Dear Me

Dear Me,

Today has been an emotional day. I guess you could say it is one of those pivotal moments in life where everything you knew or thought you knew gets turned inside out. I’ve been writing about my twinflame journey for months now. In that time very little had changed for me in the 3D. I had focused most of my efforts in the 5D. My dreams have been simply out of this world. Then suddenly there was a change. The man I believed to be my twin (will call him A to avoid confusion) popped up in my Telegram contact list (before you get too excited about it we have not exchanged a single word). I took it to mean something. I wanted it to mean something. Finally there was an open door between us. I did not jump at the opportunity. I waited. I gave him space. I followed the advice of the “experts” if there even is such a thing as an expert on the subject. A is still in my contacts on Telegram (atm) but something did change in the 3D. I am not ready to open up about it just yet but it has brought something to my attention, a possibility I just had not been prepared to face. A is not my twinflame. A is simply a man. A man I do not know. A man who is not interested in me and that should have been very clear to me and might have been had I been a little more experienced, a little more rational, a little less smitten. I am not angry with A. It wasn’t his fault I got my signals crossed. He did not lead me on. He did not “seduce” me. He did not lie to me. I do feel regretful for how I behaved. It was an honest mistake but it still probably did result in some discomfort and inconvenience for him which I am pretty broken up about at the moment. There is not really anything I can do about that. I can’t really apologize because that would draw it out and add to the discomfort/weirdness that already exists. I want to make it clear I have not been sending him messages or anything. Nothing like that for nearly a year. So it was nothing overt like that, it was only an accident. A stupid, grade-school girl level accident after nearly a year of complete silence. At this point all I can do is let go of the image I had of DM. I have to release A so I can discover the truth, however, painful that truth might be.

Right now that is mainly where I am grieving the loss of that clarity, of that person to which I had ascribed so much meaning and potential. Who is full of meaning and potentional certainly but whose life is and ever will be seperate from my own. I really had very little that was clear to me and now, at least, concerning this journey everything is hidden behind a very dense veil.

I might be my own twinflame. This whole journey might just be my subconscious’ ingenious way of healing trauma. I can’t say why my mind decided to involve someone in that process, perhaps it was as simple as comfort. It can be quite painful to think of undertaking a difficult journey alone. It makes me think of that research experiment with the baby monkeys. In the experiment the babies who were given a terry cloth mother to cuddle did better than the babies who were given only food. In the end the experiment was really very cruel because the monkeys were forced to choose between their “surrogate mother” and food. They chose their “surrogate mother” and starved to death. Humans aren’t much different. We all want love and comfort. We are social creatures. So I can’t really even blame my brain for concocting this elaborate love story. It chose someone with whom I could not form an actual connection, someone with whom my illusion could be maintained for a longer period of time. I did manage to heal quite a lot in the process just the same. I also learned that I have a tremendous imagination. I have struggled even to hold an erotic image in my head for masturbation when I am awake so maybe this is a way a way of breaking down that blockage to allow me to create more freely and authentically even when I am awake and ego-bound. There are obviously still things I cannot explain. Signs I have received. This I can’t quite see as products of my overactive imagination since they occurred in the external world and were outside of myself. Then again I suppose there might be magic of a sort in this world. Magic because I wished for it and whatever the outcome for a while I did find it.

Of course there is a possibility I have a twinflame who is, for whatever reason, withholding their identity. Since their identity is unknown I gave them one or they gave me one simply to have a face and a name. I did not know about twinflames to start so it wasn’t something I was seeking out. It will be hard to let go of the notion since I am a hopeless romantic but I think I do need to broaden my horizons even more.

I have no idea why I reacted to A’s picture the way I did, in such an atypical and unpreceded way. It is possible to have feelings for someone that doesn’t like you back and not be mistaken. I suppose it was just that I felt something. I had feelings. Now though I need to let go of those feelings and I need to be open to receiving love. Reciprocal love. I am not ready to hit the dating sites yet I have to grieve first. Maybe my twinflame is out there somewhere with a face and name his/her own. Maybe my twinflame exists only in my dreams and if so I hope that they will tell me so.

If ever A (Axel Miraton) comes across this I am truly sorry for being such a pest. I sincerely hope you have a gorgeous life! Goodbye but not good riddance. Also thanks for the inspiration!

For now my only twinflame is myself. I am going to get to know me. To love me. To forgive me. Maybe someone will enter my life someday. I am open to that possibility. I will be eventually, at least. For now I am going to choose that which sustains me rather than the illusion of comfort.


The Aging Duckling

In college mid 20s probably. Most of my pictures involve me not looking at the camera.

This is me at 40 looking terrified of the camera. I am really scared of the camera okay.

Crisis, pretty much describes my mind state for the last few days/weeks. I guess you could say I am going through a dark night of the soul. Purging. Trauma. Ego Death. The delicate balance between collapse and surrender. At the moment the only way I know how to let go is to beat myself down until I am too exhausted to resist. I don’t know if I am a sadist or a masochist. Maybe I am both. So what, you may wander, is bothering me specifically?

