She Sings - 10thDoM Shafts of Grace in the Corner of a Room

One more step, each further than the last
Closer to the happy life shafted for him

She slakes her glasses, her hiding rims
Not full of grace; it's a rough start

Moving on, this time she sings
In the corner of the room

Thirteen - 10thDoM Under the Kiss of the Blood-Soaked Tree

Two months past vodka, urine stained night
Lips locked in sleepless night tossed
Left awake smiling before dawn
Wretched puke in the morning light
Skip church drowned in cranberry stains
Sleepless day gone by - giggle while dying
The world spins, colors, blood poisoned
Sweet breath, grainy vision, focused, blurry
Sleep sweeps in - he calls again
Lips still drunk falling atop me
Half smile quirks against mine
Intertangled hair sweep side, ahh
It's getting quieter now, I'm not pleased
Two pages, or two paragraphs, ease
Don't talk it's ruined now
For the list of reasons not, I am
Dive in, concrete crash, no splash
Still smile crooked, eyes look bright
Each inky line or concocted connection
More high, more light, try again
Say feel be more soaked in sweat
Terrified knowledge what's to come
Spoken cannot grow unspoken leaves
The tree is fantastic, beautiful afar away
Kissed closely, seen magnetically
Lustre lost in lonely lulls
Tuesday's kiss may be our last

Glorious Tree - 10thDoM Under the Kiss of the Blood-Soaked Tree

They sway, the boughs, and I look up into the shock of leaves tufted against the sky. She is beautiful. Her skin is smooth, alabaster, with smatterings of milk chocolate and cinnamon dots scattered across innocent places like the bridge of her nose and the tops of her shoulders. Our lips mingle between giggles and words, and with her head nestled in the crook of my arm, we speak of the life we'll have when we move from beneath this glorious tree. Lying there, love in my arms, this is the world to me.

*****

They sway, the boughs, and I look up into the snarling branches reaching their angry stick fingers for me. Her skin is rough, alabaster covered in ruddy streaks of every shade of pink. I still think she's beautiful. With her nails digging in, drawing blood, milky white engraving cherry red stripes against dark chocolate, I'm jerked from her side, and there are screams beneath this glorious tree. Digging my heels, my feet tear against the rough roots peaking from the earth, and as I am torn from her, this is the world for me.

*****

They sway, the boughs, and I can no longer look up or anywhere I wish, for I sway too. Her skin is splotched and dirty and broken in various places. Her dress is torn and covered in mud, her face streaked with saltwater and dirt, her eyes glassed and bloodshot, her nose red, and her lips cracked and swollen. She is the most beautiful sight I cannot see beneath this glorious tree. As the breeze moves me, rope tearing through my the skin of my chin, blood sliding down to soak my clothes, there is no breath left, this is the end of the world for me.

Sweet Memories - 10thDoM Confession (Part 4 of 4)

Sarah couldn't speak. Her mind was spinning and she felt dizzy as Jake's kisses became deeper and more desperate. Having him wanting her in this way, the way she had always wanted him, was like a drug coursing through her veins. She felt a buzz rivaled only by drinking too much wine, but she'd only had water tonight, but she enjoyed the taste of beer mixed with the scent of man from Jake's mouth.

She whimpered as he slipped his fingers out of her and easily unbuttoned her button-fly jeans. He'd had practice, she thought. His tongue slipped down her throat, along the bottom edge of her collar-bone, and swirled from the outside of her breast, spiraling until his mouth engulfed one nipple while his fingers found the other. Simultaneously, he gave a soft scrape of his teeth and nibbled one side of her while pinching the other gently, listening to her moan with pleasure, as he slipped her jeans and panties down her long legs, over her feet, and pushed them aside.

He wanted to taste her, but the throaty sounds coming from Sarah were nearly too much for Jake, and he was desperate to make love to her. While quickly doffing his own jeans, he let his mouth venture down her belly and slide between her legs for a quick taste. Sarah squeezed her thighs shut to try and limit his access, but he pushed her legs apart with a gentle, yet confident, strength that was new to her. She tangled her fingers into his hair to pull him up, confusing him since he knew how much she enjoyed this. Since he wanted her so badly, he gave up and let his tongue trace the inner crease of her thigh and the inside of her hip bone before planting soft kisses along her belly as he made his way up to press all his weight on top of her.

Sarah reached her left hand toward her bedside table, pulling out the top drawer and reaching in to find a condom. Jake was always diligent about protection, but he grasped her arm and pinned it over her head, and before she could protest, he slipped inside her.

"I want you."

Her eyes closed and she tilted her chin up, losing herself in the moment. Jake felt so good inside her. She hadn't been with anyone in so long, and she loved Jake, or, at least, she had loved him. She could feel the difference in the way he was being with her now and knew he meant it. He wanted her just as she had always wanted him.

