Bottled

Mild pressure, easy burning,
Just a little buzz in the back of my mind;
Most days I forget and walk on
because picking at scabs just makes scars
worse.
They're just scars
that burn
with every vibrant reminder
a poker plunged into the depths
of all the missing pieces torn to leave that shiny puckered mark
for everyone to see.

I'm tired
of that shadow coming up to shake my hand
expecting a clean merging of night and day
into some murky medium
that I want to believe
I can float through
with half-closed eyes
a half-beating heart.

I'm worried
when I feel that crackling behind my eyes
that rippling fury I wear closer than skin;

I know
it's as transparent as I try to act;
that everyone can see
I'm two minutes from breaking
three from hard apathy
and if you hear that clock ticking down you better start fucking running.

But no -- instead, let the audience
just smile
and placate
pat my hand and tell me
how hard it must have been
how hard to even imagine
how hard to survive.

They do not understand
                                       who they are fucking with.
They do not understand
                                       the volume of what's so carefully contained
behind hours of babbling
                                         and screaming
                                                                 and masochistic calm under a needle;
the soothing
                      and healing
                                         and holding on
                                                                  to letting go 
                                                                                      just to maintain a rigidly gentle simmer.

But then again, maybe it's me

that still doesn't understand

because I can't turn around

can't look it in the face 

      without feeling 

that gloriously clean and beautiful rage 

                                                            that makes me invincible 

                                                                                                   and terrible 

                                                                                                                      and unstoppable 

                                                            start boiling up 

                                                                                    inside the deepest parts

                                  from all the darkest parts
                                                                                 of me 

all I want is to unleash it and let it burn everything

leave nothing 

to forget

to be mad at

to fight

to make me feel 

                                                                                                    like I'm barely keeping 

                                                                  from baring my teeth

                                containing that growl

        leaving my fists 

                                clenched to my sides 

                                                                 instead of flying through the air 

                                                to connect 

  with anything and everything 

                                                                 I know I can make bleed

because oh, how I want it all to bleed sometimes.

Sometimes, I just need 

my head tucked under your chin

my own little space to breathe

your kiss on my forehead

your nearly silent, "It's ok." against my ear

your swinging hug that makes me squeak 

            and feel 

                         like I'm much, much too tiny 

                                                                      to keep carrying 

                                                                                                this fury around 

                                                                                                                          inside me 

my tiger in a cage 

your silent reminder 

that I don't have to keep proving 

to myself and all the world how oh, so very, very strong I am 

by fighting with 

                         every 

                                  single 

                                           blazing 

                                                      furious 

                                                                  breath I take 

                                            despite the fact that no one

                                     else

                                            really knows what I'm fighting for

your look that tells me it's okay

                                                to let go

                                                             for just one minute, 

                                                to just let it all out 

                                                             in a big messy rush without that frantic control

your quick squeeze of my hand to remind me 

                                                                      that I'm not always the only one fighting for me.

Though it all just smolders

though it's all just heavy

though it's not even close to over

                                                   you never fail 

                                                                         to remind me

                                                     I can do it on my own 

                                                              and I don't need to.

Life sentence

Found this little gem I wrote back in the day, about five and a half years ago.

Here's to having grown into healthier coping mechanisms.


                                                             

Sunday, April 29, 2007 at 1:01am ·

I've been reading this book, Unhooked by Laura Sessions Stepp, and to be honest, it's been... difficult. It's about this generation's "unhooked culture" -- the way we hook up instead of seek intimate, involved, committed relationships. I just didn't realize I was so far into it (that "culture") before reading this book. Reading it was like viewing and analyzing a written account of all my attitudes, expectations, goals, and insecurities -- definitely hard to get through, but addictive nonetheless. I didn't realize how... good, honestly, how wonderful it felt to know that I'm not the only one to have such contradicting wants and beliefs.

