Compositions

When what you say
   lights me up
and i want to paint you,

 the roughness, the edges,
   that twist of danger
   and all the endless
    softness
   of your touch your voice your smile

The unsurprising
   Revelations,
   your tendency to avoid
  "how are you" in favor of
  anything else,

my own surprise
  at how you
   illuminate
   me

How i want to sink in, to roll myself
  around in you, lose myself
     in your brain your psyche your tenderness
   The anger not at me, never at me
    Rather FOR me, my protection

 and i can breathe -
   hell, i can fly -
But all on my own, the wings
   you illuminate belong to me,

  the pictures you paint in words and care and
    admitting who you are
  me
   How am i this lovely thing you see?

How do i stay, this far, no farther,

  when all i want to do is paint

  your body your face your touch your eyes
   with my fingers, my lips, my limbs
Those eyes i want to climb inside
  the lips, shoulders, gaze that sets me
  longing, maybe
     even pining for the rest of you -
The what
   ifs
  scattered like milk
     and honey across my world

how do i not give in?

Realism

Realism

The reality of this situation is:

there is nowhere for any of this

overflowing

messy

emotion to go, and you

are gonna rend your heart

on the rocks of "What if."

But goddammit, do those

"what if"s feel good.

Twining yourself into arms in thought,

if not reality,

kneeling and breathing and thinking and

what if

that hand were on your neck

in your hair

that knife were at your throat

that voice were whispering

into your ear

what if

those arms were holding

lips touching

bodies twining

what

if
That light he turns on you
all the dark spots lit by
seeing you this way,
What
If

you could kneel and know

it was safe to give yourself up

put yourself at his

mercy
hand over all this
bottled emotion,

submit

Just

keep

breathing.

Don't

Don't wish,
    don't think too far
  don't do it


 Do not open that door,
    the what ifs, beyond
  what you've already seen

Do not mistake this for anything
   but what it is -
    moments in time, nothing
  that can ever be.

  Don't wish

Bad Days

It's often on the worst days
   the ones where something catches me
   completely off-guard,
   when my brain freezes
    and then explodes in panic
  that i see the clearest.

 Those days,
   the ones i start spiraling
     out of the carefully
  rebuilt
    control
   the ones you catch
      when i reach out
  the days that
   i wind up
   prostrate
    with gratitude,
   limp with happiness
     feeling too needy for words,
    but so much calmer

   those are the days i see
    i am not a burden
        i am not too much,
   that it's okay
    for me to need support
    and that you don't resent
     my asking,
    that there are people out there
    who will meet my pleas
    for reassurance
     with care,
    with "we're here"
   with love.

The reminders that
   i don't have to bury myself
    in fear and doubt.

  And that stays
   on the days i want to hide,
   reminding me
   that the depression and anxiety
   lie
       that i'm a whole human being,
   and i am allowed
  to need you.

Lessons Learned

   i
   am
    passionate
   complete alone,
  but happy with
   some
    others
    caring
   intense
     afraid, but constantly
   fighting
     it
contradictory
   hedged about with protections
  instinctive
  emotionally motivated
   introverted
   unwilling to talk/unable to shut
     up
the owner of a mask that 90%
   of the people i meet
   will never
    get
    past -
  and if you think you've seen
  behind the mask,
   trust me:
   unless you have seen me
  undone by emotion,
      held me
   while i dissolved in tears
   or in the aftermath
   of a panic attack
  or had
  a three am conversation
   about things in the center
   of both our beings,
 you
   haven't.

i am
allowed to make my own choices
   about who i let in
i am
   too quick to accept guilt
    for denying the fantasies of strangers
   and i need to remember
     that while i am responsible
    for being honest
    and true to myself in my interactions
   with others,
  i
 am
  not
 responsible
  for making sure fantasies
   and reality
   ever match up.
i am
  quick to love
   and slow to let go,
   unable to forget
 but quick to forgive
and understand
   my forgiveness is for you
  but also
  for myself,
   because i refuse to hate
  no matter what is done.
i am
  a service-oriented
 painslut
bratty
 pet
  submissive
  and i am the only one
 who decides
 to whom
   i submit.
i am
myself.

