Telling me what I want to hear

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I want to know where you go because you want to tell me that story and want to share inspiration.  I want to be the person you confess to with confidence in my care of your mess.

I want to know whom you met today because I want to be able to give you the nuggets of conversations from my  day,  from my aha moments and observations- many made about you being amazing and this person was well, merely likeable.

I want to know why you went where you did because I let myself go where I go and you should know what led me down that curious path and whether I’d walk it again- and whether I’d walk alone or bring you with me, to hold my hand, to stand in another spot on the map of reference I carry in my head.

I don’t test you to see if you are where you say you are.  I don’t make you share your day. I don’t check up on you. I want to give you privacy because I believe we all need a life of our own. But when you are ready to share, know I will have already shared mine, blurted out my little existence in snippets, given you my moments because I want to pull you into my life without reservation or censorship of how naive and limited I am from a stifled coming of age.

You live a big life. I live a big life.  And together why not meld these lives and build a third shared experience that inspires blinding passion from putting them together?

There’s comfort in the exchange of a day,  and while I’m running my fingers around yours, and up and down the lean lines of your forearm,  over the bend of your elbow where that divet holds a sensual space just under your bicep where I press and pause and press  and pause, while I lie next to you, my thigh draped over yours, chin nestled in the curve of your shoulder. I’m tracing the tatt on your tricep, ink which will someday be a sleeve with the story of your life, and the colors of our life.

I believe in this telling-time,  this pouring out of innocent awe, this is where we find our adventures complement and combine. We surprise ourselves again and again. We put images and memories in our heads to create the stamina for stories that we will want to hear for another 50 years, well into those longer days when we are on the front porch, rocking in our chairs, talking, re-telling, laughing, still holding hands.

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Give me your life- not in the golden band on the right left hand this time- but your mind’s life, the one that spins up there in that creative space where you reveal your naked self to my soul and I cradle your words and dreams with trust and fearless belief in your integrity and we honor each other in the safe keeping of hearts. 

#for rEticent mental property. Images courtesy of the web. September 24, 2017, the day the NFL stood up to #45 and locked arms in solidarity to support those who chose to stand Or take a knee without worry of repercussion.

 

 

 

 

Dear fucktard

Original post June 2016,Re-posted a year-ish later August, 2017, for reflection and purging and purposeful optimism.

 

Oh I hear you.

Tender encouragement while slamming her in the back of your parked truck, in the warm fall air, her ass in your face and your hand in her hair. I feel your thrusts, moving the metal forward in time to that bitch’s heat.

You played me so well, played both of us, but I am aware of the lies and lines. And now she is, too.

I swallowed. I swallowed more than your dick, deep in my throat. I swallowed your hook, let it take me to the bottom of that pit.  I wanted to go there. I let myself sink.

Doesn’t matter. I’m so bruised from every time before that I’ve grown numb. I’m black and blue but nothing hurts. I’ve scarred, no need to heal, just permanently fixed these aberrations to the cheek I turned, to remind me to not be a fucktard’s tart.

I get it.

I so. get. it.now.

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She was such a good thing. He wasn’t.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Original post 6/23/2016. Images courtesy of the web.

 

 

 

 

 

Created from then

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Troubled by the rising tides of wise, the pull at the intersection where we fall forward or recoil is an involuntary moment we attribute to survival. There’s a reason why heartaches are described with words of physical pain. They are accurate responses, no nuance of soothing comfort, no distance between breaking and stone cold.

Look around then, beyond the center stage of the cleaving, on the other side of this suffering statue begging to be taken from the pedestal. See the clay, already softened and remembering a shape it had once taken? She still believes in the emergence of curve, and line and cast, knows she was once held, warmed as firm hands cupped the mud and the spinner’s tears flooded the base and his breath furiously worked her.

There’s time when these lovers were melded. When the artist’s eye called his muse into the light. There was a time when these two had no blood mixed in the palettes of our canvas, when each chiseled a life out of sleeping alone.

Indeed, both were once masters of the great un- making, stoic barbs thrown in wordless, hardened thrusts.

Yet we can sleep now, with those colors deeply stained into our skin.  Now, find we are still able to forge a shared story of laughter, dance with tempting banter, make our own way out of histories winnowed through hollowed bone.

And in the dawn of the day, we fall into good graces, reaching into next lives, making new places for softness and longing, for the re-creating of now, the letting go, wisely, of then.

