2003, Rites of Passage; Caroline’s not the only victim, bebe.

The terror of the first cut into unwilling skin, the searing heat of your first humiliation, the first glowering sense of shame. The loss of your first love. The loss of your innocence. The regaining of it. And the losing of it again.

The wavering sense of self. The first time the empty pit hits you, and lowers you, and brings you in.

The first time you dread falling to sleep.

The first time you realize there really is an end.
Then when you question what that really means.

The first time you're beaten at your own game.

The first time your pleasure gets the best of you. And you go back for more with a surge of power ... and reemerge in defeat.

The first time you hurt someone and like it.

The first time you do it and feel nothing and do it nonetheless.

The first time you cheat.
The first time you steal.

The first time you are taken granted. The first time you forget someone's name.

The first time you are forgotten or passed over or looked through.

The first time you see this is not some game. The first time you find this is nothing but a game.




The smoldering awareness of the duality of your nature. Inside out, outside in.
To call it Jekyll and Hyde is to simplify the complex and not give it a proper name.
Not so much black and white as varying shades of grey.




The one you dance with, the one you kiss, the one you fuck is not the same as the one you talk with, the one you read, the one you listen to. And yet we are one in the same.



And you ask yourself why are we born to be alone in the world?
And yet have saviours tucked neatly in the corners just incase?

Why is blood thinner than water, than oil, than paint?
Why is the idea of freedom as vital as oxygen?
And why does the conventional spell death on every level to your sense of fate?




Let the tremors of another heartache half felt and spilling over, and later stored away in dark recesses, in limitless caverns, in that vast and ebbing hole which nothing can quite fill or touch or placate.

Feed the demons before they rise out of you.
Before they strike you with the truth of all the buried hate, and abuse, and disillusionment.
Before they come out in more than a few raised flares of temper or some sarcastic perversion half heartedly expressed.

Oh, you are the clever one, aren't you?
So self aware.
So secretly righteous while you claim a complete and thorough liberty with the world, it's men, it's eternal present.






In Other News...

I long for this. The smoothness of an ounce of perfection.
The lifelong vague desires all balled up into one big bang and realized. What about a taste? A little taste.


Instead I rage in the afternoon, waiting or plying time from fate like a master barterer. I always think I'll win even when I'm losing. It doesn't matter the cost of my foolishness when I'm swept up and carried off in a song, in the morning wind blowing through my hair, in the dewy kiss of my cheeks ..noons like this. What matters but the moment and how I capture it?






Meanderings

I wandered around today to see if I could still find my way back. The road was foggy. The rain slid down my face and blurred the mascara into my eyes. I followed the scent of your latest retreat. I wondered how far my regret would take me. I wondered how deep your madness ran. I wonder if I'll ever know you again. They always leave, the ones you love, they always disappear and forget you were ever born, the ones you spring from, in the end, the pain is too much for them, they are blind to the present, they are deaf to the future, they are mute to the world.

Well, hell then, I don't need your brand of chaos, anyway, darling.