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She put the house up
For sale

I saw my past life
Flashing before my eyes

The kitchen
Where I made dinner
And that day I made more naan
Than we could eat, but I did it
Without my shirt on

The kitchen
Where she left me notes by the coffee pot
The coffee pot that kept me going on the hardest days

The kitchen
Where I hung that ee cummings poem somewhere I have never travelled gladly beyond

But she replaced it

Twice

The kitchen
Where she screamed at me
That time I had an accident
And melted

The kitchen
where I finally yelled
“I deserve to be with someone who wants to support me emotionally”

The living room
Where she threw that candle at me
And broke my foot

The living room
Where the television
Still holds my face print from when we hung it, and I almost dropped it

The living room
Where I spent days painting
But on the last day made her help
And I didn’t wear any pants

The living room
Where the couch we bought is 
falling apart from the time she fucked that other girl there and the lotion
The lotion ate away the faux leather

The dining room
With the chairs I hand sanded and painted
It took me a week
And cost me a pair of shoes

The dining room
Where I painted the built in cabinets with the wrong color because she didn’t help me that time

The dining room
Where we hardly ever ate

The spare bedroom
She told her parents was my room

And when I made it my office
She complained at the mess I work through

The spare bedroom
Where I painted alone
Again because she refused to help

The spare bedroom

The spare bedroom

And her bedroom
She painted again
The second time I left

She painted again on the day she demanded I come get my stuff

And her bedroom
Where she called the other side of the bed the pssenger side

And her bedroom
That she shared with me
And her and her and her and her

And her bedroom
Where she choked me in the closet

And her bedroom

And the front porch
Where I watched the rain
And read my books

The front porch
Smoking cigarettes

The back yard
Where I read books to her

The back yard
That she refused to fence in

The back yard

That caved in

The back yard
And the driveway
We resealed together
Pulling weeds and filling cracks

She put the house up
For sale
I walked through it one more time

And cried

And closed the door

Without slamming it

Without leaving a key
this time

I guess it’s haunted

I guess it’s time

A Manifesto

I am me.
My authenticity is raw intensity. 
I am magic. Powerful. 

A force to be reckoned with. 

I am love and light. 

I run with wolves and dance with the moon. 

I chase butterflies and open my heart to change. 
I am wildly loyal
and love with my raven heart.
I am opening
to the universal order and trusting my self. 
I am a writer.
My witch and my craft are not mutually exclusive. The pen is my wand. My words will heal. Alchemy is real. 

The map of my hand fills my life line with poetry. My heart line is no longer beating itself up-my fists have come unclenched from the things that are no longer meant for me.  

I am work and working
Process and progress. 

I am learning. 
Not all things require my energy. 

Not all people think the way I do, and this is a blessing. 

No is a complete sentence.
I am learning
To be gentle with my confusion. 
My feelings guide me, but do not rule me.
Asking for help does not make me weak. 

My shadow does not scare me. 

I feel fear, but I am not afraid. 

I feel angry and hurt. 

I am allowed. 

I am joy and pleasure. 
I am unlearning and
I am healing. 
          I dream

                      And

                             believe

In magic and music and the power of tiny puppies. 

I am yoga. 
Strong and bendy.
Slow and balanced. 

I am embodied. 
I am on purpose. 

Lost and Found

The pit catches
Your heart when it falls
To your stomach
Despair

Desperation
I can feel her
Looking at me
Discomfort

I look back
What else am I supposed to do?

I wish I could write about anything else
I wish the hook would come loose
I wish I could see the perfect life we live

When she tried to catch me
She only saw half of who I am. 

The scales of my lower half
Only for refracting light
Holding in my shiny. 

I glide through the water
Not swimming, rather
Being In between
here and there
Then and now
Her and I

Stopped

Azure. 

I wonder sometimes if it was her fault 

I know how much she hated children
I wish I could have known how

It would all work out
I don’t know 

Why we had to go
There just wasn’t enough space
In her house
Or heart for you
Or my love

Azure. 
Eyes telling stories 
Of time before we knew it

Notes from September 7, 2015

I met with a psychic. She asked me if I was there to discuss a relationship. 

“No. Not really. My relationship is good. But I suppose relationship advice can’t ever hurt.”

She told me that I cannot fix her.

“This is chemical.” She emphasized over and over again. “Have her get her hormones checked.” 

“These are the going off the wagon cards.”

“There will be a betrayal. It will not be you. It will definitely be her. It will cause you a lot of pain and emotional turmoil, but you will let go.”

“There is a chance that if she gets the help she needs the sun can really shine with her again. And you two could live a pretty happy life together.”

 Still, she said I’m here to heal people, to show them my light. She warned me not to allow the shadows of others inhibit my glow. 

