paved paradise

***that awkward moment when you realize that someone you've poured your energy, love, and time into doesn't actually give two real fucks about you and your emotions...

and that you left someone who did***

Yeah, awkward.

Lesson learned.

every woman knows

every woman knows
that you don't simply lose your innocence
you vomit it up
one heartbreak at a time
choking on wails from the seat of your holiness
as you release glitter-winged butterflies
to fend for themselves in the world

every woman knows
that you don't go a day
without silently praying for their safety
imagining that they still exist somewhere out there
hoping that the pieces of you
that left
have fared better than the ones that had to stay and bear it

every woman knows
that the emptiness never fades
or is filled
so we make it our duty to extract as much beauty out of the numbness as possible
it is why we are the creators
witches, priestesses, magicians
mothers
we are birth-givers and masters of resurrection
piecing together dead dreams from nothing but memory

the surrender poem

the thing that pulls me to you
i feel in my body
called out from the soft place above the bulb
at the end of my left collarbone
where all of my swallowed tears are hiding
they still hope...

this energy
the force breathing again inside of me
is pushing through the half moons at the bases of my fingernails
hands, trained to give, steady
shake now
but
must touch you
they still need...

skin puts on a show
turning colors for you
brown to pink to red to gold to glow
still wanting
bones that are strong
still ache
they would melt
i could be all liquid
warm gel
moving, speaking, dancing as plasma
belly to belly
feel my form lapping at you
thighs gently kissing...
drawing you in like the ocean
plunge in and be warm with me
my center still knows
my soul still remembers...

maybe
i am making something out of nothing
but
magic
has always been my destiny

i still believe
love is magic

what about life

what about life is fair
when the thing you began to hate
thinking it hated you
is the one thing you need
is the one thing you are
and you can't see how to exist without it?

what about life makes sense
when we praise the haters and ridicule the lovers
when we hurt on purpose, and heal as a last resort
when we collectively choose death
every day?

what about life do we know
calling to a god who threatens us
denying hearts and bodies
ignoring our essence for polite fiction
deciding
to believe evil and doubt good?

what about life could possibly be fair
when the lovers can find no love
and must watch their names erased from the sky?
one
by one
they avert their eyes

soon there will be no stars left.
and who shall we thank for that?

A brief note on "guarded" hearts

We tend to justify locking away our hearts by saying that we don't want someone else to come along and hurt them again. But sometimes, the real reason is that we do not trust ourselves not to put our hearts in positions where they will be hurt. Other times, we fear that our hearts themselves will lead us directly into pain, and caging them is punishment for perceived betrayal, past, present, or projected. For many of us, the soul-work we need the most involves forgiving, trusting, and loving our own hearts, and releasing them to do what they are meant to - love. It has much less to do with others than we sometimes think.

the witching hour

I was smart about this
at first

Careful
to remain alert
and aware
of the likely possibilities
of the only reality
that I was willing to accept

Calculating
devising rules
(I was going to play)
fortifying myself
for the road ahead
thinking always
of the end of this

Defying
the gravity
between us

But here i am now
recklessly
thinking of you
at the witching hour

And this Wild Woman has paralyzed me
sitting on my chest
piercing me
she speaks the spells of my heart

flies wantonly around my mind
flinging open the locked doors
shining her moonlight
on my secret thoughts

She makes me fiend for you
makes me writhe for you
makes me call to you

And now here we are
recklessly
looking into each other's eyes
at the Witching Hour

the changeling

my soul is not
made of air
she is no ghost
no
figment
she is part liquid
plasma-like and
glowing
like a jellyfish
but
begging to be touched...

she is floating
shining and cozy in dark womb waters
drifting
caught between freedom and form

stretched wide at the crux of metamorphosis
pulled toward rebirth in two directions
laid bare and exposed
she gives up her water to the air
pressed in on herself
she relinquishes it to the earth

she is snake
and bird
sun and moon
fire and water and earth and ether

she is an original
existed before the number
'2'

sometimes wishes to fit in
and enjoy the confusing illusion
but
she must stay as she is
without her there is no catalyst
no connection
no constant

she must remain
forever
a changeling