Feeling it

Wordy

Apricot

Oh girl

I bit into your world and worms came pouring out. The surface has always looked rotten but that is why we stay away...look away. I looked up to you once. I mean, you were so cool. So teenaged and interesting and mysterious. You've always been a doormat though.

That's what you are good at. But that doesn't mean the person who you love has to treat you like such. Your submission isn't voluntary, it's self preserving so as not to be beaten down and crushed. I want to help you. I want to be there for you and maybe save you or even better: help you save yourself. The hidden parts of you are still there but are overwhelmed and covered up by a jealous, manipulative, emotionally abusive force. You are being swallowed whole by a snake who constricts ever so slowly, painfully. You are my sister. We came out of the same womb and share DNA markers. We have the same freckled fair skin and the same expressions at times. You think I'm funny and I think you are too. We laugh and talk and feel easy when she isn't there and when she is it's like everything comes to a stop and starts to wither away. I need you to be strong. I need you to see what we can all so plainly fucking see and not pretend any longer. There's a point where this will all end and I would be lying through my gritted teeth if I didn't say I didn't pray for her death. I feel like this is the end of us. Our lives have cracked open and are hemorrhaging all that has ever connected us. You are my sister, don't forget that. I won't sit back and watch this without saying a word. If she told you not to speak to me then you have a more serious problem then you ever thought. I have to say it again and again and I wont stop until you know. You are my sister. You are my sister. You are my sister. 

Gold Mine Jack Pot

Time. When do I find the time? Macrame and yoga and naps. Walking and drinks and class. Work: coffee and homework. I'm so tired sometimes but I'm satisfied. Routines and reliability and yea, maybe I sold out but it doesn't matter because it's my day, my time. Fall asleep thinking over my heart and dreaming about it breaking. 

I'm in control

I'm not crying. I'm in control. Unfortunate days lead to sleepless nights but I know what right is on my side and I hold to it, what else could I do? Carry around my control in a purse, a pocket and a locket. Keep track, make lists decide for later and revisit those decisions. Responsible for me and BK and that's it. People don't change like that; their faces may be pretty but their oil painting underneath the dirty sheet is hideous and sour from their lack of control, responsibility and truth. Toxic doesn't avenge anything, it's toxic by nature and hurts everything and never gives nurture to nature. I must stay in control I must keep my focus laser and pick up every stitch. An extra stretch, a little bit less indulgence, a little more discipline. I'm compulsively responsible. A walking calendar of "to-do's," "doings," and "dones." I won't leave without my satisfaction and I'll never be satisfied with mediocre behavior that disregards: other people, stone-set situations and reality. Fight it all you want but you are a person in the world. Death is your only way out but even that leaves too much undone. 

Night light

Chronic nap time leads to night owls. I can stay up, party with the bats. I can do yoga and dance like Bey. I can paint and draw and steam milk into clouds. I can't go to sleep at a normal hour though. 

I love beets. And watermelon. Not together necessarily just as two individuals. Fruit and vegetable. I didn't used to like either that much but now I do. Now I know what they taste good with so I plan accordingly. Just like with dark chocolate. That is how I knew I was a woman. Women love chocolate and women in that sweaty, guttural, Deep South drawl kind of way love their dark chocolate. 

I love jewels. Broken brooches beg to become beautiful baubles again. "So I think this is the best costume for the day" she said. Grey growing gaily in a garish, gawking way. I worry that will be me and my end. I forget little Edie's story went on and she got to wave her flag. 

Sour grapes

Sour grapes