Blackwolf Baby

this is a preview of the project i am currently slaving over. i don't know when it will be done or what it will look like when it is, but here's something. 

**

I lost a child. My uterus contracted in the middle of taking food orders from a group of middle-aged women. They all smiled sweetly while popping one-dollar bills into my Halloween themed Count Dracula tip jar. My body was attacking itself, the crotch of my pants slowly being saturated with dark blood. A stabbing pain and then a pull like a hook attached to the string of my unwanted pregnancy.

I grimaced, smiled softly, “Thanks, ladies. Have a wonderful day.” I wondered, then, if any of them had ever lost a child and if they could read it on my face. I could feel my skin losing its color. My body began to feel light. If they knew, would they have tipped me more?

I walked home after cleaning up my mess of blood and apathy. With the gift of a muscle relaxer hidden in my sleeve pocket I felt lost. I walked these streets every day and suddenly had no idea where I was.

Home, I took my pill. I filled the bath with Epsom salts and my own hot tears.

My uterus contracted again as I submerged my naked body into the steam.

“Intention is everything, baby girl. Everything will be okay. I love you.”

I lowered my body until the water covered my hears. Bonnie’s voice was there, as I knew it would be. “Just let go.” I smiled, and as my body released the last of its broken insides, I relaxed. The muscle relaxer had finally set in.

New Day

I dig my hands into the ground, fill my fists with earth. Mud, grass, rotten fruit, broken egg shells. Real earth stuffed itself under my fingernails while my ear pressed upon your chest. “I love you. I really truly love you.” The words escape despite my lasting efforts to diminish them. Wipe them from my vocabulary. Those words hold so much power, like the fertile soil I grasp, they can change lives, grow things, also kill. Too much fertilizer suffocates the seedlings. Words as strong as these can easily suffocate and kill. “I really truly love you. I mean it . and it scares the shit out of me.” You pull away from me, take my hands out of their earthly resting place, and kiss them. The dirt dusts your lips, earth speaking through you. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Its too much.” The fertile earth has suffocated me. Taken my ability to breathe and move. I am stuck in sludge and I don’t care to leave it. I would fill my nose and ears and eyes with it if it meant I’d never have to hear your apologies ever again. If it meant I never had to smell your sense of guilty regret. See your eyes and know how many times they were so dishonest. “I love you. I love you. Good bye.” I dig my hands back into the earth and I am enveloped completely, finally, one with the grass. I am a seedling. I will grow into truth shaped like a weeping willow. I will sprout love

Dusk

[For my brother]

We began to dance when the light fell, the sunlight fading, the sky filled with pressure. It was so hot that day when the bats came, that day when we burned down the gazebo, that day when we knew things wouldn’t ever be the same.

When the bats came, dusk had lain down over our heads, the sweet stick of wine and remorse formed fools clouds around our eyes. We giggled and flicked lit cigarettes into each other’s hair.

We were invincible and you laughed in the face of death.

Maybe we were the ones that were afraid and you knew you were sick, maybe I had forgotten any sense of reality. Maybe death had come to get you and the bats came as a warning.

They were on our side; they wanted us to stay together, to not be parted by illness.

We would fight, like hell if needed, against death and we would remember dusk as our reclamation hour. When we drank so much wine we forgot each other’s names and lit a fire and danced like wild people. We exorcized your demons; we beat mine out of my chest. 

We awoke at dawn in the grass, clutching bottles and each other, bruised and sweating. You were coughing so much your hands shook; I took you home and wrapped you up in a blanket, kissed your forehead, and smiled.

“We probably should have died last night.”

After that morning we strayed away from each other, we had climbed to the edge of death together, we had danced our last dance together, but we had lived. It was too much to stay friends after something like that.

Dusk reminds me of living. 

Blanket Breath

Sometimes I think of the morning time, in the blue hour, when I am awoken by the shine coming through the corners of the window curtains don’t cover.

In the blue hour everything is enchanted, life feels soft.

I turn away from the wall and look at the naked beauty lying next to me, sleeping. Sleeping soft like the sky, breathing calm like a gust of wind.

I smile sweetly at this moment of waking being so perfect. He is Pan, a God, this man in my bed.

The blue hour is the best hour for kissing a God awake, behind his ears so he rouses with a pleased groan, his eyelids because they are still closed.

I want to kiss his mouth but I wait until he pulls the sheet over our faces, blue light shining through the white sheet.

Turning everything: my skin, his face, and the curves of both our bodies, angelic.

I sit and watch as my cat laps water out of his bowl. His body shifts, he looks at his food, denies it and returns to his water. 
I find myself missing the days we spent delirious from lack of sleep, when we lapped at each others souls with our tounges and denied food for fear that nurishment would tear us from our path.
How desperate we were, how we abstained from life because we balanced each other on the ledge of impending death every time we touched.

Truth

In the step program they say "hand over your will to your higher power. God as you understand him." for me, my higher power isnt God but truth. 
I feel like Common when he said that truth had him up against the ropes semi conscious without no boxing skills. 
Truth is like a rapist, hands forced between my denim and my pubic hair. 
Truth tries to tear into my skin, with his tongue in my throat. Im not strong enough to fight it. 
The truth is in the tracks of my lipstick on countless pillows up and down the west coast.
The truth is the texture of my skin, how soft it will fall away when you cut it open to look at my insides. 
My two hearts will beat, independent from any blood source, in time with trumpets and bucket drums. 
Bass heavy hip hop beats and the shine of angellic harp strings.

Bukowski, speaking truth.

“I won’t blame you, 
instead I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.”

—	Raw with love by Charles Bukowski

Hope

Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a modern day fairy tale. Not to say that my life is beautiful and happy and romantic. Honestly, more often than not, my life is entirely fucked up.
I think the fairy tale part of it is that no matter what, even though I can usually be found cleaning up the shards of my broken life, I still manage to find something to love.
Some hope shines through my window along with the ever lonely, entirely uncomplicated, beautiful blue light of dawn.

its all based in moments.

"History tends to repeat itself, but now that I'm not a drunk it's a little bit difficult."
My sober ramblings may be more nonsensical than my drunken ones.
Panties and tights tangled, swollen heart, swollen ankle, [Heels to Jesus].
"What would you like your name to be?"

Who?

A writer who doesn’t write. 
Who never wanted to fall back in love with that one who hurt her so badly. 
Who breathes in wine and breathes out cigarette smoke. 
Who broke hearts once upon a time. 
Who forgets to breathe when she reads your words.