Magic admired

In the dark woods

Or perhaps collected

In a borrowed glass jar

Having to remind yourself

Wonder was never meant

To be contained

You told me the truth. I should have listened:

“I’m radioactive dog shit to women.”

At the time, I chided you for saying such a terrible thing about yourself. However, I would eventually learn the truth. I had all the puzzle pieces in my possession, I just didn’t realize it yet. I am a bit slow in areas of the heart. Even when logic is screaming right in my Pollyanna face.

When I did snap those pieces together, the picture sickened me.

You hate all women. They are either “demonic”, borderline personality disordered, narcissistic feminists (your favorite way to diagnose every female around you), or they are insipid, bleating sheep. You hate them all.

Click

You are at odds with everyone in every single area of your life, but curiously, it’s never by your doing. At odds with your work, your church, your family, your ex, your kids, your friends, and society in general. But somehow, it’s always THEM. You have zero self-accountability. None.

Click

You engaged someone in a shared incestuous fantasy with possibly even pedophilic undertones with no regret. You eagerly became one of her many “pets” when a morally upright and psychologically sound MAN would have blocked an individual like that immediately as soon as he realized what was going on with her. When confronted, you became defensive, “It’s in the aether,” you said. You were quick to downplay the gravity and implications of your sick compulsions. You are both sick fucks and should seek help. Yes, this revelation was the ultimate deal-breaker for me. I cannot and will not associate with this depravity.

Click

We don’t speak any longer (thank God) and I’m sure if anyone were to ask you, I was 100% the problem. You’d tell them how I ended up being a covert narcissist and tricked you. Yes… Go ahead and place me on that huge shelf alongside every other evil woman who has ever wronged you in your poor, victimized life.

I'm not perfect, but I own every tender morsel of my bullshit. I don't cower behind the perceived ill actions of others or behind circumstances. I OWN what's mine. The weak-minded make excuses and hide.

I’ve scraped the memory of you off on the curb and on the lawn the best I could, but I ended up throwing those shoes away anyhow. The nausea comes in waves. The sight of your name in print, or hearing it spoken makes me fight the urge to vomit. Sequela of the initial exposure.

The radiation dose was not fatal. However, it was more than enough to sicken me.

I was sitting on a park bench. This book I had been looking forward to reading had developed an unfortunate pacing issue. However, I insisted on giving it one more chance before relinquishing it to the library drop box.

A friendly-looking dog, off-leash, came trodding up to me. She dropped to her belly and sniffed with great interest at something under the bench. I looked down and saw a piece of sandwich someone had dropped. The dog noisily licked her lips and inched closer.

Suddenly, a male voice firmly called, “Sadie. Leave it.”

I looked up and the man smiled at me. Upon hearing his command, the dog rose and immediately went to the man’s side, irresistible object now forgotten. Together, they continued their walk through the park.

I gazed down at the book in my lap, pondering the wonders of Sadie the Good Girl. Here I am, figuratively leashed, a rather dimwitted animal in comparison. I strain hard against my restraints, stubbornly insisting on getting my own stupid animal way. Rebellious. Frustrated.

How I wish I could master that command: ‘Leave it’. If only I could abandon the pursuit of things clearly not meant for me, without so much as a look back.

As I returned the book that afternoon, I also decided I could stand to be a lot more like Sadie.

I live in the gayborhood. For pride month, they repainted the lines (There are rainbows painted at the intersections). It got me thinking. Should I repaint my lines? What lines do I cross, or not cross, that I should reevaluate? There is magic in renewal. Is there not? What if I cross lines I should stop crossing, and cross lines I should have been exploring why they even fucking exist in the first place? What if lines that were faded, could be repainted, and everyone would see something new? What if I saw something new? What if I saw you?

She asked me to see the stars and I had nodded in an absent trance. There was too much noise in my ears and too many lines in my nose. But, she wanted to see the southern skies through my eyes. And Williamsburg mountain wasn't a hop skip and a jump, but she was there. An hour drive to heaven and peace and her wrapped in my arms. An hour drive to show her something in me, something unsettled...yet rooted and wild. And so I lit a joint and slid in shotgun. A far cry from the noisy bar on main street.

She took my joint and I took her hand. Feigning for a cigarette, I fumbled for my dispo, just to take a hit. Needing something. Something more familiar than the sound of her voice, singing quietly along with the silky tones of Lana del Rey.

*We were Born to Die or we were immortal.

Tonight nothing made sense *

The roads were empty. 2 a.m and counting and her hand was on my inner thigh. Resting easy and comfortable. We turned the curve and shifted down. The hum of the engine and the softs sounds of the radio melted together, into some melodic hum...with fireflies and crickets and the sounds of the Appalachian Mountains, swaying in and out of my mind. Torn and broken, addled by drink and drug...

I felt her lips against my neck. Warm, soft and inviting. I pulled away, for a moment.

A tinge of guilt.

And then I pulled her closer, kissed her deeper before I let the walls rebuild...

I stepped outside and she followed, sheepish.

I pointed out the constellations,

As her hands slid beneath my shirt. A sudden give inside of me...and I gave into to the softness of her touch, calloused fingers exploring my skin. I leaned into her and gave in.

Naked flesh finding naked flesh. She was warm and wet and ready.

And the quiet moans, as I slid inside of her, seemed to echo through swaying pines.

We watched the sunrise from the hood of her benze. Lost somewhere in the coming sun and our discretions.

An autodidact in self-harm,

she gets hopes up, smitten, blushing.

Though not for her, she'll crave his charm.

His deflection-- cold, crushing.

She hates herself, her unchecked smarm.

Alarms and flags-- they mean nothing.

She'll run straight to, all good sense fled,

when they're her preferred color… red.