Well to start with there’s childhood trauma. I am really tired of dealing with this particular trauma and I have sincerely tried to heal these issues and move forward with my life. Basically it is feelings of insecurity. I don’t feel safe. I am still clinging to the side of the pool for dear life, metaphorically. There is other things too: I am afraid to hurt the people I love and afraid that the love I have to offer is somehow tainted. I don’t feel worthy. I don’t feel pretty enough, young enough, successful enough, good enough, sane enough, reliable enough, interesting enough, talented enough. Enough period.

Speaking of young enough. I am having some type of midlife crisis. I have always struggled with changes to my physical appearance for better or worse. I think it is because of the disassociation. I don’t see a gradual progression of changes but sudden, inexplicable changes. Which might be the reason I don’t wear makeup. I need to see my real face, not another external face plastered on top of my own. My dad was a pedophile and misogynist. He was really cruel in his judgements of women. Adult women particularly. I admit I have read about dating when you are 40 and it is basically the same diatribe he fed to me as a kid. One article said women are past their prime at 18. Presumably the article was written by a prebuscent boy. I hope so anyways because if a grown up of either gender wrote that article it is heart-breaking, not for me but for them. Personally I think you can be beautiful at any age. At least, I have never really cared much about the age of other people. So why does my age matter so much to me? When I was in college I used to subscribe to the Oprah Magazine. Which was probably geared toward middle-aged women but I liked it. Anyhow it had a collection of beautiful women. Older women. Each woman had a small biography accompanying her portrait. These women were in there 70s and they had such a sense of self, such confidence. They were gorgeous. I had this weird idea that I was going to get older and develop some sort of peace with my appearance. That I would shed the crippling insecurities of my youth as I got to know myself better. This hasn’t happened yet. The parts of my body I am not insecure about: my thumbs, my vagina, my feet most of the time, my nose which my daughter gives me hell for several times a week. I think a crooked nose is sexy (my nose is crooked and angular from the side from the front it’s a different nose). Truthfully though I always feel both old and young at the same time. I am not as different from myself at 20 as I expected to be (I mean internally not externally, I am definitely different externally lol). I am still me you know?

There is of course the whole financial insecurity thing. Speaking of which I’ve got an apprenticeship in a second hand store. They will be accessing my ability to work. They have many different departments. I chose to work in books. I was assigned to textiles.

I am worried about my daughter whose having a tough time right now, a really tough time.

I am still trying to work out what unconditional love means. What are twinflames?

I want to be painted in the nude by an artist who appreciates my very human figure.

I know I want to love and be loved. I know I am one of those sappy, hopeless romantic sorts. I write poetry so I am really obsessed with words. Rather than grand romantic gestures I prefer humor and small, thoughtful, and yes sometimes idiotic gifts. I don’t want a diamond ring. I’d rather honestly have a bubblegum machine ring. I don’t know why. I think it’s sweeter or simpler or something. I want something playful and fun. They say you get pickier with age. Here’s my list.

I don’t care that much about looks this (includes weight), money, status, or age (to a point obviously I think preference wise I am 25 up to infinity)

A good sense of humor/playful/silly/sweet

Loves me for who I am

A good lister (because I talk a lot)

A willingness to communicate

Honesty/they are real with me

Passionate and yet somehow still chill (this is where I get picky. How can they be passionate, a wee bit obsessive, and have a voracious directed toward me sexual appetite and still be laidback???! How can they be all-consumed with me and not be jealous as hell? See I haven’t worked this bit out at all.)

They reciprocate my feelings and willing to learn about intimacy with me because I am still learning

Stuff like that. Basically I wanted reciprocated love. I am probably not a casual dater and to be fair this has nothing to do with age because I never was one. I am basically like a baby duckling I imprint and so I literally don’t know how to think of anyone but the person I like. Which probably makes me needy and clingy. I can own that. Maybe after I work out these insecurity issues I will be less duckling and more swan.

Basically my current mission is just to learn how to relax and to heal. Also I am tired of pursuing/chasing whatever. I am going to do my best to just be open. To go with the flow. Let the universe decide.

Dear Self

Dear Self,

Even healthy habits can become toxic if done for the wrong reasons. Even healthy habits can become addictions when used to escape from pain/reality/self. Anything truly healthy starts from a place of self-acceptance and self-respect. Do what you love because it matters, because it is honest, because it is an expression of the world you would like to create/inhabit. Success for the sake of success is like swallowing a black hole. It’s heavy. It’s insatiable. It sucks up the light. Start with the heart the rest will follow. Don’t hide from vulnerability, embrace it. Vulnerability is the source of all beauty, of all love. Vulnerability is an art form unto itself. Surrender. Surrender. Surrender.


