I am cocooned by the coven in Encino. Sitting poolside in tiny string bikinis, under the gazebo, playing with grass. I am toying with my perception again. My naked chest beating out massive beads of sweat, like hot wax. I have been a million people this summer. I nestle my knuckles into the dirt and wonder if the earth is as angry as I am. The valley is a sulky teenage girl. I much prefer Louisiana, its heavy antiquation, it's feral feminine. A wet warrioress with poisonous creatures and rabid aliveness. An impressive reminder that sacred things should not be toyed with.
I was born for the greatness of a singular love, and more anonymity than I have gotten. I was made for the richness of monogamy, of childbirth, born to learn the quirks and intricacies of one man and never several. To profess brave omissions in a terribly dishonest world, to study someones dimensions with the diligence and patience of a devotee. In moments of deep introspection, God speaks to me with crystalline clarity, in a non-language. A nudge. Tells me that I am meant to become an ouroboros of myself first. That I can only get what I give.
It's not an ideal time for dating. Astrologically. The boys have become bitches. Distracted. I tell myself, don’t dim down your knowing, that prehistoric pain is rising up through the meridians of the earth, and the men will not be the first to process it. We can’t skip this process, this time. There is no jumping the gun, no overlooking this sacred mass as it unearths itself. You can’t just catapult headfirst into someone elses process- it will fester over, and become codependency. If you stay in that toxic love, it will sour and boil, brew into something bad. Swallow you and spit you back out.
I am nauseated by the sticky, codependency I used to fester in.
If you are longing for someone elses timeline, you are not doing it right. I used to only measure time in the beats between breaths of old lovers, used to count moments by the gestation between romantic encounters. Wounds seeking wounds that grooved and fit into each other. I have new definitions for love. Refined. Boundaried.
There's a reshuffling transpiring. A recalibration. A pole shift. Stay finely attuned to the omissions your subconscious is making, call in God. Cast out that hungry ghost. Seal and protect. Everyones grief is poking out of them, like blue radiation. An aurora borealis of irresolution. It hurts to look at, to see it in the hollows of their chests, the mournful shadows in their eyes. It comes in these harsh waves, cycles. Some people try to coat it in noise, moving dully through surrounding tornadoes of cleverly disguised pain. I have to be better at retracting and stifling through what's mine and what isn't.
There are people I am connected to like impenetrable arteries, impressing themselves down on the earth, curving cleverly through time and space. We are the same. Some people speak without words. Some people see more than others.