On the one hand, I love the idea of hooking up. Not for the easy sex, but for the ability to "unhook," or call it off in a moment without any emotional backfire (or so I thought). I don't know when I started to compare a committed relationship to incarceration but at some point I crossed that line. Any serious relationship in my life seems like an attack on my freedom and independence, my chance to experience the things a 19 year old young woman is "supposed" to experience -- several boyfriends, parties without worrying about hurting someone, etc, etc.

Unfortunately, no matter what happens afterwards, sex helps me relate and connect to people so I end up feeling confused and hurt afterwards, especially if there's something more in the equation that I don't want to admit -- any kind of vaguely substantial feeling, any possibility of "love" or attachment or even slight compatibility -- and, honestly, I don't know how to deal with it, after these couple of years of just... doing what I want. I'm not proud to admit I've cheated on every single boyfriend I've ever had (the list isn't that long, but still, every single boyfriend), but I am too proud to say I completely regret those actions. I've always done what feels right in the moment, whether it actually be "right" or not -- I follow my heart, and sometimes (again, not proud to admit this), my heart listens more to my libido, or loneliness, or just that need to connect with people on a higher level. I didn't realize in this last year, when my sexual activity's been much higher (and promiscuous) than normal, that that was my way of searching for something substantial and meaningful, while trying to remain in control of what I feel and where the relationship might go.

Where does it come from? A simple need to control everything? But where does that stem from? The young women of today are raised with the idea of being able to achieve everything and anything they desire -- it's shoved down our throats as we mature and learn to prioritize, while developing what will later become our strengths, used to influence our world. We're all told that we don't need a man to be happy (just this last week I told a friend that "the day a man pays my bills is the day I die") or fulfilled, that we can be completely independent, achieve more than we would with a life partner, and can be completely happy in ourselves without that male counterpart to come home to.

True, but not true. We can be happy, yes, knowing we've swung hardest and grabbed hold of everything we see, conquered and become the best at whatever we do while making more money than any guy we meet. That's satisfying, yes, and makes our mothers proud. "Love moderately," they say. "Wait," they advise us. "You'll have time for love after you set up your career," they assure us. "Don't make my generation's mistake -- look at the divorce rates!" they warn us.

What our mothers don't realize, though, is the fact that they (granted, not just our mothers -- society, and our relationships with our fathers as well) are the ones who ingrained that into our minds, that "what we want" is to succeed as much if not more than men, and be happy and self-sufficient in doing so. The confidence this brings is incredibly empowering, if unreal; however, that wasting feeling of confusion, sometimes loneliness, is also unreal. We don't have time for serious boyfriends when we're busy conquering and shaping the world, and frankly, we don't want to -- most of us view serious boyfriends as black holes, trying to suck down all our freedom, ambitions, emotions, and energy. When we would have time to study? To spend time with friends? To develop our sense of self? To conquer? We wouldn't. Our beautiful, perfect, controlled alternative: "hooking up", which covers every sexual activity from making out to fondling to oral sex to sexual intercourse.

Our thoughts: Why be the prey when we can be the pursuer? Why wait for men to approach and woo us (which is what we really, truly want -- who doesn't feel amazingly cherished and wanted when "courted?" But why admit that?) when, in our minds and past experiences, all they ultimately want to do is get in our pants? Why not flaunt our sexuality and turn their game around on them? We can just as easily flirt and seduce our way into their bed, and even more easily leave before morning with no intention of ever calling them again. We shoot, we score, we walk away clean and unrestrained, and with a strange, half-feeling of connection, intimacy, and almost-fulfillment -- yet we don't understand why, days later, we're hurt and trying to cope with the odd, again half-feeling of rejection. Why, in our right minds, aren't we happy with all this control and power we're waving over our heads?

Well, it can't be because it's not a real relationship -- who even has those anymore? Relationships are never perfect, unlike our grades, social lives, and bodies, so why deal with it? We're raised on the idea that we need to give 110% to everything we do, so why should we invest our time and energy into a relationship that will undoubtedly backfire two or three years down the road? What a waste, right?