My thoughts are barbed wire,
a legion of cold, prickly strangers.
Can I come inside
your mind for a while?
I am tired of myself,
of my war-weary ego,
of oil slicks and fires
with grins wide enough
to swallow a man whole.

My heart is a broken-winged bird,
buried inside a bodice of flesh and bone.
If I let you exhume and unwrap me
will you let me see your vulnerable side
and should I find it within myself to fly
will you be both the wind that lifts me
and the roots that summon me home?

My voice is the sound
of the shore as it is
picked clean and pulverized
by tides both trivial and tyrannical.
I am struggling to find my courage.
Will you stand by me, for me,
against me when I’ve lost my way?

My body is full of conduits
and everything that enters me
finds a place and a means
by which to exist and multiply.
I write and I am made manifest.
I am full of coincidences,
of numbers repeating.
I am a dream too real
to be misplaced or undressed.
I am no more or no less.
I am the other side of you.

I am not sure this makes sense I am feeling overwhelmed and stressed at the moment



We sit side by side,

a sheet of paper between us

like a Rosetta Stone

in search of a language

that can translate

our thoughts and sentiments.



I could listen

to your hands all night,

to the patient hiss

of your pencil as you reveal

another layer of scar tissue.

Scars which were once

indigenous to my heart.

Scars which have been

passed down for generations.

Scars which I have deepened,

washed, and redressed countless times

redefined as works of art

by your sympathetic touch.

Without Poetry

A heart without a voice

May as well be a grave.

The ink hemorrhages

From my lips and ears.


my pain does not serve

But consumes

Everyone from the inside out.

I would laugh if I could

Bare the sound of it.

Amongst the nettles and stars

There are no men at all,

Only wafer-thin allegiances.

My blood hardens in my chest

Like an unfulfilled wish.

I have survived despite

My own ill chosen affinities.

I have survived with a sneer

And one eye cracked open

Like an old woman’s

Inexhaustible purse.

To whom should I assign my pain

When the burden of silence wears my nerves raw?

In each room, come a certain time,

You will find a shadow without origin,

A shadow autonomous and self-serving,

A shadow in human form

That draws closer when your legs are bare

And your principal is uncovered.

The abyss never flinches when in pursuit

and I dare not look askance for fear of collision.

Though the windows here

are too small for chance

I have opened them.

The air is nimble and the sunlight bold

Two finer companions I could not ask.

I fill three identical teacups

And arrange them in a semi-circle.

I am not asking for a miracle

Only a little warmth to dry my cheeks.

Nothing glimpsed in my nightmares

Prepared me for the mirror’s serrated edge.

There was no soul, no arabesques, no innocence

Only a scrap of burlap with the features sewn in.

Stitch by stitch I let down my smile

And laid my two button eyes in a porcelain dish.

I held my empty face over the basin,

But the water could not soften my flesh.

Should I surrender to apathy?

A ghost in a human carapace,

A rind pulled off in a single ringlet

And left to leather in the the trash.

Of what use is a mask

When it is only my own face

Doubled over on itself?

Give me another crime

For which I can atone

Otherwise I can’t guarantee coherence.

This is not my scene.

This is not my moment.

Regret is only wounded pride.

I pick the scabs as they accumulate

and let the ooze flow

According to its own currents.

The angels have all gone to sleep.

If I were to speak my truth now

No one would hear it.

The stone-faced people

Appear at each crossroads

With fingers fanned in every direction.

I sink to my knees

Pressing my forehead

Into the dust and the excrement.

They have no answers only jests.

(I have forgotten how to write poetry)


Would I burn out my throat

If the solvent were assured

To take nothing but my voice?

Mud well passed the knees

My primal belly exhales

The fascist grit,

The necrotizing erythrocytes

No one wants to heal

From the inside.


My hollows are deep

Echos scamper from

The barge of my throat

Who is the source

Of these recursive screams?

Is it one of us?


Death is not always obvious

But it is persistent.

Sometimes a ghost

Is just a ghost

Sometimes it’s remorse

And nothing spoils youth

Like remorse.


The rudiments of dreams

Blister behind my eyes,

Those ungodly windows

There is much in this life

That is only supposed

But if not for imagination

I wouldn’t know anything at all.



Sylvia Cloud

She gathers the stars

And draws them flaming

Into the palatial chasm

Buried beneath her breasts

I summon her as a hearth

Filling her sulfurous belly

With bitter fruit and straw

She fancies herself a poetess

Cries in myths, torrents

Of sparkling constellations

Drip from marcescent eyes



How did you enter?

Was it your syllables

Spilling between

My reciprocating hands?


Was it the first glance

The copious black

Of my smitten soul

Unwrapping your design?


Was it in the collapse of our lips

Or the mutation of our limbs?


Was it the divesting of muses

Born in equal measure

Astonishment and horror?


How is it that I resided

In your absence?

For living had not yet began

“Hello Love”

I know without knowing

That we are intended


It’s not the scars

That make me human

It’s the ability to persist

Despite crippling pain

And it’s to you I owe

Life ever since