Sex sex sex

  Lost

i so often
   stand aloof,
  closed off, turned away
  because once i let you in,
  once we've met
  in that intimacy,
  the craving becomes a thing
  so strong
  the smell of your skin
     has me reacting,
  much less a casual touch
  or deliberate one; i
  can only let so many
   in,
  or i might
   explode with longing:

   Let me learn you
  with hands and lips and tongue,
  run your hands over
   every
  inch
  of my body;
  let me find the places
   that bring gasps
   or moans,
  lose myself in you
   memorize your taste and smell.
  Find out
   what barely grazing my skin
  with your fingertips
  looks like under lamplight,
   day, and twilight casts,
how it makes me writhe,
  let my lips speak
  secrets on your skin -
Can we just
  be lost together
  buried in each other's flesh
  for a little while?

Wishes

Since childhood
   
   she has learned
  that wishes, spoken aloud,
   can be twisted
   perverted
  brought to life in horribly unexpected ways
   
   A child snatched by goblins,
    hearts ripped out
      or skin torn off,
  people twisted into
   caricatures of themselves
    by helpless, obsessive love wishes
 
   So she locks her wishes down
     keeps them behind her lips,
      inside her skull,
   someplace safe
     and warm
    and so private
 
  no one will ever, ever hear
    and twist
what she wants
   into some fucked up version
   of reality.

Dichotomies

Why are we so gentle on those
   surrounding us
    and so hard on ourselves?

  Why express loathing, over and over,
      of the things we despise in ourselves
     the "weaknesses" or "flaws"
when we can see the beauty of them
   in those we care for?

  i tell my friends
    over and over
   they are lovely, wonderful, gorgeous,
   good enough
     for anyone or anything
  while fighting my own feeling
    that i must ask permission
   for everything -
    to talk,
   to exist,
    to take up space
      in others' lives
   to BE

i tell them
   "pay attention to your limits"
  while fighting my own
    until i force panic attacks,
    unraveling all the triggers
 because i want to be DONE.
   Healed.
   No more fragility
  no more feeling of being pathetic,
    unwanted,
   ignored and left behind.

i tell them
  "you are never a burden,"
  "anything you want or need
    that i am capable of,
      just ask me"
"you don't have to isolate yourself"

while shutting myself down,
   feeling that if i reach out,
     if i expect attention from anyone
    i
  am
   always
   a burden.

And while i know, logically,
   that i am not a burden,
    not pathetic or weak
      or a waste of space
   or resented for reaching out,
    burrowing into one's own head
   is so much harder
     than saying it to someone else.

The Hardest Lessons

The hardest lessons
   i have had to learn
   all involve myself.

  That it is okay
    to not be okay,
    even on the days that
   everything
     hurts
  and i can no longer respond
   to even gentle humor.

That in spite of it being easier
  to blame myself than
  to acknowledge if someone i love
    is to blame for anything,
   i cannot blame myself
   for everything, and that
  the way i'm treated is NOT
    necessarily a reflection
   of who i am.

That i'm allowed to have emotions,
   that no one gets to dictate
    how deeply i feel, or about what,
     and that i'm not fucked up
    just because i react strongly.

That i'm human,
   allowed to expect
  clarity
  affection
  attention
  the things the voice
   in the back of my head
   tells me i don't deserve,
  that i should never expect.

That my needs are valid,
   not problems
  and not issues i need to fix.
That i'm allowed to look
  into another person's eyes
  and say "No," clearly,
  and that it is their problem
 if they cannot accept it.

That i am worth loving
  even on the days
  i feel completely unlovable.
That the longing i feel
  is valid
  no matter what.

Frustration, or Wading Through the Crap

What no one tells you:

the sheer

utter

sometimes frenzied

FRUSTRATION

there is in healing

the loops

around and around

back through fears that surprise

even

yourself.

The urge to connect,

to reach out

to beg

for attention

affection

anything

that will help silence the fear.

The overcoming of

that guilt

shame

the conviction that he was right

that you're actually insane

and even once you're healing

even once you're mostly okay

even the times you feel

happy

part of you remains convinced

that it will all come crashing down.

Being convinced

that everyone is

angry at you

tired of you

not knowing how or why

and that's part of it.

The inability to even articulate

what you want

because fuck if you know.

All you know is that you cycle

from fear of change

to fear of everything

and back again,

and even once you begin

to eradicate the fears,

they sneak up and

ambush you

at the most unexpected times

and with the people

you shouldn't be afraid of.

The simultaneous

fear of silence - shit, did i

just upset them? Did i do or say

something wrong?

Are they angry?

And urge to curl up

in a convenient hole

and just

never

come out,

because silence

can be so comforting

if you choose it.

And gods,

the acid taste

of bringing up the thoughts

feelings

anything that makes you

vulnerable.

