Space Saint

You light me up from vein to artery, from cheek to cell, from bone to spirit. Electric purple light filaments. Sometimes I wish I could stay shipwrecked on the sea of your bed for all eternity, weaving out of one another, breathing in your dust. The heat you radiate spins sugar waves that press me eyelids shut and purses my lips open, omitting mermaid moans and rocking my hips back and forth. I lose myself between waves of convulsive delight. My twin spirit, shadow lover, the percussion of your breath lulls me into bliss. You touch me like no one can. My mirror, my teacher, my eerie reflection, my echo through the canyon. 

We have our own dimension.

Our own pocket of reality no one can take. 

A jungle tree house of animal luxuriance, our pirate ship from outer space. 

I have never wanted you to fill my throat so badly.

AIRBORNE AMNESIA

My ambition lies in overthrowing reality. His is for fame. A-get-seen-quick-scheme that makes my body groan. He believes he is grounded in objective data, and sneers at the ugliness around him, naive to it's mirroring of his insides. He thinks like a computer, in compartments and programs, file under- rename- share- copy-paste-just fucking stop for the love of god.

I pretend to be crazy so I can get away with doing what's right. He is married to mediocrity in the toneless safety of his beige bedroom, sealed off and wound up tight. His skin has lost it’s elasticity because he drinks so much, and shrouds his body like a canopy of dread. The grumbling in his stomach he mistakes for hunger is a child's cry for god. 

I want to contaminante his false sense of clarity, and show him the truth is kaleidoscopic, but he is addicted to the program. And scared. Ignorant of whose thoughts or  feelings leak into his own, brainwashed and suffering from the delusion of separateness. Gifted the gift of being able to mimic.

So I’m gonna send a fat-breasted fertility goddess to his door at four am, have her flip over his book shelves and piss on their lame contents, and spread dark, glorious compost on his bad art. She’ll peg him with originality, awakening, rowdy bliss and ecstatic truth. She’ll teach him that you can’t share your soul with anyone until you stop avoiding your own. 

Death, The Empress, The Chariot

I am getting better at flaring myself up like a flame.

I am getting better at locating the pain, some parts mine and others not-  and commanding it back to the wind with a sullen, knowing stare. Being more careful about where I leave my hair. Commanding the wind with better boundaries, a rage, a dare. Curtailing invisible enemies. Cutting the cord.

I am getting better at resurrecting myself each day and tidying away my pain, lending it to the far-reaching majesty of the Sun.

I am getting better at discerning the difference between holy places and dark places:

The cathedral between my thighs, the locked garden of my heart, overgrown but tended to, wild, but pure.

 The drunken cavern he visits at night, the cold annotates of his tone, the void, the 2 dimensional marriage to the material.

I am getting better at flaring myself up like a flame.

I am not getting better at finding empathy for the morbidly obedient

I am bored of the morbidly obedient

Dreadfully, fucking, bored

Whore myself out to who? And idolize what? And break whose heart? Pick which equally sick polarization? And tell what lies and in what order?

Heres my heart, hold it. It's big and it’s heavy. Tread lightly on my inner cartography, my alien geography. You are probably but a temporary inhabitant. We all are. 

Strike

There's lightning in LA tonight, and torrents of water stream down the hills. The water forms narrow rivers that shoot down through the winding of the canyons like strange arteries. They swim dark purple, between the tightly wound houses. I can feel them tug truth out of the ether, impressing upon the doors of each homes inhabitant.The Celtics believed lightning was a strike from the otherworld, a boon of mystical potential shot down from the heavens. The air feels anticipatedly electric and my ears are ringing. Lets go, lets go, I’m ready. This is the role we came down here to play. Truth seekers, love warriors, heart awakeners. Architects of aliveness.

At the divergence of the three way intersection, I vow to only write after dark. After dark, words recoil out of my arteries with sharp tongues and a rabid hunger. I put a candle in each corner and turn to face the direction of the wind. I fuck the wind and it fucks me right back. These are my nightly rituals. My heart is beating to the rhythm of dripping wax. Rose petals will work, but jasmine is better. Leave a jar of honey out, at dusk. Pungent perfumes and circles of salt. Crouched impatiently, learning to be unafraid of my paranormal magnetism. Submerged in daydreams, my only witness a choir of subtle apparitions.