“But you. Oh you. You’re a healer.”

“No. You can’t heal her. This is chemical.”

She said we’d been lovers in many past lives and that it was no good. 

She reminded me that I always choose the emotionally unavailable. 

“You’re an empath.”

And that I am a temple. lol 

“You have made a habit of lettting the wing ones in. Protect your body. This is important.”

She told me I had the goddess number. 33

She counted two blockages in my third eye. 

She said my 33rd year would be my best. For my career. 

“The texts need you. You’re the interpreter.”

She said, of course I would get my PhD-that was never the real question. 

I guess she’s probably right. 

Feb 20, 2016

You would think that. That you love me and you hate me. And when you tell me you want me to hate you-I won’t. I gave enough energy over the last seven years trying to love you and get you to love me I don’t have any energy left with which to hate you. I’m looking for that space where I can tuck you into my heart. I’m using the memory of you and us to fill that crack, and I’m cementing with my own power to rise from the ashes that persist from the final last time I tried to enter the fire you fucking set. Don’t be confused. It was not a heat of passion, but a conflagration of selfish conquest. A consecration of all things unholy. It wasn’t beautiful. It was a fucked up pattern of hurt and unavailability. 
 I’m not a prize to be won. I’m not a challenge to have conquered. I am the power you sought, but could not gain. I even tried to hand it over to you. I tried to teach you. I tried to show you how to melt. But the only rocks that ever melted are the ones that went the deepest into the core of their own earth. 

Andrea Gibson wrote, “love. It isn’t always magic. Sometimes it’s melting where it’s black and black blue. Where it hurts the most.” But there was no melting. Just stone throwing. I’m just black and blue. I don’t love you. I don’t hate you. I’m just healing. 

Love Poem •may 2014•

I always knew. You knew. 

A thousand thank 

yous drowned

in my thoughts. Shoved under

 my pillow 

many sleepless nights. 

I have held fuck yous tight 

between my teeth. Fearing 

always of saying too much 

too soon. 
I have never been one 

to hold in my words, and lately 

I’ve been having trouble 

getting them out. 
I am Finding them, hidden 

beneath two years of guilt and confusion. 
you were the one 

who knew the whole time. 
My pieces were scattered. 

In every palm I traced. 

I collected pieces of you left behind. Wondering always if you held 

the secret that I 

couldn’t grasp. 
Two years and I 

understand. It was never a secret. 

We wear our traumas 

like victories. 
Behind each set

 of eyes we can find 

something new 

about ourselves.

 
You were the bent corner in a book I have been writing. Holding my place. So that I could return to this story, somewhere near the middle and remember how it ends. 

I’m thinking of the line from “Big Fish” when he says, “this isn’t how I go.” 

I’m thinking of the cliché, ” if it’s not okay in the end, then it’s not the end.”

 I have sat wedged in between those two sentiments for over two years. 

The anniversary of 

our breakup is this Sunday. 
I hadn’t thought about that until just now. It doesn’t hurt like it used to. Nothing hurts like it used to. 
I used to stare at her and agony would fill my empty spaces. I lost her long before I left her. That is why I had to go. Does any one understand what it feels like to love someone so deeply, but they are so far from themselves it has become increasingly difficult to even recognize them? That is heart break.

 
Today, I look into her big green eyes with a new lens. It reflects the light through both her and I. That is why we keep our curtains drawn.
I’m sorry you knew before I did. But I am glad, too. Because without your knowing, I most certainly would have never learned.
  So, thank you. For keeping her safe. For letting her grow. For changing our lives for the better. 
Go back. 

go back to December2012, in the garage. After that bottle of Jameson hit her demons. 

Rewind to October 2012. When you were discarded. September 2012, when you Thought she was someone special for you. 

Keep going back. 

August 2012, when she met you. 

July 2012, when we cried together on the couch as I left my key on the coffee table. 

June 2012, when I stayed in our house and she left for a while. That’s how I know what empty means. 

May 2012, when enough had been enough but it still wasn’t enough. 
Go back to December 2013 when fate finally caught up. November 2013, when you thought you might actually have her. October 2013 when being the friend wasn’t as easy as you were trying to make it seem. September 2013, when she finally stood up to me. August 2013 when your broken heart got lost in hers. 

July 2013 when my heart turned to dust and it settled under the love seat where I plead, on my knees, for her to just let me stay. 

 Come here, May 2014. Where all those dust particles have come back together into a cohesive whole.

In japan, they mend broken things with melted gold. 
For the past two years we have been making Japanese art of our hearts. In the last five months we have really figured out the trade. And today, we have mastered the peace. And that is love. 

The End