Sunday Confessionals : Secrets

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I have a confession, I am my mother’s daughter. I have a terrible temper and a tendency to be flaky and unreliable. For me love is an addiction, an obsession, a have to have. I am dramatic and childish in the best and worst possible ways. I am generous to a fault. I am afraid of my ambition, of earning money, of losing myself in a life without passion. I lack confidence and self-esteem. I don’t recognize my value. I feel guilty for everything and that makes me really hard to talk to. I cry easily and often and I don’t know if I am being manipulative or if I am just feeling vulnerable. I try to save people even at the expense of my own personal safety and well-being. I am hysterical. Open. Playful. Unstable. Innocent. I worry too much. I am aggressively protective. I can’t stand to see other people suffer, particularly children and animals. I am wise beyond my years. I am my mother’s counselor and also her mother. I am empathetic. I am my own worst nightmare. I complicate everything. I am gullible and adorable. I am competitive but I never win. I know what you want before you do. If you ask me a question I will bare my soul but I will never answer your question because I don’t know what I think or feel or who I am deep down. I accept everything, even the contradictions. I am psychopomp and a psychic. I exist more in dreams than in reality.

I am my father’s daughter. From him I learned that my value comes from outside of myself. Men are the ones who assign value and meaning to my life. My survival depends on my ability to accommodate and please my partner. I can’t live on my own. I am an object. I am fragile. I am defiant. I am an anarchist. I abhor mediocrity. I am paranoid and pessimistic and sometimes I compensate for feelings of unworthiness with excessive pride. I am a crippled genius. I am an unlocker of doors some of which ought to remain closed. I am an instigator. A Devil’s advocate. I will bring out the best and the worst in you. I am a recluse desperate for attention. I am possessive and jealous. I run wild. I like mysteries. I solve people like puzzles. I look in dark places. I am voracious and relentless. I am timid. I am a monster slayer. I am also a monster. I continue to gaslight myself and second guess all my choices. I am a failure. Not because of the mistakes I have made but because I give up before I even begin. Humiliation is the worst of all feelings. I am as big as a universe and as small as a seed. I have demon blood. I am more animal than man. I have an inferiorly complex as deep as the ocean. I am bottomless. I am terrified all the time. I don’t know how to be happy. I have an intensity which others find both alarming and alluring. I am both asexual and hyper-sexual and that’s probably a result of repeated sexual abuse which is to say I don’t know the true state of my sexuality. I am always fighting against myself, society, the man. For me surrender is synonymous with death. I am a revolutionary without a cause. I am a window painted over and nailed shut. I am black and white. I can smell blood in the water. I know your weaknesses. I see your strengths. My words are like razors. I am loved but I don’t know it. I make excuses. I brag. I have seen too much. I am scarred all the way through. I see man for what he is both good and bad. I don’t care if our beliefs differ. I am a drowning man. I have a head full of stories. I don’t know how to speak to people out loud. I say the wrong things. I am impulsive. I don’t hit children. I think animals are better people than people are.

Wordle #280 and Dream Interpretation #3 “Unfinished Songs”

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Photo by Jamakassi on Unsplash

A cluster of butterflies

should be called a jest

because of the way

they tumble through the air.

We were wild once,

our gardens ripe

with forbidden fruit,

our words falling

carelessly into space.

There is no cure

for love

only a slow

amelioration of guilt.

The heart

which exists

within and without

is turned

so that the nerve endings

are totally exposed.

My blood is sludge,

it pools and gathers

in the spaces

that you once occupied.

When I close my eyes

I am vivid

with your memory,

vivid with the taste

of my tears.

Tears that run both

hot and cold.

Tears which beat

against my cheeks,

gentle as pixie wings.

If I were diaphanous

I would accompany you

to the dark places

and the bright places

simply to be at your side.

In a universe

where time does not

move in a linear fashion

forever is an unbreakable promise.

A day eating sundaes in the park

could be eternal

or it could be two shadows

devolving in the light

of a new day.

I am inside out.

Humiliated.

Alone

with my memories

both good and bad.

I am not sick

so much as fallen.

God may not love me

any less

but you do

and that hurts

more than enough.

To you I am the enemy,

the interloper.

I know too much.

I understand nothing.

We lost each other

in a simple game

of hide and seek.

There are scars

where the stars

should be.

Furrows

of indifference.

Dreams

without fire.

Dreams

like small bones

which crack

when tested.

To me you are life itself.

I miss you

sounds trite

because you

were and always will be

momentous.

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