Sarah's eyes were downcast as she prepared to leave the room under the guise of getting a drink of water from the kitchen and checking on guests, most of whom she knew had long-gone since the house was nearly silent by now. Jake was beautiful, naked on the bed, but she couldn't help feeling a little hardened to him.

"I need to tell you something."

"Anything, Sarah."

"I'm sorry, Jake."

"Why would you be sorry?"

"I tried to stop you."

"It's OK. You were nervous."

"No. It's not that."

"Oh, OK."

"I tried to stop you. I thought you'd be like you were before."

"I love you, Sarah."

"Not like that. Careful."

"I do love you Sarah. I'm sorry for how I treated you."

"Jake, I'm so sorry."

"OK. It's OK, Sarah."

Sarah shifted herself outside the door, and looked at Jake with a deep sadness in her eyes.

"I'm HIV Positive."

Sweet Memories - 10thDoM Confession (Part 3 of 4)

Jake kept a firm grip on Sarah's hand as he pulled her down the hallway to the stairs. He still remembered where her bedroom was after all these years. She felt her body grow cold from the inside and began to shiver eve as her palms began to sweat. This always happened with him. Her nerves always took over, adrenaline pumping in anticipation. How she could sweat and shiver at the same time always perplexed her.

Once inside her room, the same room as their last encounter, he closed the door, maneuvered her against it, and kissed her oh-so-gently, more gently than she had ever been kissed, as he carefully pressed the lock. Her eyes closed, her guard fell, and she arched herself forward into his body, loving the warmness that engulfed her as his strong arms slipped around her, fingertips tickling her waistband. Her hands slid under his shirt, around his back and pressed firmly into his flesh. She had always loved the way Jake felt in her arms. It felt right, like it was supposed to be this way. This was why she had never said no.

There was something of a difference this time though. Jake had always been so confident, so in control, but Sarah could feel a nervousness she'd never experienced from him in his touch. He was being... Sweet? It had always been about sex and control before, and now, as his fingertips lightly brushed up her sides, taking her shirt along with them, she could feel a shift in how he felt, how he saw her. She should have stopped him then, but she could never say no to him.

On the bed, he took his time, caressing her belly and the sides of her breasts as he planted slow, moist kisses down her neck and along her collar bone. His fingers slid knowingly down the front of her jeans, gently feeling the moisture through her panties. Jake's fingers were talented and his slow, methodical penetration was driving Sarah into a frenzy. She hadn't been touched like this in years, and she had missed Jake, despite herself. It flashed through her mind once again to stop him though. There were things she wanted to say. There were things she needed to say...

Sweet Memories - 10thDoM Confession (Part 2 of 4)

One last look in the mirror, and she put on her brightest smile. Sarah knew what would be lurking outside the bathroom. She threw back her shoulders, straightened her spine, took a deep breath and opened the door. Just as she had silently predicted, he was there, smiling in his special way, reserved for her. She couldn't help it if it made her feel good even if he was just using her.

"Hi," he said, "It's been awhile."

"Yeah, it has."

"I'm glad you're here."

"Oh?"

"I've been thinking something for a long time. Seeing you..."

Jake paused, shifting his weight and fidgeting in his pockets.

"I'm sorry..."

"For what?" Sarah asked.

"Let me finish."

"Fine."

"I'm sorry for how I was to you. You know... Before. In high school."

"Don't..."

"No," he said, his voice growing more stern, "I need to say this."

"OK."

Sarah's eyes dropped, and when he reached out and took her hand, she tried to pull back, but his grip was firm.

"I was wrong. I knew you loved me. I loved you. I love..."

Sarah cut him off.

"Why would you tell me this now? Why?"

"When I didn't have you, I realized I missed you. I've thought about you... Almost every day."

Their eyes met. Sarah wanted to run, but she knew Jake wouldn't let her. She'd vacillated between love and hate for him over the past couple of years and truly didn't know how she felt, but she knew she wouldn't, or was it couldn't, walk away from this even as she felt nauseated thinking about what was about to happen.

Sweet Memories - 10thDoM Confession (Part I of 4)

Across the room, he stared at her with a glint in his eyes she hadn't seen in years. Feeling her cheeks flush, she smiled sheepishly back and tilted her chin down, cutting her eyes back at him briefly before turning back to the mundane ramblings of her friends. She'd been trying to get him to smile at her with want since her freshman year of high school. It had been rare occasion that he had, but it had been awhile now. Two years of college had changed her, and she wondered if he realized she was the same girl...

