Ships

 

I am pulling out the fish hooks now

The ones left over

and fresh ones, too

That man had some power over me

*

It feels strange

to find myself here

after quitting

and going back for more

and quitting again

I’m not who I was or who I will be

I’m the mess in between

*

And even though I’m pissed – finally, at last –

and I see him for the scoundrel he is

and I see his selfishness

and his ugly side

Still I know,

I am only ever looking at my own reflection

*

In this moment,

I don’t want the words that make it better

I don’t even want a distraction

I just need a minute

to feel the weight of this

The weight of hitting a wall and realizing

you have to peel your heart off the cement now

It burns a lot this time, this impact

– this letting go of hands –

*

The ships are drifting from their close parallel motion

There is a sadness, and a longing

There is a loneliness,

as I release the bond

Even now as I sit with my anger,

I find that the anger has no fuel

It is dead

just like the lies we told ourselves

to make it last a little longer

*

Grief.  Anger.  Numb.

Rolling like waves

Relief 

Gratitude that it’s finally over

Holding space for him took A LOT of energy

*

The thoughts create a heaviness in my energetic field

The heaviness smells of both sadness and forgiveness

It is a soul-reckoning that defies space and time

The heaviness carries the weight of wisdom,

and it has me digging roots into the Earth

into my core

into the form I have chosen

The heaviness tells me

I am not an angel

or his perfect girl

or any kind of miracle-worker

The heaviness tells me something

I have been needing to know

for a very long time

It speaks to me in a voice from my low belly

It speaks in flashes through my mind

It says:

“You are your own ship.”

*

 

All of me

 

My ex-lover sent me a concerned email when I posted about a “sex class” I went to recently.  My children don’t follow my blog, and they probably never will – but I had been using my real name on Medium, and the ex-lover had a point: “Any of your sons’ boneheaded friends could google your name and this story will pop up.”  He went on to say that I was the “hot mom” among their peers, and that my boys most certainly hated knowing that.  Concerns veiled in compliments, but I felt controlled.

I replied: “Good tip, changing my name on Medium now.”  And I gave myself a new pen name.  Problem solved.

But an anger was stewing, and my mouth wanted to breathe fire.

This energy will not be denied.

I’m claiming my freedom in this space, and a large part of that is connected to my sexuality.  I know this is nothing to be ashamed of.  The type of erotic play I am into is extremely vanilla compared to a lot of the things I read about, but even if it wasn’t — no shame!  I am finding that by exploring the sexual experiences and fantasies of other writers and by slowly sharing my own, I am tapping into incredibly rich creative energy.   I am humbled by these brave and sexy writers who are stirring the pot of erotic energy for those of us who are turned on by the written word.  I am relishing in my own desires without needing a physical partner to fulfill my needs.  And I am learning so much!

I feel protective of my freedom of expression, and unwilling to yield to a status quo version of sex, love or partnership.

And although my ex-lover means well, I also know he wants another chance at “us” – he wants to try some things I have revealed in my writing, things he didn’t know I wanted because I didn’t tell him and he didn’t ask.

His next email to me was titled “Sex” and was basically him coming to terms with his own beastly desires.  Would I wear a collar for him?

Again, I wanted to breathe fire.

Not because I don’t like collars.  I actually don’t know.  But because I am feeling raided….

I’m not here to defend my right to be.

I’m not here to train you to be my perfect lover.

I’m just uncovering the truth of my being.

Things that were dormant are being revealed.  Old wounds have healed enough that now they can be spoken of.  I am learning to be alive in my body.  I am waking up.

It makes some uncomfortable, or sad.

It might turn you on.

It might make you wonder.

And as for the ex-lover,

he doesn’t get to put a collar on me,

not even in my writing.

But the advice has been received,

and thank you for your concern.

*

Side note:

I will always love my ex-lover, he is a beautiful being!

Ending poem:

The heart is in critical condition.

I didn’t tell you,

but I’m breaking all the time.

Little bits of me are falling off – can you see?  That’s my veil cracking.

And if you want to explore this mess with me,

i won’t stop you.

*