Where are you when the twilight hour is upon me? Darkness lingers across my skin where your fingers trailed, dreams within. No illumination marks my sky,
Droplets of my love are carried on Selene’s tears as she spills moon beams across your night calling to you in sleeps lullaby.
For a moment, a mere wisp of time we share sleeps quarters, we traverse between the worlds, fingering the thin veil of hope… Perhaps we can share the same dream. Sit here upon this log, beneath sun filled skies and watch the horizon spreading hues of our essence wide across the universe…
I recently had the pleasure of sharing private messages with a narcissist. By pleasure I mean soul destroying energy draining horror. I wouldn’t normally choose to communicate with such a person but in this case my eye was off the ball and before I knew it he was under my skin. I blocked him. Yet his presence has continued to annoy me. The fault lays entirely with me my intuition screamed at me that there was something wrong about this person, but this clashed with my beliefs that we shouldn’t judge a person on first impressions….what the fucking hell was I thinking! I communicated with him for just under a week and in that time he shared anger, gas lighting, manipulation, obsessiveness, a desire for power and control as well as an ability to wield that power and control. All of these emotions convert to energy as an empath I pick up on that frequency of energy….the problem with this is that most other people can’t , so his public posts just appeared to them as harmless, quirky as us writers are, but harmless. Of course in his pm’s he was able to explore my vulnerabilities with more vigour, but it was also there in his public posts and replies. I should have been able to shake him off but the reality is his clear disrespect toward me has highlighted my vulnerabilities and taken me into a place of questioning. Amazing how quickly a narcissist can get in and fuck with your head. In short he disrespected me as a female writer, us females are already fighting enough stereotypical crap as it is we don’t need individuals to play along too. He did this in a number of ways, covertly communicating in such a way that he expected me to not notice. I did notice. The vulnerabilities he highlighted have been dominating my mind and pushing me into a corner to clearly stand up and define who it is I am as both a person and a writer. I guess in a way the situation has made me question whether he didn’t take me seriously as a writer, because up until this point I haven’t taken myself seriously as a writer.
Over the next few weeks I plan to explore the different ways in which this person was able to disrespect me as a writer. I could of course sweep it under the rug, shrug it off and pretend it never happened, but why the fuck should I, my writing style pushes the boundaries and I often explore topics that allows society to stereotypically label me. This is the problem.. I am who I am, I am not the words on page I am the spaces between them and for that alone I deserve respect.
The universe is all up in my face,
Repetitive numbers all over the place.
Orange skies where pinks once lay,
Songs whispering the words I need to say.
Opening doors and closing windows,
Poems to read with perfect flow.
They’re in my dreams the calmness I feel,
As I wake and realise it isn’t real,
But that warmth lingers on my skin,
A hinted touch of what life can bring.
They do not guide me they intervene,
Which by the way is a little mean.
Places I have to be,
Sights I need to see.
Hidden treasures to divert my attention,
I’m moving now with apprehension.
The universe is all up in my face,
Whispering that it’ll be okay.
I mean Hi,
I mean you have eyes
the colour of the sky.
I know this and we both
But every time I see you, I try.
I mean hey,
So great to see you again
Is there really anything for us to say?
‘Hey, how’s you, all good, okay.
Perhaps I’ll see you at the park later, to play.’
Dear God do I pray
On this fine, fine day.
Hey, I mean Hi,
You’re my gift of desire as I walk to the school,
those eyes, deep blue pools,
I wonder do you have charisma, a players tool.
Just a little glance, so I still look cool,
You’re already looking, phew I don’t look a fool.
Still, chin up, try not to drool,
Wish someone would tell me the bloody rules.
Hi, I mean hey, I mean, I give you a smile
As its been a while
And we both know in reality, this is our style,
Hey, blue eyes
My summer sky,
One day, we will say Hi.
Ironing. For years I refused to be a slave to the mould of hot steaming iron. I refused to smooth away the crinkles, press creases and stand in the ultimate housewife position. Legs spread, board out, piles upon piles of stylistic statements before me, all of them requiring attention, all of them requiring me to become the atypical label. A housewife, a wife a mother, a female, a girl a lady. We iron.
We stand for hours, up the board, down the board, bored, bored, bored. You were in or you out. I was out. I was the black death of womanhood my views contagious, my opinion death like. So I ironed less and welcomed my self induced plague.
I iron. I became the label that society imposed on me. Sickened by my acceptance I remove my bra in protest.
The feeling creeps in slowly.
Panic, as I flip through once, twice, three times. I search the normal places, beside the bed, the couch, at the top of the stairs, by the window in the kitchen next to the heater, the window that shows me the sun as he wakes and the moon as she wakes. It’s not there and not even the sparkling stars in the clear skies can make me feel better. I search inside bags and tucked beneath the mattress, I pull out the bed and feel my heart sink, my eyes prickle and for a moment I question my sanity. What if. What if I didn’t own that book, what if I just borrowed it, that would certainly make sense and suddenly it feels like my world is crashing, I just want to read the book, now, I search some more determined to be sure that the book is at least not here. Emptiness envelopes around me, darkness falls upon my heart, I feel a great void where a story should be, not any story and certainly not a recall from the many times I have read it before, a void created through the lack of pages to turn, the lack of worn out paper in my hands. The emptiness has become me.