There's an unhurried way about the way you talk, with tilts and tones that rise and fall like an irish mountain. I can feel your cool blue throat whispering half truths and disguising your vulnerability. We’ll do whatever, I say to myself, every exuberant impulse hidden behind a clever shroud of detachment. Clever enough to ignore those primordial nudges, the whispering of cells aching from exhaustion.  I want to locate him within the stars and watch him reach for the worst in himself. Give me your nastiest secret. . Thats what I’m into. The obscene, the absurd, the over-the-top excessive.  I am bored of half-anythings. 

Let go of the machine, the pixelated mania of distraction and return home to your body.  Stop being afraid of what you desire most, what makes you animal, what makes you human. Don’t deny yourself the right to fall in love, to feel alive, to fall hip deep into unknown bliss and rowdy ecstasy.

Energy doesn’t lie, ever. And it's getting so much louder.

like no one will read it

I never experienced heartache passively, it always dragged me into a state of exertion, animating my mobility. I survived so much that I didn’t even remember. I was given the gift of bouncing back. The skill of regeneration. The Irish Curse. My dad said that if I fell in a river I would come up holding two fish.   

You took me down through tunnels of your eyes and I never emerged. Your eyes were entire oceans, alien terrains of underwater creatures, and sometimes they looked like billows of smoke, and when you were sad they melted into pools of whisky. You stuck a cord through my stomach and it felt like hundreds of roots silently drinking me away, gulp by gulp, usurping every thought and feeling I had and consuming it with malice .In the tunnels of your eyes I held my breath, and made wishes that never came true. I don't know how many bargains I made with god to keep you safe. I don't know how many bargains I made with the goddess to keep you tender. None of them worked. I did rituals to rid myself of you, a cyclical madness, my memory plays tricks and paints it all canary yellow.  Adds a poreless filter to this personal hell of my own design.

You took me down the tunnels of your blue portals,  and spat me back out. Mutilated me with your mind, until I was unrecognizable. Poisoned the secret wavelengths of psychic language that we had built, sent radiation through our private airwaves.

I hold my breath in the same way when I pass by your street. Like I'm going through a tunnel.

I can still summon you in my sleep with sudden spasms . My psychic antennae go off and flicker like violent lights. I feel your heat pulsating over me, your eyes scanning my pale skin. The last time you were in my room, I wanted you to kick off your shoes and spread me out, translucent, across the blush sea of my velvet bed. Instead you scanned my room for half an hour looking for clues. I can hear you thinking, how serious was it? Has he been here?

You lie and say you don't care and I feel it clog the airwaves between us more and more. I kept asking you where it hurt, when it was me that was hurt, collected like a commodity, rented but never owned. I don’t know where or when our spirits converged and ingested each other, but they did, and it was horrific. Our bodies clung together like warriors trying to battle the pain out of one another. Engaging in that game is a luxury that time has stolen.

My grief was quiet and discreet, the itching of an unhealed wound. dripping down my arm with a silent rhythm. It had me kissing married men with nymphal volatility. My despair and rage ran rampant, cast out nets and drove them wild with wicked enchantment, haunted by their greedy hands and fevered eyes. I wanted to be eaten alive, swallowed whole. I wanted to be vulgarised, humiliated, twirling like moon snakes through high grass and wet craves. Seduced into amnesia. Falling into a forest of hands. Wide-eyed and eager for night-cold envelopment. Eager to find the thread between freedom and death in a strangers orgasm.

I never acted on these impulses, I just stayed home and wrote about them, assured by my imagination that in another dimension I was doing it anyway. I liked my secrecy, it kept me intimate with myself. 

The earth took me back with her proudest of mountains, she took me back so forgivingly, so largely. She let me weep and ooze and scream and bleed all over her.  She always does. I have crow feathers and I fan my skin and thank it for regaining its elasticity. Sometimes I want to be made of silicone. I was given the gift of bouncing back, an elastic soul.  

Milk

He likes to drink milk, great big glass gallons of it, because he heard it builds strong bones. This both disgusts and delights me, like so many things he does. He is a perennial youth in an aging body, too easily seduced by stardom, too tricky, too wavering. Mimicking an inner chaos that terrifies and intrigues me.

The milk fucks him up and he drinks it anyway. 