Having to remember:

you are not

a bad person

your friends are not angry

your concerns are valid.

No matter how hard it is

to remember any of that.

Though you can

let yourself be so

at the most surprising times

and in the oddest ways

when you are made unexpectedly

welcome,

loved,

thanked,

or when a stranger

calls you beautiful,

calls you good girl,

and you realize

as you crumple toward tears,

that

was all you wanted.

Paradox

For Literaturesexual Wednesday: Write all the things? Writing is sometimes the best or only outlet i have, especially when i can't find words when trying to explain myself.

Paradoxes

Sometimes
   caught at the intersection
of unexpected pain
   and equally unexpected happiness,
i freeze
  unable to fully acknowledge
   either
      unsure of which way to turn
  afraid
   to expose the pain in words
     because half the time
i cannot adequately verbalize it,
  and i am afraid
   of being met with judgement
    instead of understanding.
    And when i manage
      and am met with a casual "fix it"

i fight the urge to withdraw
   hide
    run away
  because
   i don't see it as something
    that is a serious problem -
it is part of me
   the part that enables me to be so vulnerable
    the part that allows me to reach out
      the part that lets me connect
   to anyone at all,
the part
   that causes collapse
     into a flood of tears
      at unexpected kindness
       acceptance
       reassurance
and it does
not
need
  fixing.

A List of Reasons Why You Shouldn't Date Me:

Because
   i'm often irritable
      or angry
   and i can't always explain why.

 Because
   i feel everything
   so deeply
     that i sometimes cannot
    completely control my emotional responses,
     and it's the little things
  that affect me most.

 Because
   between the anxiety
    and the depression
   there are days i desperately need
    attention
  affection
  reassurance
  but
    i often cannot ask -
  i dread
   being
  just an annoyance
  just a burden
  just a pain.

Because i'm a brat,
   and sometimes it's cute
   but other times
   i see the line
   and dance blithely across it,
   until smacked
    or reprimanded.

Because
  while expensive presents
  make me incredibly uncomfortable,
  i am a downright whore
  for attention
  sometimes.
  And like a cat,
  other times i just want
  to be left alone.

Because
   i can talk for HOURS
  about fabric,
   or embroidery,
   or obscure historical facts
   or pretty much anything else
  but mostly
  i apologize too much
   for my own passions.

Because
  i refuse connections
  or hand myself over
   without a second thought
and there is no telling
 which you'll get -
   and when i choose
  handing myself over,
 i often grow afraid
   after the fact,

Because
   i am not
   everyone's cup of tea
  as the saying goes,
   but maybe
   i'm someone's
  shot of whiskey
  once in a while.

Because
  part of me waits
 for any new
  Anything
  to go sideways
regardless of what i do
  or don't do.

Discoveries

i am discovering
   that i do not know
     how to want
the things i'm told
  cannot exist.
   The things
    that my subconscious
   revisits in dreams
   but that may never
   see the light
   of day.
 But oh
  i miss them
  when i wake up
   and remember
  they were only
   ever
 dreams.

Paradoxes

she spends her days
   in silence, stillness,
   content to be alone.
  she longs for contact
    affection
   attention
conversation
  acknowledgement that she IS.

  she knows where she stands
   and is content, even - when she feels it -
  happy.
   she longs for something else,
   more
not sure what, but something.

  she's adult
   responsible
  reliable
she's a child
   wild and silly
  capable of going so far
   overboard
   that she gets smacked down.

she's loving
  direct
 unafraid of showing her feelings
   affections
   desires
she's silent
   and fearful of being
  so vulnerable
  with anyone.

she's terrified
  of everything
 but makes herself pretend
  to be brave
  because sometimes
"Fake it til you make it"
  actually works.

she doesn't ever want
  to hurt or upset anyone
 she cares for
   she can be a total
   pain in the ass.

she needs no approval
   no "Good job" or
  "good girl" or pats on the back
  from anyone
  to feel good about herself.
But if you want to see her
   incandescent,
 watch
   when the right people
  use one of those phrases.

she forgets to say
  anything
  to anyone
  for weeks;
  she talks incessantly
   and can't remember
how to be still.

she is entirely
  self-sufficient;
  she feels
like she cannot survive
  without that ring
 around her throat.

Take her apart,
  and you will find
  equal parts
prickly bitchiness
 and open love,
  anger
  kindness
fear
bravery
planning
  and impulsiveness,
  something beautiful
 and strange
entirely accessible
and entirely beyond
anyone's grasp.

