You're the pixels of my dreams
She sighs into Skype
Let her do that clean up work
Worry about your whereabouts
Why her charms aren't working
Why digital pussy dont keep you put
Don't you know how many bytes
She's consumed, of you,
How many gigs she's browsed
Looking for trails of your nuts
Squirrelly girl insecure
Her hell is my fun
Emotional maso on tap
Choose me now
Don't get close
Let me hang
The buzz goes fast
But I remind myself
Drag it out
The fool keeps
one in her heart
The one who knows
Keeps a few
Nameless and Swimming
It's easier to be nameless, to not be a specific thing to anyone. It allows one to disappear within the very non defined nature of a not-thing. One doesn't have to follow prescribed rules of normal engagement, one doesnt need to bare the soul or open the heart because there is no obligation defined by role.
One can choose freely and clearly where one wants to be. Frightening sometimes to be without a safety net of naming. There is power in names and there are expectations. To walk away from naming is to let all the power in naming be null and void.
Awkward and difficult to navigate sometimes. Frequently or usually, some might argue, but it is really dealing with one's own insecurities and doubt, letting the woobie of expectation go. My safety blanket burns while i struggle to keep my head afloat some days.
I'm becoming a mighty strong swimmer though longer and longer I can hold my breath, walk away from the firm foundation of the shore and the sure. I like the struggle and i like examining my doubt, and finding that extra store of breath when i was certain that water was too deep.
Homewrecking: An Homage
i dont belong to anyone
The myth is they are sad lonely women, just waiting to prey on poor unsuspecting faithful men. Can't get their own, have to steal, homewrecking harlot. Trollop, hussy, bad girl.
Like these men are innocent. As long as there is a roamer with a hard on, we will exist. We dont want happily ever after. We don't want the kind of love yall have, that long term warts and all. No, thank you.
We want the best parts, the juicy parts. Parts you see but have to temper with the smelly shoes and shitty attitudes. You get those because obligation. We are choice.
Slam on the easy side piece. We don't give two shits. Not like we are gonna stop. Not like it means anything to whatever your man says to me.
These Girls Should Come With Warning Labels
Woe is me is ode to me
I beg, i plead, i cry invisible wolf
My tragedy is your new baggage
Manifested twice the size
These tears, they fall
Down my lovely face
Come let me drown you
In a sea of my own making
victim me, sad me, lonely me
How they are wise and fine
The apple of mine eye
Whispers and withers
I sing your odes
On my own belljar
Sea glass never cuts
but mine ass will
love me like i love
or woe is you
Houses and futures
i dream of collars and rings
yes, Sir forevers but
i've already enshrined you
In my golden tower
will never leave
odes for days
and no more play
The insecure or maybe
i am we are because
Mountain tops, we scream
banners high, hearts held tight
dont take flight
stay and love me
I protesteth too much
Cold marble under my hands, the reflection of a person I don't remember on the wall. I've looked so hard, for a part of me I thought you'd like. Something you could want.
But all I ever found was bigger tits, smaller waists, new faces, empty eyes, and the thrill of a chase I don't give.
Not even good enough to chain up, devoted enough to stay with no bindings, alone, in a bathtub long gone cold, waiting until you tire of the chase, and long for the meager pleasure I will always willingly give.
Never my name that falls from your lips, never my flesh underneath yours, never any demands on me, never commanded to strip and serve. I can hear you, and the newest faceless girl, one room and over, while I wither and wrinkle, alone, and envy the strangers you desire.
Blondes, they have more fun.
It seems like all my existential crises are about my hair.
Or at least reflected by it.
Which is probably not healthy. I shouldn't rebel against long gone voices and the damage they did, thumbing my nose at people I no longer have to please.
What if my hair was just...hair.
What would that feel like? To not have to hate it or change it or mold it or fix it to fit some random ideal of beauty I'll never fit anyway? What if it was just there? What if it just was? If I didn't have to dye it every two months, and worry about finding the money to get it cut, not finding it and cutting it myself? What if I just learned that it was ok, to be however it is? Mousy brown and weirdly waved, is that ok? Can I do that? Can I leave it alone and learn to just love it, to love me, without fixing anything for anyone, including myself? Can I just be enough?
Just as I am, without alteration, with the understanding that I am not intended to fit an ideal. I do not have to be pleasing to anyone's eyes but my own. I don't have to be blonde. I don't have to be thin. I don't have to be anything.
Maybe being me is enough. Maybe it isn't. But I'll take it one step at a time, and the first step, I think, is literally getting back to my roots.
Dusty leather and polished pearls.
She knew from the start this wouldn't end in happily ever after. He looked like trouble, from the first glance, all leather and denim. Good boys didn't dress like that, didn't move like that, damn sure didn't talk like that.
He pushed past her Southern belle exterior, past the pearls and polite yes Sir's, pushed down into the parts that made her wild, underneath that petticoat. Touched all the parts she pretended not to have.
Before the dust could settle under his well worn boots, he was gone. Leaving the imprint of his calloused hands on the soft white parts of her that never saw daylight. Leaving her wanting more, and vowing from then on, to only date Yankees in polo shirts.
And so she writes.
They met there, between the pages of books, both written and unwritten.
Intertwining themselves with words and thoughts. His hands were calloused, but his touch was soft. His words were harsher than hers, but more beautiful. He smelled like the inside of her favorite book, and motorcycles. She was smaller than he'd expected and she laughed when he said so.
"Are you going to hurt me?" She asked.
"Yes." He said, as if that was enough explanation.
He patted the back of his bike."Let's go, we don't have forever."
And they rode off, to wander in and out of books, until the words ran out.
Fuck you, fat girls
I'm a judgmental fat girl. I look at those of you that are soft and sweet and i judge you for not being tougher, harder, more likely to take what you're given and throw it back or atleast have the skin to not let it in.
I judge you for your soft skirts, flowery dresses, and cute heels. I judge you for soft makeup and not having an acid tongue. I'm less than understanding when your feelings are hurt, when you cry because someone called you fat.
I judge the way some of you body positive it the fuck to death. Real women have curves, real women do this. You have to sing my praises and find me beautiful fat girls, demanding what isn't theirs, taking what they shouldn't, fat forcing themselves where they are better off not.
I see your forced positivity and i fucking hate it. I hate the way you judge back and I fully know i'm a cunt for doing it when i did it for so long. Pulling down shirts to feel better, i still do. Hiding from pictures. Knowing some will always think you're stupid because ass big, tummy chubby, thighs thunder.
I judge you for not being smarter, for playing dumb and weak, let that stereotype fucking die already. Yeah we all have issues but this, all of this, myself included, makes my soft next to unreachable. Not because i hate myself, not because i love myself, but because i hate what we do to ourselves.