He gets gag reflex when he does this, and also when he has dark thoughts. I can hear him gagging in the bathroom, because he’s thinking awful things that prick the entire surface of my skin. He infects the corners of the room with a deep dark murkiness when he does that. My body is getting lighter and I feel more and more every day. 

I am 25, eagerly retaining my wedding day body, much more likely to attend his funeral, waiting for him to return from the lower realms and wake up to the sex-crazed oracle prodigy in his bed. Waiting for him to spring out of the cradle of unconsciousness and omit proud confessions. I fantasize about force feeding him high-grade hallucinogens. 

My mind moves miles a minute and my heart beats a slow hum. I am shackled to the interior of his joyride, breaking the windshield with my heels and begging to be set free. Never of him, but the psychic nausea that protrudes out of his body. 

He is bigger in that way than he realizes. Tall soul. 

November

November has a slow burn, uncovering some lost and ominous positivity- nestled deep between velveteen layers of silence and solitude. I’ve been reeling between strange impulses and reflections, wanting to spend hours in a subterranean fairy cavern and weave cloth from the cobwebs of unfinished stories. Cementing my resolve for a greater passion, a greater love.

I’ve got one eye outward and one eye turned inward, scanning strangers for clues, reading intentions, gauging how the space between our bodies feels. Reading the air. I’ve learned to trust in my peculiar magnetism, to follow feelings, but it never occurred to me that I could be following feelings that weren’t mine.

 I am open, coated in a strange auric layer of hypersensitivity. I’ve dug deep into the worst, darkest, innermost crevices of my own soul, and spread out that messy material like thick silk- examined, plucked, trimmed and turned it around. Followed the primitive impulses that hijacked and overtook me, followed them into the void.

Regained my erotic grandiosity, my propensity to see god everywhere, my laughter. Glowing like an iridescent orgasm. Back to speaking in my native tongue, of weaving puzzle pieces together, of forming a map of this gargled, nonsensical and happily paranormal life I lead.  Ready to run into foreign domains, hair trailing behind me, like the fire of all women who are blamed for burning things to the ground. 

Ex-orcism

Have you ever been pulled underwater by someone? Have you ever been anchored so deep that you can’t see the fragments of light hitting the ocean surface, pulled so deep that you forgot what it felt like to feel the sun brush your skin? Have you ever been pulled underwater, and the disparity of terrain scarred and bruised you, battered, melded and injured you, because, in fact, you were from the stars. 

I feel like I've been missing time, like I've woken up from a foggy, lucid dream, only to find myself back where I was before him, just with a few more scars. Remembering myself from before I went under. Before I was possessed by him. Before I was possessed by his unresolved battle with women, his father's battle with woman, the hatred, the disdain, the “crazy girl” narrative. That handsome wound that had been stitched over, 8 times, prone to infection, never properly inspected. 

I treated this breakup like an exorcism, because that's what I needed, I needed the cord plucked out of my heart and the hand unclenched around my throat and the vampire he was laid to rest. I needed the words he said to me extracted like curses. The mediocre sex that left phantoms in my womb. Battling abuse is spiritual warfare.

It took two shamans to find the origin space of this strange wound, the initial tear that clotted my blood and stung my skin with a rapid drowsiness.

“What do you remember of home?” They ask,

Referring not to my family, but to a place before physical form. An ancient tribe of celestial, low density beings.

“Home? Home is pure. We love without separation, we are unified. Love doesn’t ever involve pain. Love is without condition and moves above time.”

They chanted, shaked, rattled, pulled, and tweaked my field until I emerged renewed, buzzing with a paranormal vitality. Free, Free, Free. 

I bathed in fire, rubbed myself in salt. Broke the contract, Extracted the cord.

I was told I chose my mother's lineage to break a generational curse, eons old, a story of love involving sacrifice, pain, abuse. Entertaining sickly men and swallowing our own light. Dipping down from the higher road to hold a flame behind a path of destruction, hoping, praying, begging that the abuser would turn to see the light. Begging men to choose healing over inebriation. My scars began to form a map, and through that map, I found a liberation. Not just my liberation, but my mission. It was our mission, my mother's unfinished mission, the mission of my descendants, my ancestors, my planet’s mission. 

Long reign the divine feminine.