Please do not underestimate the fragile girl who has been broken. The grown woman climbs barbed wire fences unapologetic, her jagged and cut limbs battle cries that honor the scars. Bleeding profusely shrugging off the pain, she is awake and determined. The girl is immune to the swirling, incessant noise hovering overhead. Simply choosing to embrace the beautiful and worst kinds of misery. Nah, man she’s better than wasted breath.
This picture popped up in my memories today on Facebook and made me smile. Michel and I fought, a lot. He thought I was spoiled. I was. We argued, a lot. I’d only learn in time and the passing of years what he meant. I learned so many lessons from him. How to live a simple life, to love and respect nature, to take long walks everyday, (like ten miles
“Burn me with the brush and indifference; scatter my ashes to the wind under the prettiest summer’s eve and her blazing, pink sun.” – Jacqueline Cioffa “Shadow People” by Jackie Cioffa featured on Bleeding Ink via Feminine Collective http://www.femininecollective.com/shadow-people/
To The Orbs Duty, responsibility, obligation and drudge I run around making false promises lying to myself I must end this cycle of debt, hush-hush niceties and learn to live it This life Starring me The oddity full of venom and regret Regret for harsh words hurled in the face of others living in the continuum The vortex seasonal cycle of disgust and disappointment Passing judgment upon
Last night ‘on the walk’ Lupe and I saw a shadow in the midnight black, bone-chilling distance. An elderly man lying helpless in the snow, black cold, car door wide open, -7 degrees below. He lives two doors down, a neighbor and I don’t know him at all. I tried to lift him with my will, powerless to pull him up by myself. I stayed close, reassuring him he’d be alright. My mind spinning,
We are all like it or not, intertwined. The way the stories breeze through my mind, much like the people I have loved and let go. As I watch helpless, I cringe at the chaos that surrounds. These are dangerous times we live in. To love, dream, practice uncomfortable kindness. To choose hope. I leave this place with tales spun from grass and held together by frayed twine. Living is scary. Not
When I’m stressed, I clean. When I’m confused, I clean. When I’m angry, I clean. Exhausted, nauseated, in full-blown Benzo withdrawal. Not permitted by my shrinks to travel, basically I’m assigned to the nut house. Only, this house arrest comes with a ton of perks, comfortable amenities. Yeah, you could this house is pretty clean. Benzo withdrawal is worse than heroine. You could say, that, yes could. Just when I think
We talk about it. Yeah, we do. In my house, we talk about a lot. The mundane living stuff, movies, books, music, groceries, even the weather. And, death. We talk about that, too. Well, I do most of the talking. The persistent, detective’s daughter, ever annoying and inquisitive. The fervent need to know what comes next, how it should look, the driving force. The uncomfortable, inevitable last chapter. Well, you