Burned

I continue to walk this long path full of shattered glass and enlarged flames. Allowing the pain to sweep around my toes, ankles, slender calves, thighs, pretty buttocks, hips, large abdomen, wide chest, wide shoulders up and around to the tip of my punctured nose. This pain is like no other and there is no true source yet physiological symptoms are always knocking at the door.

Tears blinded the road as I smoothly accomplished each twist and swerve home. I reflect on the one I suppose could have filled the empty pleasure cove. He stood tall and proud smugly glanced over me. That kind of glance people have when they come across the stench of cows among the countryside. The kind of glance given to CNAs from their medical colleagues. The glance that is the backbone of their false sense of superiority and you amount to nothing. He then walks briskly toward his apartment repeating twice not interested one more glance, one more “not interested”, and slams door shut. He does not forget to lock the many locks on the other side. Confined in his greatness.

Could he have been the one? Or was it the first one I allowed to touch me? Or the one I allowed myself to be vulnerable with? Or was it the one I took on a date who continued to flirt with others in front of me? Or the one constantly monitoring my every mood wanting nothing more than a puppet? Or the one selling dope at the corner only to be left dead shot in the head? Or the one I chased knowing he loved being chased but had little interest in being prized? Or the one night stands from drunken nights? Or the friend I thought I could trust? Or the first “with benefits”? Or the one on the DL wanting no one to know our “little secret”? Or the matches I found on tinder that rarely reply? Or the others I’ve allowed to see me, feel me, smell me and taste me? So many more unanswered questions arise with these few.

I continue to walk this path along the flames. I learned that the path to happiness to finding love one is bound to be burned along the way. The scars left behind are reminders, lessons, and they make us who we are. That’s all for now it’s late and I’m tired.

Want

I want to feel the warmth of his body against mine.

I want to feel the prickly chin gently pressed against my cheek.

I want to be held and cradled like a child nestling with it’s mother.

I want to be adorn like the bold Mona Lisa and her smile.

I want to feel the scraggly hairs enmeshed with mine.

I want to fold in together like playing cards or the pieces of origami.

I want to feel thousand little deaths in one night’s sitting.

I want to feel loved and not revolted with force.

I want him to appreciate every single pink line trailing my skin.

I want us to laugh the gentle kind of laugh that fills one’s body with warm goodness.

I want to lie there on the floor immersed in our wetness in delight.

I want to snuggle up and feel the muscle flex and dance with the flames from the fireplace.

I want to be able to taste and smell the morning breath unchanged.

Right now I sit in this chair typing away. I continue to go unnoticed and unwanted each passing day. I sit in this chair of hope reaching out to the universe called the world wide web. Hoping that somehow there is a connection among the wires or wireless circuits that run our electronic devices. I yearn for that love I do not think I have yet experienced but witnessed so many others obtain. I am reminded of the old woman in class that said she had only 3 great loves in her lifetime. I still have 0 as I reach a quarter of the way through. I sit here silent fighting back tears some days I let them overflow the dam damaged the floodgates opened. That’s what I am doing now leaving myself vulnerable to anyone who happens to read this. I have desires for hot, passionate, and sensual love or is it lust. The one thing I struggle beating down is the feeling of loneliness. Loneliness is like those damn air balloon things we used to hit as a kid and was held down by sand. Those toys just popped back up no matter how many times you bopped it.

Me

I know I’m not perfect. I know I have flaws. I am aware that I don’t fit the profile of a “Manly Man”. I love that I am a perfect balance of masculinity and femininity. I know I don’t have a six pack or a raging temper. I drink mixed drinks and wine on special or social occasions (Amaretto Sour please thank you). Just like my drink of choice my personality comes with a sweet tang. I know I am not perfect so I’m looking for the one who understands themselves just as I do. I don’t need a shot of fireball or vodka found down every aisle of every supermarket. I need authenticity.

-Foxxie

As I lay my head against my cold blue shoulder,
I see the shivers,
I hear the tears.