After another half-hour or so of her girlfriends' ramblings, getting louder and more vivid with every drink, about their drunken college debauchery and how many men they'd fucked without even caring to learn their names, Sarah excused herself to the kitchen. Hearing them speak about their escapades was difficult sometimes, but she didn't judge. The last time Sarah had partaken in such carelessness had been her first, and it had been turned into a nightmare. That was her first semester in college, and while she didn't quit going out with her friends, she'd dropped her pledge class and cut way back on her drinking so as not to make the same mistake again. She felt lucky to have friends who loved her anyhow...

Shifting and sliding her way carefully toward the kitchen, avoiding the throngs of intoxicated, groping men, and touchy-feely females, proved to be a task and her calves ached a little from lifting her 4 inch high heels off the ground to balance on her toes for the full journey. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the bathroom, noticed no line and the door clicked open just as she found enough of a clearing to let her heels down. She needed a moment to herself.

After locking the door carefully behind her, she pressed her back to it. She had felt his eyes following her the whole way and hoped she looked graceful as she wove through the crowd. In high school, he would only acknowledge her in private. He had played on her emotions, knowing she would never say no to him, knowing the power he held over her, and she hated herself for it. Of course he realized it was her, and he had given her the smile she knew so well.

Mouth - 10thDom Softly-Spoken Bullets, Hardly-Spoken Lips

Words spoken across the room
Across the lawn
Slip effortlessly through the air
Their aim clear
Still amiss just yet

One round after another
Ricocheted off his empty eyes
There's nothing inside to hit
She sees that
And fires away anyhow

A stray word finds her mark
In a flash of comprehension
His eyes brighten
Then empty again
She hit him

She takes a moment, dials it in
These new words hit harder
They're sharper
Darting more accurately
Into him

It's a futile moment in time
She knows it won't last
He'll leave the room
Leave the scene
And forget

But right now, she powers through
Shot after shot, harder, deeper
Until she sees his lips part
His eyes well, spill
And she softens, til next time

Portrait - 10thDoM Suicide Seat

The light from the stained glass window shines brightly on the crystal glasses, creating a dancing prism show just for her. Her fingertips trace the smooth marble, enjoying the cool, hard pressure against her skin. This is her sanctuary. The scents of citrus and green tea fill the air. After filling one of the crystal glasses with water, she swallows 3 Aspirin, breathes deeply and smiles.

She loves the crisp clean lines of this room, all white and beige, spa-like save for the splash of color in the one stained-glass window, a treasure from their honeymoon in Italy. Every inch of this room has been designed for her, each tile hand-picked, every towel perfectly monogrammed. She sighs as she watches the dancing prism and follows its shimmers up to the glass, mostly red, and a stark contrast to the room.

With the grace of a ballerina, she lifts onto her toes, admires the reflection of the curves of her naked body, the muscles of her legs. A happy pirouette later, she sweeps her hair up off her neck and ties it into a simple knot at the crown of her head.

The room could use a little more red.

A smirk visits her lips. Maybe a bouquet of roses or some of those lobelius flowers she'd noticed recently at the florist would be nice. The crystal vase casting the biggest prism would be a perfect container.

Her face belies a perfectly serene composure as she slips one foot and then the other through the dense white foam into the blistering heat, her skin brightening pink in seconds as it becomes submerged beneath the surface. This is heaven. She sinks deep into the silky waters, closes her eyes, and breathes in the citrusy scents she loves. Her bright red toenails play peek-a-boo for a moment, tickling the light prisms dancing on the wall. The sight brings a bright smile to her face as she silently muses on the contrast between her pale white flesh and the cherry red polish.

Pressing her palms firmly into the flesh of her thighs, she massages the bubbles around her legs, feeling their smooth texture before tracing her fingertips lightly across her belly and caressing the undersides of her breasts. Everything is perfect. She reaches for the over-sized crystal goblet, nearly filled with her favorite red. The sips will be slow. This is a moment to be savored.

There are 18 tiny scored white bars - hers, of course - and 10 blue oblong tablets, the letters "OC" deeply engraved, complements of the street. One by one, they are swallowed, and she sips her wine easily between each, enjoying each lasting moment. She leaves an inch of red to linger in the bottom of the goblet, thinking how perfect a picture she is painting.

The final stroke of a painting is the most difficult and most beautiful. Without it, a portrait is incomplete, but one must know when to stop. She has dreamed of this and knows her plan is perfect. As her body begins to slow, reacting to all it has enjoyed the past few minutes, she slides the shiny silver blade from the white marble ledge surrounding her. For a moment, she hesitates.

Wrist or leg?

The world is already fading, but the final strokes must be painted. Steady but weak, she slides the blade from the crease of her wrist, in a smooth line to her inner elbow. It won't be enough for the picture, she knows, so she slides the shiny silver beneath the water. With a blissful sigh, the blade plunges it deep into her left inner thigh. She draws a line diagonally toward her hip bone with surgical precision and marvels at the quickness with which she is surrounded by red. With her lips broadening into a knowing smile, she takes a deep inhale of rusty citrus and savors the final stroke.