Post-surgery

Recovering
  recuperating
 physical and mental healing
   don't go well together.
Giving my body
   the time it needs to heal
  has given my mind
   time to turn in on itself
 and i can't get to the surface
   some days.
 Some days i'm fine,
  vegging on shows and
   cuddling with the pup and kitties;
 others i cannot escape my own brain
   and where the hell do you go
   to escape those insidious
   twisting
  convincing
  whispers at the back of your
   very
   own
   brain?
   The constant anxiety,
   waiting to be told you're annoying
   again
    or slapped away
  from everyone you know,
  the insistent voice that says
 you trusted your instincts
  and he fucked
 you
 up
 so don't get too comfortable now, bitch.
  Don't.
  Do it.
It isn't safe.
  i feel like a kitten
  curled up in a ball
  waiting for the petting hand
  to slap it
 again
  only
  this is so much more
 insidious than the physical was.
i have to reprogram my own brain
  remind myself that i DO have worth
 i'm worthy of being loved
 i'm a good person,
  i'm an interesting person
goddammit
 i have been
 stamping
 this
into my brain for eight months
  and it's still hard to remember
and some days
 i want affection in the worst way
 but how do i ask anyone
reach
  say "hey, i need reassurance"
  when i'm curled in a ball
 in a corner
 somewhere safe
 not reaching out
 because hey,

it's safer here.

The Dichotomy of Being an Introverted Empath

i get the funniest looks
   sometimes
 when i say "i'm an introvert."
  "i need alone time."
  "i'm shy."
No one seems to grasp
   that the outgoing friendliness is,
    for me,
  a defense mechanism; that every contact
   comes with a cost in bravery at
  opening up to anyone else.
  That the fight between
   the needs of every
  single
   person
   i meet
   and my own needs
   exhausts me, some days.
   That any time i open up
    and let another person in
  some part of their life,
   their story,
   their pain
 echoes in my own heart,
   that i choose
   so carefully
 who i let in
   and who i hold away.
No one sees
  that the inside of my head
  is a landscape made up of
   streams
    and mountains
   wild forests
 and all of it empty
   save for me
   and whomever i allow
   to enter.
That my emotions run on
  instinct
   and whomever i let in,
    be they friend
  or lover
   or random stranger
 those people are so carefully
  selected
  because i cannot
   hold the pain of the entire world
but i can hold the pain of a few people.
  Never feel sorry
   for me.
 There are things in my head
  more beautiful and strange
 than most imagine exist
  inside of me,
  and the choosing i do
   is never a burden.
It isn't a question
   of who is worthy and who isn't,
  but of whose pain
  i'm strong enough to bear
  without once feeling burdened,
  who i can spend time with
   and not need to run home;
   who feels safe, trustworthy,
  and who
  doesn't.
  It's a question
   of whose motivations i understand,
    not whether or not i am hurt.
   It's a question
   of where i choose
   to let my love go,
   regardless of whether
   that love is ever returned
    in any measure.
i once had a friend
   tell me
  that i was too patient, too understanding,
    too nice.
  i let in
   the people who need
 what i'm capable of giving.
The people who won't
  walk over me and then away,
   the ones who don't hit my flags
   in ways that tell me run away,
   the ones who need those
  moments of safety
   acceptance
  love
    and i can't explain
  what makes me let one in
   and shut one out.
All i know
  is that if their lives
   are in any way improved
 through that contact,
   it is worth everything.

i'm a writer

Give me a pen
  and enough paper
  and i can write you an impassioned
    novel
 on my thoughts
  my feelings
  everything about myself.
   i can be direct,
   discuss things that would normally
    terrify me to admit;
 i can be open about
  depression
   anxiety
   my feelings
everything there is.
Ask me to vocalize these things
  and i stumble
   stutter
  the glottal stops i thought were trained
    out of me by a particularly neurotic
   high school English teacher
   becoming all my words
i will tell you ten thousand
   stories
  about everything and anything
   except what i'm supposed
   to be talking about.
i've never understood
   this disconnect
  between writing and speaking -
   surely either way
 it's the same words in the same brain
   and they ought to come out the same.
  But with paper,
   i can edit, re-edit, rewrite,
   perfect each line and word
   in ways that speech has never offered.
  i don't have to worry (and sometimes,
    worry becomes all i am)
    about misspeaking,
   misphrasing,
   making things seem less important
   than they are
   or more.
i have a chance to say precisely what i mean to,
   rather than a crude, stammered approximation
   of gratitude
   or pain
    or love
   or fear
or anything else.

i'm not everyone's toy

i've always had
   a break
    between the absence of boundaries
   with those i love and the bubble i erect
     with strangers.

 i am a pet; i blossom under the right touch
   and please let me know
    when i've been a good girl,
  and please put a hand
   on my head and love me
  and please
   touch my neck, trace the line of my shirt,
   but do not
  if i don't know you.

i am service-oriented;
   i will go to the ends of the damn earth
   if asked to by those who have earned the right

But you have to earn it.

