Jelly Fish

Surrounded by two dogs, four chickens, one cat, three horses, and a hidden mouse, I sit in silence. Well, almost. My "thumbs up" curated playlist with a variety of musicians and sounds lulls the animals to sleep.

The dark cloud overhead is moving away despite the nested nightmares. Of us arguing, of me seeing the real you, of you in the kitchen cooking. She lays on the couch in stockings clicking away on an iPhone watching us. Faced with my knowledge of the truth you continue to fry bacon. Why are you in the kitchen? Why the hell am I there? And, can she please put on some pants. Does she even know all those you hide? You'll hurt her too. You know that better than I. Your cruelty has no limit, in what way did I insult offend you to receive what I did from you?

"Twin Flame" (2017) 

This dream is about accepting what I've known throughout. You too easily gave her up early on. You too easily agreed with my requests. You too easily said Yes to me. My mistake and only mistake is to trust you. If only I could take all that time back. All the energy and wasted emotion. I could then erase the tears and finally, finally scream. 

It weighs on me still, the nothing you turned out to be. An encrusted shell you surround yourself with glistens in the moonlight. The sun turned enemy shows off the zirconias and not the diamonds you pretend to hold. She's too young to know the difference. And, suddenly I understand the appeal. The need you have to not be seen. She doesn't know you like I do. A part of me hopes she never will. 

#SurvivedHim



// *By the Horns* by Julia Stone

Night Writer (pronounced Knight Rider)

The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh 1889

Sleepless nights are nothing new. They've plagued me since childhood. At slumber parties, I typically was the last one to fall asleep. How did I know, you ask? Because the conversations would slowly come to an end amid snores and heavy breathing from a bunch of kids. At home, I'd lay awake in darkness. Not allowed to read or write into the early morning hours, I'd entertain myself by imagining all sorts of things, places, people, books I'd read, and movies I'd seen. As you can believe, and possibly even experience yourself - mornings were challenging to welcome.

Usually.

As an adult, mornings are not rough to greet, even on a few hours of sleep. There comes the point in the quite and still night when the mind awakens (in a state of delirium - I'm sure of it). There is no way anything productive could come out of that state. Yet, it was during those early hours in the cool of the night, under stars, and a bright moon did I write through salty tears. I used to keep a collection of everything I wrote in a box. All colors, and scraps of paper, cursive, print, pen, pencil, or crayon. 

The Scream
Edvard Munch, 1893 

I remember, the need to be surrounded by them - the words. Once Father brought a computer into the house I'd print them. Add clip art. Center the lines of text. Tape the pages on the walls of my bedroom. Before that, once I was sure what the poem is, or phrases or lines were, I'd rewrite them on a clean page and draw around them. 

If it wasn't the words - it was the nightmares keeping me awake. Well, the resistance to be in the position in which they'd happen - asleep, that is.

Dark dreams are the otherside of my tumultuous relationship with the night. Not able to recall with certainty my age, but I'm sure as a teenager and mid to late 20's sleep was disturbed regularly. That is, I'd fall asleep and wake up periodically (every hour) throughout the night with memories of broken images and strange feelings. 

At half past 4:00 in the morning. Not sure how to end this post. I'll describe the moment. A foster kitten rests on the bed.  Downton Abby plays in the background. Curtains drawn closed. Chickens sleeping in their coop. 

Insignificant, Chest Wounds

An open gaping wound,

throbs at my chest.

If you could only see it,

darkness in the cavity,

the illuminated torn edges of flesh.

If you can feel it,

despite the biting cold surrounding it,

warm red drips from my fingertips. 

The wound is insignificance. 

Self Destruct by NekroXIII
(modified image found on Pinterest)