Sad Throne - 10thDoM Suicide Seat

I am a third party to my own life. My consciousness is dissolved in your presence. Far or near, your voice makes me melt or puddle, soften or crumble. It makes me curl into myself, into nothingness, giving up my soul, my integrity, my grit, my self. Heartbroken is nothing compared to soul-broken. It's so dark in here. I can't see past your view...

The sheer whites billow effortlessly toward her, brushing against her calves as she sits, chin resting awkwardly in hand, looking solemnly out the window. Her gaze, fixated on nothing in particular, is pure stillness. She is a statue. Her blank facade has been observed and reflected on the faces of every person who dares to meet her eyes. Wisps of hair vibrate in the easy breeze. A few strands plaster themselves in the slick of sweat across her brow.

I am the new face of those people so broken they can no longer be approached and offered a warm touch or a gentle, reassuring embrace because they are too far gone. The thought of warmth and comfort has become less than a memory. It was a beautiful illusion.

She's completely aware and numbed all the more for it. She is a shell, hollow, empty, ravaged by the masochistic tendencies of her own heart. She is soft now, pliable. The so soft skin covering her arms and legs, now crisscrossed with fading white lines, tally marks of controlled pain. Pain she can cause, pain she can control, pain she can take.

I am hard, unmovable, stuck in my own puddle. I am a stranger in the mirror, a pathetic excuse for everything I ever believed I was.

She knows what she is, her own deviant thoughts and devices. She knows when you look her in the eye and lie to her every day and still feels guilt and responsibility even where there may be no cause. She sits idly on her chair, listlessly staring at blank walls, barely aware of the tickle on calves. She wonders what happened to you to make you like you are. On the outside, so sweet and gentle, putting on a masterful facade for the world, for your girls to see, to draw them in. On the inside, you can't relax, you're constantly in defensive stance, and your caring for others is nothing more than superficial dribble. She sinks further into darkness.

I am dying. It is death at my own hands, but I'll blame you nonetheless, as I sit here on my throne, my suicide seat.

Home - 10thDoM Silence Lies Broken

Whittling indifference down to nothing, she shrugs lightly by the moonlight and stars, looking up, gazing blankly into where nothing can be felt. Would it matter if she never cared at all, or would great things cease to be? In that moment, isn't it amazing how the moonflowers glow when the skies are darkened but the streetlamps have yet to click on? The crickets whisper the sounds of summer while the shock of little league lights across the creek stream break through the lies we tell ourselves in the lonely silence through the rickety screen door.

She sleeps in too big tees with her oscillating fan at her feet. She dreams of those times with dirt on her knees. A tear on a pillow dries quick to the cotton.

Sky scrapes black moldy swirls through a cloud-washed, light-speckled night. The TV flickers reruns of Patty Duke; curtains billow in and out from the breeze through the back door screen. Be steady, girl. Lift your head to the night skies into dreams of better days to come. That smell of summer air, crisp with sweat and sun, lingers aimlessly on the tip of the tongue. Lips chapped in winter winds now burned in summer's sun. This is home, this is where I must return.

She sits now, barely aware when the silence is broken by the screaming through the wall. This time, it's not so bad. This time, they're just loud.

Serendipitous flight. Am I running away or running home? A little of both, I suppose. I've learned this past year that water will never hold me up, water will never show truth, water will never be steady and still. In it, she will drown, she will puddle, she will become the lesser being he always predicted she would. It's an addiction, that water. And it has its own pathetic addictions. They're both addicted to pain - causing it, feeling it, being in it.

She's there, imagining, wishing, sleeping in a place where everyone but her knows the silence lies broken.

Blink - 10thDoM A Shot In The Dark

He blinks. The sky is dark and the scene is moving in stop-motion animation at a slow motion speed. He has plenty of time to register that the bullet that just whizzed by his head would have gone straight through his cheek and lodged itself in his occipital lobe or the back of his helmet had it been two inches to the right. Instead, time slowed. Sounds are muffled. Once every few moments, he can hear a command clearly. His body instinctively follows orders. Mostly, he hears what sounds like the ocean during a storm - waves thrashing, thunder roaring, lightning cracking. It doesn't matter, though. It acts as a filter. He hears what he needs to hear; all else is swallowed by the storm.

***

She blinks. The price on her kids' favorite waffles has nearly doubled. She vaguely recalls hearing something on the news about food poisoning and a plant being shut down and a waffle shortage. She tries not to watch the news these days. She puts the waffles in her cart anyway and continues pushing it down the aisle. The whirring of the grocery's freezers has her entranced. She ambles mindlessly through the frozen foods section adding to the waffles and the dry goods already there: a couple of Bertolli meals, a Stouffer's Lasagna Italiano, a couple of pints of Häagen-Dazs, and some frozen vegetables. She thinks of him. He loves those Bertolli meals.