Unfortunately, it's what we all want. Whether we will ever actually develop real courage, instead of that shit we put up when we approach a guy with "the look" all over our face, and find the strength to refrain from hooking up until the right guy comes along is very, very sketchy. Why wait? We're a generation of go-getters, achievers, conquerors, and straight up Amazons. We own this place. We made this time period. We don't have time to wait, but we don't have the heart to try, try, try again. Why give in and let the guys rule the stage, anyway?

So that's where I am right now -- torn between this feeling of needing to figure out who I am without any kind of intimate, male relationship, and this feeling of wanting, more than anything, to be married and surrounded by children. God, though -- what a commitment. That's a life sentence right there.

Own

Dense
(heavy, weighted, full of substance
and dumb).
Oh, yes--you
can be dense, darling,
forgetting to feed me
forgetting to feed me.
(did you forget me?)
But somehow you always
catch up
to find me frantic, nearly
falling from
fingertip-gripped fences
fighting for
furious for
feeling anything
anything that
ANYTHING that might
make that warm, comfortably
dense lock and chain around my neck
tighten
to tell all the world
I am not my own.

Dense.
I need to feel freely
weighted
but with room
to burn
to sing
when I feel like falling
or stay
with my everything
shaking
(everything is shaking)
bursting out the
seams like
EVERYTHING IS SHAKING
but you push
my face hard against your chest
dense
solid
shake-resistant.
I am not my own.

Dense.
All those yards of fabric
I brought, to stitch
a prettier picture (for you
of me)
that I forgot
(did I forget you?)
you didn't need
to see
to see me,
lay rumpledwrinkledchaotic
on your bed
room floor.
Placing them
perfectly rolled and
perpetually unorganized,
no matter my intentions,
back into my massive suitcase
(all that baggage
laid open
on your bed--I'm sorry
I'm so sorry for the mess, love, but I promise
I'm so sorry
I'm leaving soon)
while I swear
I swear
I SWEAR I CAN FEEL
...i can feel
every movement you make
while you digitally inscribe
our scattered soundtracks
behind me; now
etched permanently, those
melodies and harmonies we've sung so hard
pushing to twist
together
between car windows and carcinogen-filled
exhalations after laughs before questions punctuated by barely bruising
pokes, prods, and punching
hand
grasps.
Dense.
I am not my own.

I tried to breathe
your every movement;
your hands
Oh
your hands
pushing beats into the air
twisting inflections of heavily blasted muses
and playing across my bones
like there might be music
there, too
is a turbulent grace
etched into your bones,
a quiet acceptance
a screaming exultation
with heart and face lifted
that we are not our own.

Dense.
All those last shuddering inhalations I should have
spent shared with you,
not wide-eyed, fixated ahead, pushing onward
a proper little girl in a security line
ignoring
(STOP LETTING ME IGNORE)
that heavy burn at the bottom of my throat.
I should have broken
your ribs against the terminal walls
and left you burning with each breath
to show you with
lips between teeth
that more than one week
(was it only one week?)
(why was it only one week?)
was fucked up
by the joining of
like
burning
different
echoes
bellowing from below
those finger-width
spaces
between
ribs.
We are not our own.

Therapy

Chain-smoking
in the dark,
watching
all that shit
exhaled
like it's
nothing,
not doing
anything
to me.
Wishing
it was
just
that
easy.

Darkened

Pray
for the breaking, for the crash, to just
come
and
consume
the pressure that's
crushing
that little piece of humanity
clinging
to the last innocent shard of your heart.

Roar
in defiance, to
push
that imminent breaking--you
know
you
crave
it more than breath, but you
know
you can't
clean
the inevitable pieces fast enough to
hide
the inside that will
burst
outside as soon as you
exhale.

Shelter
that small morsel of innocence before you
rupture
and all the darkened rest of you
floods
that tender, tough, tiny thing that
nudges,
oh, so gently, to
remind
you to
remain
true, clean and more than just a shadow of everyone else.

