I Have A Journal Where I Wrote Random Stuff That Moves Me. It Just Is What It Is.

This one night

Short Story:

I turned into someone else, someone that I hated and envied all at once. I stared at him, knowing he was my undoing, all at once afraid and in love with him. His years of grip on me was tight and strong, but my more logical side breathed for freedom from his chains.

He had told me that I was his, that I belonged to him, that every kiss, be it forced or done in silent surrender, was his branding of me. His touch was like fire now, pain so intense that I wanted more, just to have a feeling of no longer feeling empty. Sometimes, the slighted touch would make me whimper, wanting more, needing more, needing him.

Every night he is like a warrior, he being the sword, and I, his scabbard. No longer do I resist, it has been years since I’ve last resisted, but with stillness in need and thought, comes the realization of freedom, of it being so close in grasp that I can taste it. The more I succumb to him, the more logical side of me knows that what I’m starting to love; him, his grasp of me, my willingness to stay, my acceptance of everything, is wrong and deviant.

So tonight, here I stand, with my own sword in hand; a chefs knife, from under my pillow, I straddle him, moving against him like butter, he awakes, both his desire and his eyes open to me above him; him staring at my slightly mad eyes. I kiss him, putting all my sorrow, all my love, all my years wasted in his silent threats, and take my revenge.

When I remove myself from his final hold on me, his blood dripping down my chest, I look at him. With every beat of my own heart, I remember everything he’s done to me. I wipe his blood from me, and I remember wiping blood from my own wounds, from the tears shed. I dress myself and remember when he would cut away my clothes with knives, or sheer force of will. Finally, I walk out the door, the door that I was pushed though, time and time again, the door that I walked through willingly, holding hands with him.

The air tastes sweet; new. I am still left empty.

I had a good childhood

I’m really taken by these caps lol… I’ve actually been thinking about them recently because the title “God, I’m tired” really makes itself felt here when both Eve and Villanelle close their eyes while lying side by side on the bed. Sure, in doing so both of them sharpen these very naive edges around their actions, saturated with the fact that Eve means to “kill” Villanelle whereas Villanelle is out to “watch” her, but there is something about how readily they still share that space - however small it may be - and have these sincere moments. I mean… these caps look peaceful out of context, despite Villanelle holding a gun.

They actually just might as well be because even when Eve’s reserved, “Yes,” to Villanelle’s, “You’ve found me,” sounds nebulously raging… she still manages to simply laugh when Villanelle praises her, “Well done”. And the fact that Villanelle, in return, has to do the same (ever caught her quick breathy chuckle? It’s short and yall should hear it). It’s such a specific response to that realization. It’s paltable, genuine and cocky and Eve can’t help herself but sink into it. What a brilliant choice to underscore their love language tbh.

He asked, "are you satisfied yet?" "More," she whispered.

It's my pie...

The way I describe my depression is that I'm a piece of pie; missing a piece.  Now, you can fill the missing piece with another piece of pie, say, an apple pie, but my pie is blueberry pie.  So, the apple pie fits into the missing piece, but it will forever be an apple pie in a sea of blue berry, it doesn't fit, it's not going to fit, and sure it may taste good, but the truth is, it's not blueberry, and that feeling, that nagging feeling in the back if your mind, that blueberry is not apple, and apple is not blueberry, starts to drive you crazy.  So you do this.

You try to fill the piece of you missing, with cake.  Chocolate cake, mind you, which is kind of the best.  But when you fit the cake into your missing piece, the crumbs don't match up to fully fit into your pie.  So you get that nagging feeling again that not all is right with the world.  But the nagging feeling is now an itch that you can't quite scratch.  You, as the pie, just want to be a whole blueberry pie.  Is that so hard to ask?  So you do this.

You try to make a whole other piece of blueberry pie, a better pie if you do say so yourself.  But you know, and your mind knows, and your heart knows, and your big toe knows, that you can't just make a whole other pie when that old pie with the missing piece is sitting right there, watching you, judging you, needing you.

So you sit at the kitchen table, with the light shining on you like a halo, and you choose, I mean, you have to choose, right?  Life is all about choices!  You have the whole pie, and the one with the piece missing.  You want the whole piece of pie, because that's fucking happiness, and the other is fucking misery.  You want to be happy right?  Right?  RIGHT?  Or do you want the missing piece, and feel relatively whole every once in a while, but utterly broken?   What do you want?  And you ponder, because what you want is usually dictated to you, and you've never actually stopped to think about what you want?  Did you ask to be a blueberry pie? 

So I, as the maker of the blueberry pie, make my choice.  I am neither whole, or broken, I am on the verge of completion.  I make my own choices.  My depression is my own, and I control it.  I will be whole, and I will be broken, and I have to live with it, I have to be okay with it.  I have to be okay with it.

It's 3am...

And I'm missing my husband. He's on a business trip, and I'm in need. I'm wanton, craving his smell, touch, his sweat, his fingers, his cock, his rough and stubbled chin teasing me.....down there.

It’s Mother’s Day coming up, so I’m thinking of all the women in my life and all the awesome roles they play (mothers, non-mothers, and never-mothers alike).

http://everythingisgoingtobeokcomic.com/well-behaved-women

It's him

as he makes me feel like I'm about to fall, or burst into flame, or turn to liquid all at once. Every part of me belongs to him.....but he also belongs to me.

Recently, on June 5th, I turned 40. This is an age I don’t mind, and quite excited about. I thought my 30s was quite exceptional. It made me feel whole and alive that decade. It healed me from my 20’s where I was quite broken and lost. So at age 40 and on, I hope to find more of myself.

Now I know I haven’t updated my tumblr in more than ages, but I’m more of a creeper than a writer that cuts out different letters from magazines and sends it to the lead investigator kind of gal, but I’ve been busy.

I’m married now and have a frickin 4 year old boy! I’m a boy mom! I just want to sit on a bench under the tree for some damn shade!

So, back to my age. When I was 29, I thought I couldn’t possibly make it to 30. I thought I’d cease to exist. I didn’t actually think I’d die or anything, just that some celestial being would just pluck me from existence. So when I hit 30, that morning I felt strange, I was ready for something to happen, only nothing happened.

The only thing that happened was that I got reacquainted with an old friend, who became my boyfriend, who became my fiancé, who became my husband, who became the father of our child.

I used to question why I was so happy. I would subscribe to the saying, “this too shall pass.” Though poetic, was damaging to me.

Now I ask myself, “why not?” Why not be happy? Why not feel love? Why not be hopeful?

Anyway, I’m 40 now, and I’m excited!