***

He blinks. Sweat has mixed with the powdery sands and is sliding into his eyes, blurring his vision. Aren't eyebrows supposed to protect my eyes from this shit? It's an odd thought at an odd time, but when seconds are ticking by this slowly, time is an abundant luxury. She doesn't cross his mind.

***

She blinks. She reads the nametag of the cashier again, wondering why anyone would name her child such a thing. The girl seems nice enough even if she doesn't make eye contact, smile, or speak. She watches as the girl scans item after item and places each one in plastic bags on a turnstyle. As the bags are shifted towards her, she picks them up, one at a time, and places them into her cart. "Debit?" The girl finally speaks. "Credit," she responds, swiping the card. The girl's eyes are dead, mouth slightly agape. This place must suck the life out of its workers. Buttons are pushed; she signs on the electronic black line in the electronic greenish box with the electronic pen provided and waits for the receipt. Out of habit, she scans the long white strip of paper, stopping momentarily to muse about the socks she bought for him. He loves new socks.

***

He blinks. His vision is restored. Click. Kill. Click. Miss. Click. Maim. He's an excellent marksman even if he does miss the occasional target. There is more yelling, but it seems further away. Time seems to be speeding up. Bullets are moving faster, commands are becoming more frantic. The oceanic storm is no longer filtering. He thinks of his buddy, looks around, can't see him. Momentary panic. Move on. Click. Kill. He moves position. Click. Miss. He thinks of his men, calls out, gets muffled response. This is not good. Click. Maim. He doesn't think of her. Click.

***

She blinks. Tears fight their way through. She sets the bags on the floor, noticing the red marks crossing her left arm from elbow to wrist from carrying the heavy bags. She finds a new bruise, presses on it. It doesn't hurt. It's just like the others. She has no idea how she got it. The only ones that hurt are the ones she knows exactly how she got. One tear streams down her cheek. She wipes it away quickly even though no one is around to see, to judge. The manila envelope on the counter haunts her peripherals. She begins putting away the groceries - first to the freezer, then the refrigerator, and lastly the cabinets. They'll have hot dogs tonight. She stares at the envelope. She closes her eyes. He will be so angry.

***

He blinks. It is quick. The bullet enters his eye at just the right angle and a fragment lodges in his brain stem. His body is limp. Blood oozes from the eye socket. His gun is still in his hand. It was a lucky shot, a wayward bullet. They don't know how to aim. They just shoot and hope. Their hope pays off in death. He fought the way he should have. She never crossed his mind.

***

She blinks. She cannot believe what she is seeing. It is dark. Two men, both in uniform, one carrying a Bible. She closes her eyes. There is sadness. Breathe. Her heart begins to race and the tears begin to fall. She breathes too quickly for a moment, but it is interrupted by a thought. There is relief. Between the sobs, there is relief. Knock, knock, knock. Three quiet raps against her front door. She presses her lips between her teeth, squeezes her eyes tightly shut, new tears fall. She places her hand shakily on the doorknob. Sigh. Smile. Deep breath. No one will know about the manila envelope. She can be free. He can be a hero.

Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 9

Chapter 9 - Infinite Possibility

In a world with infinite possibilities, the only limiting factor is me. I limit myself, pull away, hold myself back. I push myself on and into other, and I latch on and won't let go. I am embarking on the journey home. Back to where I fell in love, back to where I know I'm loved.

There is great joy married with sadness for this journey. And it's ironic that it's me who is pulling away. Anyone who saw the two of us would have thought he'd be the one to stray, to leave, to move on without me. But it was I who pulled away first. His was just the natural reaction to being pushed.

He loved me like no other, and I felt it radiate through me. I was joyful and happy that someone like him would ever love someone like me. I set him high upon his pedestal, and why should I have been surprised he'd stay there and look down on me when he got comfortable in his high seat? It was the hardest blow to be dealt. His eyes seemed to gleam from his velvety heights. And whenever he'd come down, they were dead to me.

My life is not what I imagined; I am failure walking down the street, shattering mirrors, dreaming of Jupiter, living a life I never wanted to lead. And with all that is going on, and with all that is going to be, the thought I have more and more these days is that I often wish I'd never pulled away, but my nature is to pull away.

Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 8

Chapter 8 - This Business of Jupiter

So I'm going back home, and I will conduct my business beside the statue of Romulus and Remus, grandsons of Jupiter, and I will be happy. I hope I will be happy. I pray that happiness will somehow find me. At night, I will be home, nestled snugly in my 250 year old bed, in an old historic neighborhood, and I hope there will be gas heat.

I am in love with this idea of Rome. I am in love with going home. And there are seeds being planted already to make sure that I won't want to pull away from there too soon. Things didn't work out so well for my friend, and she is stuck in a foreign state with a hateful man for the duration of her daughters' school-aged lives. That is hell, born of Pluto.

