I feel us like a bomb under heavy water, lonely riders all only occasionally knowing that we are not lonely, not alone, not even riding but standing. In opposition, in your midst, in solidarity and enraged. We are, we do, we must endure and we endure and we do endure, all for the hope of a change, a movement barely perceptible if you are not awake at night, all night, waiting for news of a shift, this shift, any shift away from the universal no, the almighty ostritching that is everyone saying no to knowing, saying no to doing anything about what we would have no choice but to know if only we would open our eyes. I feel us like an engine with only the faintest memories of combustion– I feel us waiting to explode and desperately trying to remember how. I feel us and I wonder if I have gone insane, if it is going insane that would make a person know that they are not alone out here, that they are not the only one waiting for a yes, waiting for a sign, waiting for a voice, waiting to be a voice, waiting to stop waiting. If it is going insane that would make wanting something so badly while wanting it’s exact opposite at the same time seem like not going insane.  


**A note: The person who sent this included a url to a blog. I’m not posting it right now, as I’m not certain that they wanted it included. So, if you’re out there reading this, author, let me know and I’ll happily add it.**


thinking of you again. 
how stupid. 
almost a year and you still have this hold on my heart
my mind, 
my soul 
it’s late
i’m high on cocaine, thinking of when we used to share that and then make love
knowing that now
all i have is pornography and your fading memory to satisfy me
i hope that you are happy.
no, i really hope that you are miserable but i know that part of the healing process is letting go 
but i’m not ready to do that yet.
i still love you- i’ll always love you
i hope that you find what you need
i’ll still
be here

loving you


“…I no longer love her, true, but how I loved her
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear…

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and forgetting is so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
My soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me
And this may be the last poem I write for her.”
Pablo Neruda

Except it’s never the last pain, is it? Every time I think I am beyond your reach, I find in my heart eddies which sweep me under. You think that since it’s me who did the leaving it’s you who bears the wound? By clinging to what you wanted me to be you left me, the real and living me, dozens of times before I ever got up the guts to call it for what it was. And that’s what hurts the worst, the lingering guilt that I could have fixed everything if I hadn’t walked away. The way you clawed at me even as you knew I couldn’t, for my own health and sanity, come back. That lovely parting gift you planted underneath my skin, saying that I was flawed, I was incapable, that caring for my own needs was a right I did not have. And worst of all, the knowledge that I loved you enough to compromise almost every last inch of what I believed… and it still wasn’t enough to save you.

Do you even know where I’ve been with your name? My love was a prayer and unanswered, it died.

I don’t know what’s worse, you not loving me or my believing that you would. I’m not sorry we were anything, I’m only sorry we weren’t everything.

I don’t want to want you to be happy, but because some part of me does, I hope she speaks louder than I did.