Breathe
deep to
rediscover
the lukewarm goodness
cradled
in that shrinking heart that
stretches
to keep
pounding
not so far beneath the surface,
whispering
weakly at whatever piece of you will
listen,
in the shimmering hope that you'll
wake
and
remember
that you don't have to
die
in the dark.

Patience

Patience. Not really my strongest suit.

There's this guy I've been seeing. It's been rewarding and frustrating at the same time: he's intelligent, attractive, hilarious and a gentleman. The frustration has come from the fact that I'm used to being chased, and he's not doing that. He's definitely making sure to hang out with me and make sure i know he's interested, but the pace is such that i wonder if he's genuinely busy or simply testing me. I don't enjoy being tested.

However, i am definitely, definitely interested in this guy. He's phenomenal. The conversations we have are intelligent, educated, and vary greatly in subject. The physical attraction is definitely there. The way he treats me is incredibly respectful, something Im not used to. When we hang out, he only ever looks at my face. Nearly identical sense of humor. Interested in the day-to-day details. Always texts me good night and good morning. Adorable. Pays for everything. Has his own place, car and job. No kids. Loves dogs. Ambitious. As interested in keeping his mind in shape as his body. Package deal.

But me, being impulsive, slightly insecure, and impatient....trying too hard. Gotta play the lady who knows what she's worth and is looking for the man willing to take his to get to know and woo her. (never really been wooed)

We've gone out a few times and he's never tried to kiss me. Slightly perplexed.

Gotta be patient. It'll be sweeter for it.

Stupid. Drives me crazy. Especially because i can't tell if he's doing it purposely to make me chase him, or if that's just how he is.

Don't care. Gonna breathe, keep focusing on work, and let it go how it's gonna go.

Also, he has an incredibly psycho ex. Hilarious to watch and hear about. Poor guy.

Ugh. I'll make it.

Fear.

Nothing strikes a little fear in the heart of a woman living alone like an overly persistant wannabe rebound showing up on your doorstep unannounced.

This is why I thank God for pit bulls and handguns. Douchebag tried being clever, talking about "how much tension he could relieve for me" if only i'd let him in the door. When "fuck off" fell on deaf ears, he informed me (with a predatory grin) that I was "lucky he was feeling polite and choosing to stay outside", to which I responded with a gun in his face, my big-headed pit bull snarling at my side (love how dogs pick up emotions, and love how outrageously protective Kilo is of me), and a clear-cut, no-bullshit statement letting Mr. Pricktastic know that he had 30 seconds to get his ass off my property before I pumped him full of lead and let Kilo have the rest while I called the cops. I also let him know that if I ever saw his face on my property I would assume he was attempting rape and would shoot first, ask questions later.

Douchebag. Did not know who he was fucking with.

Obviously, I've been on fairly high-alert since then. Luckily, spazztastic little Blue barks when someone shuts their car door three blocks away; he actually heard Pricktastic's car before I did and gave me the invaluable 15 seconds it took to get my gun and make sure there was one in the chamber. Blue's like a freaking alarm system, and Kilo's all muscle. Love my dogs.

I am more than willing to admit I am a prideful, stubborn and overly trash-talking woman. I do not tolerate threats, period. That being said, someone showing up on my doorstep unexpectedly and expecting to be able to simply talk and/or force their way into my bed shook me up a little. I definitely have spent the last couple days with my gun constantly within 2 seconds' reach, one in the chamber, safety engaged.

The funny thing about fear and my stubborness: I hate being scared. I usually get over my fear by getting really, really pissed off that I let something/someone have any kind of control over my life, my mind and my heart.

Pissed off Lace is not someone you want to mess with.

That being said, I'm off to sleep; mostly pissed as hell, slightly scared, and overall, blessed. I have a roof over my head, a dependable car, an income, food, and two stupid dogs who snuggle the shit out of me and keep me warm at night.

Amen.