It's really fucking annoying that every time I see a picture of you, I'm suddenly neck deep in memories from two years ago.

I get lost thinking about the way your rough hands felt against my soft skin. The soft voice you'd use to tell me to go to bed when I've fallen asleep in your lap again. The rise and fall of your chest as you snore away beneath me like a car engine faintly wheezing in the distance.

I remember every word you ever spoke to me. Every compliment you ever gave me, and the way you looked at me the moment we first met.

Had I known, in that moment, that my world would stop spinning, and my life would be inexplicably tangled in yours, I would have shut the door.

I loved you,

I've never been able to shake that truth. And when people ask about you, and they often do, I recount our stories with a softened fondness and have nothing but love and respect for you.

Even when I fell in love again, I spoke of you. I'd moved on entirely, and had fallen in love faster than I'd ever imagined, but I still would speak of you.

And things ended, he left in just the way you did. Ready to tackle the world ahead and become the man he needs to be.

Maybe that's what I'm meant for; to love people so hard they start to love themselves. He once told me I walk around, and just make everyone better. And I think that's true.

I loved you so hard, yet not enough to let you go. You've become who you were always meant to be, and I'm glad I got to share that chapter of your life with you.

My last love is well on his way to that point too, the one that marks the day where he no longer wants me around. He's already mostly gone, it's only a matter of weeks until the silence overtakes us and this sinking ship hits the ocean floor.

Although it always feels like I'm drowning, I'm the kind of woman who goes down with her ship. Now it's time to be my own captain, and love myself the way I loved you both.

     She is fire in the hearth of my rib cage; beneath bone lies no heart. I’ve penned it away on page consumed in flame by an inferno feral and strange. Coal would be a gift, a match struck against cardinal nails. Adrift in the smoke of her ire, I harness shadows dire and moons of blighted ash. This resonance is thick and deafening song— asphyxiated, I thrash, juggled along with the coal in her grasp.

     She is wind in the rot of my wounds; beneath decay runs no blood. I’ve inked it away on skin siphoned and claimed by a hurricane, calamitous its spin. Sea would be a pawn, waves climbing the sky against dauntless gusts. Drawn in by the force of her gale, I capture reveries frail and stars of foul night. This turbulence is wild and harrowing hymn— diminished, I fight, twisted grim by the sea in her might.

     She is light in the dark of my dreams; beneath eye sounds no screams. I’ve hushed them away with rhyme blinded and maimed by a sun fleeting, sublime. Dusk would be a boon, sins of dawn stark against a sable eve. Swooned by the gleam of her rays, I compose sonnets grey and sonatas of savored lust. This luminesce is bright and saintly tune— enlightened, I trust, shrouded soon by the dusk of her death.

I should have known. Generations of alcoholism, mental illness and abuse found its way through me and into my daughter. How fucking arrogant of me to believe I had the education, tools and capability to “give someone the chance that I was denied”. Did I not realize that my child might inherit the family’s mental illness? Could I not see the damage that even limited (but loving) contact with close relatives might cause?

Sick parents produce sick offspring. Years of therapy, 12-Step programs, prenatal classes, baby development seminars, parenting classes and parent-infant involvement courses – all of these – were not enough to teach me how to be a “good enough” mother or how to understand and connect with my daughter. Obviously, I was not well enough to be an effective parent – not well enough to give my child insight or to guide my child in overcoming problems. Sweet Jesus, what have I done?

It is not enough to know that “I did the best I knew how.” My Mom did the best she knew how, and she was the result of a borderline, bipolar, mother. As a result, Mom and I experienced a “failure to bond”. Mom once told me, “You’re a very difficult child to love.” I developed Major Depressive Disorder, feeling lost in life, until diagnosis and treatment as an adult. So, why did I invest so much of my life into “beating the system” - perpetuating this cruel cycle? Anyone, looking in from the outside, would have seen my maternal folly. Hindsight is 20/20!

Time passes and growth is inevitable. Whether that growth is inspirational or destructive is not a concern of time. We create numbers to track seasons but time has no time for such worldly concoctions. Time is so simply divine that it is impossible to truly wrap one's head around it. "I need more time." "Why can't tomorrow come sooner?" We all wish to hinder or accelerate time at some point, but what's the point? Our lifetime is but a mere moment in the eyes of eternity; dust in the wind as some may say. Time is a worthy adversary and challenging the calendar is futile. But collaborating with time while you still have it can shower you with satisfaction. Time is all we have; the only resource that has yet to be proven mortal. The clock ticks beyond our last breath and all we are is what we can leave behind; will we ever be satisfied with what we leave behind?

I understand why you don't trust easily. She broke you, she left you, she crumbled your fragile heart and now you keep it hidden from the world. After 18 months of being friends I'm starting to wonder if you'll ever open up completely at all? Are you that damaged that you can't let anyone in? If so, I'm not your girl. So go now, before my heart gets more attached.

Occasionally you show your empathy, your deep emotion. Your compassion for others and ability to drop what you're doing to help shines bright. But it's all on the surface. If there is a question too personal, you back down. You shut down and run away. Conflict isn't your friend, and compromises aren't easily obtainable.

I'm many things, but a therapist isn't on the list of things I am... especially when I don't see a happy end game. So here's to you working your shit out on your own, because from now on my counseling and advising services are closed. Please tell your new life advisor about your issues up front, so they don't get overly invested like I did. You disguise that shit well, but when it comes out it's like a festering wound.

Your diagnosis for the time being is Man-baby with bruised ego and inability to express true feelings. I don't mind meaningless sex, but I do mind it with my best friend. So I'm out. (That includes the sex, too).

     Something sings in the dark, a muted lull of smothered sparks. This act is lust and foul sway ‘neath amber dusk and twilight grey. Be still, they say, and quiet more; when light is cruel, the dark adores each mournful tear, impulsive cut. Be still, they say, and quiet much.

