And I find, to surprise, that the scars from your knife-cold needle-have left me quite tough. And that strengthening just might be enough. To carry us both, over fiery coals, to the side where it’s you that you love.
Fear is just a luxury I can ill-afford to feed
For well-fed fear is never full; it sucks you down with greed
And greedy guzzled, gluts itself on parts of you you need
Then plants itself into your brain, sending hope to fallow seed
You don’t have to walk a mile in my shoes
To see the souls are wearing thin
And you don’t have hear the bad news
To see the mess I’m standing in
And you don’t have to hold a hand out-
I can take to feet alone
And don’t ask me what I cry about
Cause the pain I feel’s my own
Some things are better left unshared
And others are best unsaid
And I’d rather, in truth, you were unaware
Of the scream inside my head.
What you don’t know won’t hurt me
At least, it won’t hurt my pride.
So I’ll just keep all the worst of me
Quietly hidden inside.
Tests up the wazoo (the wazoo being my vagina). Next appointment is scheduled for 3-11. They put me on something to stop my period. We’re looking at multiple options for a diagnosis in regards to the symptoms I’m having, so… Lots and lots of tests in my future. Lots and lots of tests today. I’m tired… and SORE. In a not good way. But I have a good doctor, who listens to what I have to say, and I’m not as scared as I was before. Cancer isn’t the first option on the table (until the second lab comes back), so THAT’S a huge weight off my shoulders. I feel like I can breath a little easier now. But I’m still sore.
So many failures and recriminations fill your heart with stalled frustration now that rumination has had time to give tongue time to taste. And you’re tastes have changed from vanilla to the strange, but as you count that change a blessing, you give pause in your confessing that those bestowed have been a curse. For better or for worse it seems, has stolen pocket holes in dreams and through those ripped up seams of jeans, you’ve seen the universe. And the end, it may be coming. May you be seen as one becoming. Something worthy of this earth. Since birth. Always pushing, pulling chafing. after stars you have been chasing, and in your grasp, you’d face them, before letting fingers loose. Your truth. It is yet to be discovered. So excavate, uncover, `fore you’re interned in turn.
“Embarking on a Journey”. Those words work so well at being cryptic in social media. All they really mean is I am stating to do something that will take me somewhere. It’s up to me… Or your imagination to fill in the blanks. I could be travelling; going exotic places, going mundane places. Going to the grocery store… I could be embarking on a spiritual journey, planning on finding myself, the meaning of life or whether or not the spaghetti monster really DOES exist… I could mean an emotional one, where I try to grow & move past this stage of my life… Or a completely metaphorical one, that’s encoded in such a way to maintain my own privacy while giving me a false sense of sharing and getting the weight of it off my chest.
I’ll give you a little hint: I’m a rather private person, but I’m also very talkative. But I’ll come clean. The metaphorical Journey I’m embarking on is toward a diagnosis for some rather private health problems I’ve been struggling with over the past (almost) two years, and whatever treatments (Freudian slip, wrote that as THREATments first) may come after that. I saw some people I care about melt down after losing someone they cared about. Shocked me out of my deer-in-headlights response into action. It may come to something small. It may be something much larger than I know how to deal with… But all being said… I’m going to do my best to prevent anybody’s heart being broken over my body breaking. Let’s do this thing.
Here’s a post I hope doesn’t get much traffic.
It bothers me. When I have to lock my door to go to the store for a cup of coffee. That is not me; I’d rather trust and have it floored than let it stop me. I’m at my best when I’m putting breast before the thought beat-what has caught me, my emotion is the press to push out this heart beat which repeats With the same kind of openness. It’s why I’ve always spoken thus. And put it down, and broke the bus and beat the band to boot. I’m no fool. I do what I do for a reason, it’s true but I don’t have to explain shit to you. But I do. It’s called communication, and it’s a small donation to thought and open mind. And I find, the more I provide some background on who I am, the more I know of who I want to be. And who I want to be, it changes. Builds up, falls down, it rearranges, it paints itself in light for strangers, and through their eyes I see how to achieve that prize, the big brass ring of me. And that’s kind of neat. But it has its up and down falls, and when it comes to taking judge-calls, I’m no better than the rest. It tests my strength of virtue, my point of view and purview, and the stupid things we all do, well, they’re my kryptonite. I’m easily embarrassed, and why I’m compelled to share it-well it’s really beyond my sight. But I fight to keep composure, because truth be told you know you’re-only given just one life. That’s right. And if you spend it forever fearful of the people that surround you and the things that they MAY do, well you might as well have spent it in a bubble. And there’s the trouble!! that somehow sensory deprivation presides communication and we’re rationing the space and times we can be touched. And it’s too much! We’re a social group by nature, and I’m not trying to berate or blame you for enclosure, because goodness only knows you’re just one of far too many. But please tell me. How does fear enrich your life?