The steps to get to my love are long and arduous and terrifying to take. The way the boys love their wolfmother is how I'm feeling about the move home. However, the thought of leaving this life I've known for the past ten years is haunting me, terrorizing me, and terrorizing those around me. I've been called a terrorist lately, and not without cause.

Maybe I should think of a new business, one that doesn't involve the grandsons of Jupiter. I know one person who thinks that things should be that way, but he hates that I am so scared. But I know it's only because he is too.

Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 7

Chapter 7 - Shattered Mirrors

If I could go back before the glass shattered, before the mirrors reflected the things I chose not to see before, I wouldn't. I like my mistakes, I like the practice. I like knowing what I'm capable of even if I choose to hold out on putting my plans into action. I like knowing that I can destroy a man with nothing more than the truth if I so choose. There is nothing more powerful and destructive than the truth.

And the truth is in the mirrors. I am wasting away. My bones are prominent where they were covered in flesh, and I blame them all. My stomach is weak and nervous, and my doctors are all worried. My bank account is drained, and the world is going on as if nothing has changed. Isn't it funny how the world continues despite the despair? Isn't it ridiculous how sad I am when I have more than so many people.

It doesn't make it any less painful or real, but perspective is nice when I remember to have it. And I'm definitely proud of the fact that I'm far worse than I seem (thanks, Ani). The only person who sees and knows the real me is the face staring back at me from the mirror. If only it were so easy as to shatter the mirror, rearrange it and put it back together to get a prettier reflection. If only I could still choose not to see the truth.

Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 6

Chapter 6 - Earnest Mockery

My best friend makes a mockery of me, in all earnestness, of course, every time he speaks to me. He belittles me, and rightfully so, but it doesn't hurt any less. He knows all there is to know about me, and he's completely disappointed in me. I'm pulling away, and he doesn't care to pull me back. He pushed me away so hard a few months back, and it's never been the same.

But it's not his fault, not entirely. He's always mocked me in some way or another, and I've always enjoyed the banter between us. I made the mistake of pulling away when he was my greatest support. I made the mistake of putting my trust into someone else, letting someone else who I thought wouldn't put me down take the reigns of our friendship.

And I was proven terribly wrong. I lost my husband, my best friend, and it's a constant struggle with my lover. Everything is a mess, and the world crumbles, and it feels the weight is on my back. I know it's time to pull away, but I can't make myself just yet. It's just a few more months.

It's just a few more months...

Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 5

Chapter 5 - Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart

Finding out that I actually do like sex - after 10 years of hating it - was an amazing miracle. I don't know if it's the new person or the fact that it's not with the old person. Why would I ever want to have sex with someone who forced me to, even when in excruciating pain? I didn't, and he would accuse me of not loving him. That was the beginning of my broken heart.

All I can think about now is the next time I get to have sex. Twice a day is never enough. I'm so ecstatic about actually enjoying it that I can't get enough. It could be my age, or it could be the man, but I mostly think it's just finding out that I could still like it. I'm terrified of the feeling waning before I want.

But I'm different now from then, and even more different from when I was a teen. I was feral as a teen, not nearly as discerning as I should have been. Always sneaking, always on the prowl. I didn't care about fidelity or monogamy, and I wasn't worried about pregnancy or disease. When the mom of one of my boyfriends found the socks we used to "clean" ourselves up and confronted us about it, we laughed and left the house.

It wasn't a big deal to go a few days or even weeks between sexual encounters back then, and it was heaven to go days, weeks, or lovely months without sex during my marriage. Now, it's hours, and I can't stand it. And my heart has gone carnal, uncontrollably evil, vindictive, and animalistic. It's only a matter of time.

Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 4

Chapter 4 - Omitting Your Mistakes

How many mistakes have I made this past year and half? It's hard to tell. If you ask a certain other blogger, he'll tell you them all, play by play. If you read my blog and his (and you probably found my blog through him), he probably already has.

I live my life by omitting my mistakes to myself. I let myself make them, and I basque in them, and I loathe them. Every move I've made is a mistake. Now, I'm holding on when I should pull away, and everyone knows it's a mistake, but I'm terrified.

My whole life is dissolving around me, and I'm just helping it along. Letting go of the love that I fought to get away from but fought for me and then let me fall seemed like the right thing to do. Everyone who knows me supports me leaving him, which makes me wonder why no one said anything before.

I'm pulling away from the life that I've lived and loathed to fall into another life that I'm afraid I will live and loathe even more. Before, I wasn't afraid, but now the time is coming closer for me to make that next step, dive in, let myself go...

It's time for me to pull away...

Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 3

Chapter III - An Ambiance of Technology

In the midst of the great sadness I felt at the realization that the love I thought had existed was no longer to be, I cried. I cried as I drove the kids to school. I cried on my way to work. I cried when I wrote poems. I cried and cried and cried.

And then a new friendship arose from the wonders of technology. I'm not sure if it was the ambiance created by the late night hours of the phone calls, or if it was just that I needed a new friend. The first time we spoke on the phone, it was for eleven hours. I didn't sleep at all that night, and I was a zombie - a very happy zombie - the next day.

We'd been writing emails to each other - he from a land far away, and me from my lonely home - for a few weeks. I'd been overtly vague in mine, and he'd prodded for more, but the comfort level wasn't there. I wasn't even aware of how much I looked forward to his emails until there wasn't one for a few days. He'd gone on a mission, and I was actually worried. The relief felt from that next email was wonderful. I offered my phone number, never thinking he'd call.

But he did.

Pull Away II - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 2

Chapter II - Fear of Writing

I had been a writer before but only when I was sad. It was my only true outlet. My letters and poems flowed from my mind faster than I could even think of writing them down, and I always wrote them, never typed them. Even when he shattered my heart for the first time, into a million little pieces, I couldn't write about him. He was my numbness, my lack of feeling, my writer's block in flesh form. And I believed this was love, for I could only write when I was sad, and I couldn't write about him, so I must not be sad. This must be true love, forever love. The kind from which you don't pull away.

In the years between the first knowledge that I was in love and the horror of the realization that the love had been murdered, I never wrote about him. There was a fear there that could not be contained, a fear that if I wrote the about the sadness and the truth of the sadness, that it would be real, and I would have to open my eyes to a bigger, scarier world, a world where he and I were no longer one.

And the truth is that despite my realization that the love was gone, it took writing about something I thought completely unrelated that brought to surface the truth of my life, our life together. It was but a farce. I had loved him unconditionally, but he would always be number two, and that is the truth of the sadness.

Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 1

It wasn't love at first sight. Or second or third for that matter. It was a love that was cultivated despite my resistance and reservations without hesitation or reservation from him. He was persistent, and before I knew what had happened, I was in love. Completely and utterly in love. I was ready, at the ripe age of 15, to leave my little hometown and follow him anywhere, if he'd only have me. It was the first time that he told me he loved me - over the phone with a quick disconnect afterward so I couldn't even respond - that I knew he was the man I was supposed to marry. In that one moment of teenage clarity, I fell so deeply in love that I couldn't imagine my life going on without him.

Despite the brevity of the actual time we'd spent together - just less than 2 months really - it felt like we'd been together for years. Every day, when he'd come pick me up in his little old beat up blue truck, I was giddy as I watched him drive up, shirtless, park the old beater, and put his shirt on as he walked up to the front porch. I relished that moment, waited for that moment, loved that moment every day. And every night, when he'd get ready to leave in that same old blue beater truck, he'd embrace me on the dirty front porch under the dim porch light for just a little longer than I embraced him. I was always the first to pull away.

I remember that summer, the part before he left, as the best of my life. It had it's ups and downs for sure, but mostly there were ups. Mostly, I felt safe. Mostly, I felt that this man would hold me up when I couldn't hold myself, lift me up when I was down, protect me from the things he thought me too delicate to experience. He worked hard at pulling down the 15 years of emotional walls I'd put up. I was still always the first to pull away.

And then he left. We knew it was coming, and it was hard. I can't even describe the emptiness I felt without him there. I wrote him every single day just to make sure that when mail call came, his name would always be called. When he was done with the first part of his training, I stayed home every Sunday just hoping he'd get to call. When the first cold letter came, I ignored the sentiment. And when the next letter came telling me to forget the previous one, I was all too happy to do just that.

When the phone call came, I wasn't at all prepared. I was devastated beyond comprehension. When I finally crawled myself out of my own hole of despair, I made a promise. If he would ever have me back, I would drop everything and everyone and do anything, go anywhere, be anyone for him.

The day finally came, five years later, that I got to make good on my promise. I became his. And I was happy with nothing more than being his. I wanted nothing more than to be his. I loved no one like I loved him, and I never ever will again. He owns my heart just like he always has. My heart that has never beat like it should, never sounded like it should, never worked like it should. My imperfect heart will always be his even if I'm still the first to pull away.

Liar

All the good is gone now, all the wonder too. You lied yourself away, brick by burning brick. I always think there's hope, even when hope is insecure. The switchblades you hide in there are tearing up and stripping gears. Theory defines the best parts of you, reality is fully let down. Were you ever a man, or at least a boy with integrity? You are cold and callous, a liar at best, and at your worst, you love. I called you a coward once and I've believe it ever since; nothing you've done has proven me wrong, but I still hold the space for hope. You'd give up the trust, the love, the caring, and the real for a moment of false enjoyment. What kind of respect does that deserve? Not mine, not yours, not any. The traps you've created, you've created alone. You've got the keys to your cage, but you're too lazy to use them because it's easier just to blame me. I told you you'd break my heart once, and you said you'd not do it on purpose. The truth about that is simple: you lied.