Stiff as a board,
my out of body experience whispers
a deafening blow,
The wind breezes past the drum.

The worst part of it all,
is the tik tik tik,
the pat pat pat,
of a swollen heart ready
to burst.

A flowing river longer
than Miss Issipp I’s
strands of hair so translucent.
My tears are no match.

-Foxxie

PRIDE 2015

May all my fellow LGBTQ persons and allies enjoy celebrating Pride this year. We have seen a tremendous change over the years with human rights. Let us reflect on how far we have come as people in general. Most of us have wanted nothing more than equality for all and we made one huge step in our mighty country and it is FABULOUS. I will try not to bore you all with too many words. Take a second to go out and take a breath of  air, look around, and know we are making progress. We have all in our little ways contributed to this difference. Celebrate with those close to you and share the love.

xxoo

-Foxxie

It’s truly upsetting when one must accept the hard cold facts. One fact that I must muster the courage to swallow is that I will never be truly accepted by my flesh and blood. Yes, the womb which housed me. The space which birthed me. Left out to dry like freshly washed laundry. I remain strung up on the hard wire until I am crisp and solid. Pure linen ready to be thrown over the covers. Waiting for the stains to come and dust to collect, allergy season. Unfortunately, I will never know the horror of being allergic to myself. I will just lie their a stiff.

Just like when I was thrown to the curb stuck between two mountains of black plastic full of my belongings. All bundled in one a bunch of unsorted laundry. The stench that I carry along with me is that of strength, resiliency, and hurt. Yes she cries now maybe over the regret or the sickness. The sickness that comes from hating something so imperfect and that imperfection imprinted in me. I hope she doesn’t take on the responsibility of my living. I am no longer a fresh clean sheet. I have gone through much contortion. My blood has seeped into a colorful palate of delight, only to appeal to some.

I will hang myself to dry, iron out my crinkles to my standards, allow my colors to shine underneath the summer sun, and leave you neat and pristine. You will shine in your own way and mine in mine. Please do not soak yourself in gasoline and sleep near the matches.

quote- insults

Shawn L. Bird

Just came across this in my audio book today:

“An insult is like a drink, it effects one only if accepted.”

Robert A. Heinlein in Glory Road

How true is this!

The difference between being ‘thin-skinned’ and ‘thick-skinned’ lies in if you ‘accept’ the insult or not.  If you do not, it rolls over you and you can remain jovial and calm.  If you accept an insult, it can be toxic, taking bitter root and poisoning both you and others around you as you spread the toxicity.

This brings to mind that some need more gentleness than others.

While insult may be completely unintended, those who presume a negative intent will let their ‘acceptance’ of the insult fester.  Their perception is their reality.

This is when one can either wait for the one presuming insult where none was intended or implied to either wake up or move on, or one…

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When It Happens

She's in Prison

When It Happens  My first reaction was to feel flattered, hearing only the whispered words you look hot in those tight jeans.  I said thanks and went back to my desk, toggling my mouse to wake up the screen as the revulsion set in, not sure what I’d say the next time we ran into each other in the hallway.  I wanted to pull my head and arms into my sweatshirt and hang out for a few minutes, rendered untouchable, invisible from eyes twice my age with ignorant wives.   Instead I continued working on the report I’d started before lunch.

My Saturday morning poems are usually my favorite, not because I think they are at all superior to my other ones, but because I love starting my weekend with “me” time. This week was a mess of ups and downs. I tested friendships, rekindled others, and rode the doubt-confidence spectrum. So taking a few minutes this morning to think through everything I’d survived in the past few days was blissful.

I have a Spotify playlist blasting and everything I need to make today a good memory tomorrow.

Have an epic weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

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Exposition

Do not make the mistake of assuming you know me. You do not define me:
You do not choose the dark clothes I wear.
You do not dictate the words I speak.
You do not visualize my twisted, contorted, thoughts.
You do not taste the exotic flavors that rip into my taste buds.
You do not walk in my seven inch heels or shoes aged for years.