     I’ve been lost on grounds unknown, a Fair quick to parade my desires and fears. Fire swallowed in turn, beyond the callow singe and burn of novice flesh. Spectacles veiled where silken swathes of ribbon sail, a synchronized troupe of nimble flight fain to tumble from the heights. I’ve been tempted by a fortune new, a crystal ball and scry to view my life, my death and dreary heart in myriads of trompe l’oeil art.

     Something claws at the air, a sickening prayer of sweat and flame. This game is light and shadow-play, a hunt of shame and swift betray. Be quick, they say, and clever more; when dark is sweet, the light abhors each honeyed smile, velvet touch. Be quick, they say, and clever much.

     I’ve toured iron wrought and caged around a tameless beast, wild eyes and famine feast on gangly corpse and putrid meat. Time is semblant brutish quip, imprinting pelts by lash and whip. Billowed tents loom slight askew, a home to none and many few but faces warped and freakish form, ‘round petting pens their patrons swarm. I’ve heard the cries of children ring, no allies to the horrors seen imprisoned in this ghastly age and shackled to a savage stage.

     Something burns within the heart, a smoldering wound of blackened art. This trick is harsh and bitter pay, lithe predator of dream's decay. Be poised, they say, and brazen more; when magic fails, the truth restores each cloying lie, each mocking crutch. Be poised, they say, and brazen much.

     I've been found on grounds traversed, a Fair slow to conceal my revulsion and screams. Lights flicker in resist— above the carousel’s peak, they insist revenge. Be still, they say, and quiet more; when dark is cruel, the light adores each song, each claw, each burning heart. Be still, they say, and love the dark.

I could care less.

This means that you could care less. Meaning, you do care in the first place. And though this phrase is originally intended, as "I couldn't care less," which means that you do not care at all, humanity's lack of attention to detail has turned this phrase into the complete opposite of what it was intended to mean. Therefore, it should either be retired, or corrected completely.

This post may sound conceited in the beginning; I understand and fully acknowledge this beforehand. However, if you are reading this, you either follow me and know what I truly think about myself or you are going through my feeble works, trying to decide if what I have put out into the world has value. (How’s that for a self-deprecating statement? Because, trust me, I do it ALL the time!)

As I look at the profile picture I currently have set up on this website, I can see a few things that people have pointed out to me that are positive attributes. I do have relatively clear skin. I do have full lips. And my eyes are piercing. It does appear as though I’m looking right at you…even when I look at it, I get creeped out because my stare is intense.

I'll admit I believe my eyes are my best physical attribute. Unfortunately, (in my opinion) because I took this picture in Sepia tone, you cannot truly tell what color they are. They are blue, and my mood will reflect the shade. If I'm content or relaxed, they are a pale, almost ice-blue. If they are dark and stormy, I'm either very emotional, or under the influence of a substance. The makeup is just and accent. I rarely wear it because I'm too lazy to apply, and this particular day, I let my teenage daughters make me over.

Most people don’t have an issue with this picture. In fact, I’ve gotten a lot of positive responses on it. It shocked the hell out of me, simply because I just don't see it.

But…because I am who I am, I MUST critique myself; beat myself down so that I don’t get too comfortable, cocky, or confident.

I am about to break down for you what is wrong with this picture in MY eyes. For reference, when I say left and right, I am speaking in regards to true left and right, not the mirror image that the photo represents. The reason I do this will give you greater insight into my writings, my emotions, and my general purpose for sharing as a release.

The right side of my face is bigger, and higher in certain spots. Look at my right eye, for starters. It is more wide open. It is also higher set, and the eyebrow higher set and thinner than the left. Of course, the sagging underneath the eye is more obvious. Though my nostrils are close, you can clearly see that the right one comes up slightly more than the left. My right cheek is more pronounced; it looks like I either have a wad of dip (snuff, tobacco, etc. for those of you not from the South) in my right cheek. In addition, my lips are fuller on the right side (although, to be honest, this could be because of the way that I hold my mouth. I hate my teeth; I destroyed them when I battled an eating disorder in my teens and after the birth of my children, so I show them as little as possible when I smile.) Also, when I smirk, my mouth naturally pulls to the left.

If you are reading this and seeing the picture, you are probably shaking your head and saying, “Damn…all that BS from a selfie?” Unfortunately, yes.

All I ask is that you imagine a photo of yourself, then pretend that you have a very low self-esteem and cut your image down the way that a stranger would. This is how I live my life daily. But, I wear a mask of self-confidence because I have two young ladies about to be 16 years old that do not need to feel about themselves and their bodies the way that their Mama does. Do I want or need pity? ABSOLUTELY NOT! I struggle daily to uplift my daughters and make sure they know that their worth is SO much more than their physical appearance; I do NOT want them to make the same mistakes I did solely to be accepted within society. All I ask is acknowledgement and understanding that I feel and think this way, whether you agree or not.

Originally, the offensive definition of the term "basket case" was an amputee who no longer had any limbs. It suggested that the recipient of the insult required carrying around in a basket. So, all right, that's a logical though unkind term.

But now, "basket case" means someone struggling with crippling anxiety or stress. I sort of understand why that would make sense to some, but not entirely, because it is offensive as well as a bit of a stretch logically. Also, in my admittedly limited experience, the turn of phrase has a confusing connotation.

A basket case could be someone who is reduced to tears when faced with a difficult decision.

In "The Breakfast Club", the character called the Basket Case is pretty much just weird.

Either way, it's fairly impolite. So, I propose removing it from our vocabularies or narrowing it down to one straightforward definition. 

But, of course, it doesn't really matter what I think about this deemed-improper colloquialism, does it?