Morning Muffins - 10thDoM Clarity Through a Cinnamon Mist

The children watched the muffins rise through the grease stained window of the stove. It was exciting for them to start their day with such a treat. Fighting for space in front of the tiny window, their voices carried throughout the house, and she wondered if it would wake him. She hoped so. She imagined him walking up behind her and planting little good morning kisses on her neck.

As usual, she had to wake him, and he feigned complaint, burying himself beneath the layers of bedding. When he finally gave in and let her pull the covers off him, he let her stare at him for a moment because he knew how she enjoyed his body. She wished he'd look at her the same way. She closed her eyes and envisioned his eyes enjoying her body as he traced his fingers along her silhouette.

Their fingers intertwined as they walked down the hallway together, dropping only when they came in sight of the children. The smell of cinnamon muffins drifted lightly through the kitchen. As she began getting plates and cups and utensils, she glimpsed at him gazing aimlessly into air, and wished he'd have presence of mind to ask if she needed any help. He didn't. He never did. She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled a deep sigh, planted a smile across her face, and dutifully brought the plates of muffins to the table.

As they ate, she eyed him wistfully, the children bantered back and forth for his attention, and he seemed at once oblivious and captivated by the moment. He made faces to make her giggle, he played along well with the children, and every once in a while, he'd look at her in a way that made her melt every time. She reveled in these moments. She couldn't imagine them lasting a lifetime, but she could be happy for a few more months of these moments strung together.

Slowly she chewed her last bite of muffin, savoring the cinnamon flavor. The smell of the cinnamon was wonderful, she thought, and pondered on when the house would lose the warm mist of scent. She looked across the table at him and wondered when she would lose him. He always seemed to have one foot out the door. This wasn't a forever relationship, she knew, this was a relationship with an expiration date. She smiled sweetly across the table at him and waited patiently for their bitter demise.

How to Make a Bed - 10th DoM Dirty

She ripped the cum-stained sheets off the bed for the second night in a row. She hated doing laundry, but she hated the way the sticky stuff would dry and harden, and she hated the smell. With a heavy sigh, thinking of the task that lay ahead, she stared at the naked bed.
She'd thought ahead and bought a new mattress pad because she was pretty sure that the drips and trails of strawberry flavored lube and his and hers never matching cum stains must certainly have soaked through the sheets. As she had stripped the sheets from the bed, she threw a crooked smile across her face, at once remembering how the stains had gotten there in the first place and giving herself mental kudos for thinking ahead.
After unpacking the new mattress pad, taking a deep inhale of her new piece of bedding, she began to spread, smooth, and tuck around all the corners. This was her favorite part of bed making for many reasons: 1. She loved new bedding pieces, no matter how mundane, more than just about any other new thing she could buy. 2. She knew "he" liked her bed more than his own in large part because of this comfort piece. 3. She was excited about making a fresh bed because she knew "he" would be back.
With the mattress pad perfectly in place, and with a slowness usually reserved for snails and tortoises, she began to spread her Martha-Stewart-folded fitted sheet across the bed, tugging and pulling at the corners to get the top of the bed as smooth as possible. Each layer of her bedding took more than a few minutes to perfectly place, tuck, and fold. And as she stared at the smoothed out sheet, she felt a tiny tinge of frustration that she might be doing this again all too soon, but that would be a happy thing too. If she weren't just so anal about the perfection of her bed, this wouldn't even have crossed her mind.
Next, the top sheet would be sight measured, though she'd thought more than once about finding a tape measure just to see how well her eyes envisioned symmetry, and placed right side down so as to sleep between the "right" sides of the sheets, and so the pretty trim would fold perfectly back for show. The warming blanket, only there in case she had to sleep alone, was next and always the most difficult, what with maneuvering the wires so that they'd be unnoticeable and so as not to disturb the other layers.
After careful work with the wires and top sheet, the next layer, a winter weight down comforter, was ready to be placed atop the other four layers. She liked the winter weight blanket best because the summer weight one always hung down too low, and she had to tuck the edges into the sideboards of the 250 year old bed. And then, she'd ever-so-obsessively fold the top edge of the 600-thread-count top sheet over the edges of the warming blanket and comforter. Here, without fail, the tugging and smoothing seemed to go on forever.
For the final layer, a seasonal quilt, deep chocolate brown for winter, would be placed lovingly atop the rest of the layers, attempting to smother the white down comforter down and not look quite so fluffy. Two firm pillows, two medium pillows, two shams, and two decorative pillows later, the bed was made, ready for her lover to make dirty again.