Understand: i am not your toy
  not your plaything on which to foist
   your personal fantasy,
   Not not not
  anyone's for the taking
i answer only to those i deem worthy
  and it's a slippery slope
   between pleasant greeting and fuck off,
   if you take the wrong tone with me
   or try to apply rights or pet names
   where they are not welcome.

i choose to whom i belong
   or want to belong
i choose who i want touching me
   i. choose.
   and you do not have that right
unless i let you know you do.

i am a pet,
  not.
a.
doormat,
  and you will find out
 if you are not careful
just how fast
that door can slam.

Mess

Some days i'm fine
  functional, stable adulthood
   responding to emails
    making lists
  doing everything
   right
   on
  time.
  Able to communicate effortlessly,
   clear
   concise,
    organized and brilliant and effective.
   Able to handle any situation
    get a grip on my emotions and do what i need to
      regardless of how scary it is.

 And the rest
  lost inside my head
   utterly
   convinced
 that i am hopeless,
  unable to ever explain myself
   peeling off my skin
   and revealing the layers
   underneath
    unable to say Please
  unable to say
   anything
because silence,
   that's safer.
   And i am so scared
    terror that eats into the back
     of my brain,
    and i want to say "NO"
  "STOP EVERYTHING, I DON'T
   WANT
   TO DO THIS. I CAN'T."
  And i get so angry
    at myself
   for believing that silence
   will ever accomplish
    anything. That avoidance
    of everything,
   surgery,
   emotions,
  all of it
 will ever
  make
 anything
 better.

Naked
   and bewildered
 and feeling so
   fucking
 melodramatic
   for being this emotional.

Anxiety!Brain

i joke about the duality
   between normal!brain and
     Anxiety!Brain: Able to Leap to the Worst Conclusion in a Single Bound

But the reality is
   anxiety is the tiny voice in the back of your brain
     that never
 ever
 shuts off.

It is the voice that tells you
   that no, there ARE opinions that matter
    and it isn't going to care if
     your logical brain says that no, that one doesn't.

It's the shying from conversations
   the shutting off of your own emotion
     the refusal to see yourself
       the confusion once you do.

It is the voice that says You
   Are Not Allowed
   to have negative emotions,
   because if you do -
    if you do,
     you're nothing but a burden.

  It is the voice that says you are not -
    will never be -
    accepted
     loved
     enjoyed for who, for what you are

that maybe who and what you are
   shouldn't exist

 and even when you manage to shunt
    most of that to the side,
      silence some,

  force yourself into some semblance
    of calm and reality and acceptance
   random moments
   will catch you utterly off-guard


Like the moment your friend says
   you have accepted him more fully
   than people he's known for decades,

  and you realize

it's because you want that, desperately,
   from those whose opinions actually matter.

Those moments you remember
   that one year,
  ten years ago,
   where every time
    your phone rang

it was someone else you loved dead
and it left you so irrational about phone calls
 
   and the thought of picking up the phone
  comes with a mix of "They'll think
    Something Bad Happened" and
  feeling like you need permission.

When you realize
   that one word can calm
     or twist your thoughts
into massive confusion
   and all it takes is one.

When you recognize
    that a lot of the plans you make
   on a day to day basis
  depend
on coping mechanisms

And when you know
   that opening up to anyone
     feels as though you are offering
   raw, flayed underbelly
    unless it doesn't,
    and that "doesn't"
  inevitably catches you
    off-guard.

And you see clearly
  that you're simultaneously
   capable of infinite
patience,
  understanding,
 calm
But beneath the surface
  that damn voice is saying,
   "SEE THIS? SEE THAT?

 NO
ONE
CARES."

And that voice doesn't care
   if you happen to know for a fact
 that it isn't true.
It doesn't matter, nothing matters
   except the monologue behind your eyes
   that says
 You must be useful
   Indispensible
  and if you're not, then

what
 are
 you
really

But you know better.
   You know your worth
  has never depended on
   your usefulness.
Not that anxietybrain
   cares any more about it.