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I’ve never forgotten you, just burrowed your songs with your scent, into the back of my soul. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. August 29, 2017

In those dreams

RMPliehere

I soothe a crying woman. She is dark haired, with deep brown eyes and a smile that is presently twisted in heartache. She is now a cutter, maybe she is popping more pills, snorting something,  maybe refilling the flask more than once before noon, maybe sipping a hundred sips between dawn and dusk.

She is fragile in her focus, her tears blur her common sense. Her parents have come for her, to scoop her up, to hold her close and stitch her frazzled mind into common sense, if they can.

I feel connected with her distress. I know this not by verbal accusation, but because the sound of her cries, turn my own heart inside out in time to jagged breaths, gulped between sobs.

I am not running from her.

I am stroking her hair.

It doesn’t end just rolls her over, enveloping her in what will become a coverlet cocoon,  spinning her face into a mirror of nightmares, spun from deep wells of witness to her own games, those spineless charades of adventure.

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The father, then the mother, stare into me and then through me and grieve over their loss of not one, but both of us.

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.#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. August 14, 2017.

Invitations

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Hi Friend,

Hanging out at different coffee shops these days…

very early, like 6-9am.

If your morning schedule allows

we can coordinate a Java infused rant

or

sip in silence together,

just you and me

and our spinning little heads.

With love,

Ret

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She reaches out. They respond.  I don’t see it? I call your bluff.  There has never been question of her patience or her kindness until he was no longer the recipient of her attentions. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

 

 

Oh, did I say that out loud?

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Just say it.

Spit it out.

Look me in the eye and tell me the truth. Don’t shut down. Don’t shy away. Don’t sugar coat it with a soft goodbye.

I’ve been around. I’ve been around the block. I’ve learned a little here. And there. I don’t know it all. But I can smell the scent of regret. It permeates your thrusts, overpowers your  being.

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Oh. Sorry. That was me, just talking to myself. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. August 11, 2017

WHEN things changed doesn’t matter..truly, what you want to matter, doesn’t.

RMPneedingblue

We’re wanting the generous spirit of time to set us free, thinking that holding ourselves hostage to the past is going to release some mature spark, some heated imagination, sear two hearts, a melding into a pretty story for a harlequin romance.

We wake up to the sunrise to find we haven’t been made beautiful, yet. We succumb to this committment and the ticking of time and throw another decade on the fire.

Maybe we search for depth in our bond, maybe we struggle to walk from the temptations we think pull us from the grey of rights and wrongs. We keep score, we try to speak our truth, we rail against conformity.

Oh yes, we have duty, we have dreams that bind.

When two forms fit and believe together, both can blossom.

I’m on no journey.

I don’t need to learn from pain.

I don’t require truth to be revealed through the darkest times, through tears, through great loss, or struggle or some beating to death of my spirit so I can rise from the ashes.

I firmly reject all of it.  I am not so much growing, being transformed, meditating or medicating myself into my tomorrow face.

Instead, we are being revealed. We are open to loving, believe what has been missing in adventures previous is the alchemy, the undeniable heat we feel when limbs are a fraction of a space from his and we radiate an aching need to bring chemicals in line with impracticalities.

Love is not what is created by a scene or by the thrill of the meeting or by the possibilities of feeling something other than numb.

Simple desire – desire to bring our best and all our flaws to each moment- this is how emotional availability matures.

Damn bodice rippers, dammit all romance genre…the sex isn’t love. What we had was lovely. Yes.

It was perfect for the time we were in. It was meaningful and necessary and at times beautifully delicious. But it was always on this precipice of urgency, a route to solve a problem in a marriage or to work through a missing developmental piece of being a good partner…. it wasn’t lasting because I wanted you to change- and believe, me, I wanted to be changed. And I was willing to change FOR you.

That’s good for growth but not sustainable.

I don’t believe love is unconditional. I do believe Love is natural and love is necessary and love is undeniable. And it takes two.

Even now, when I examine my history, my growth, my lovers, I find I am not in control. Not at all. Never was.

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Ruminating. Sleepless nights. Bad Dreams. End it. End that. End this. For God’s sake. Move forward. 
#For Reticent Mental Property. Pulled from the archives of August 2015. Edited to current self-awareness.  Images courtesy of the web.