Ode to a Four Letter Word

Ode to a four letter word:

Own.
Your.
Shit!
Your secrets and opinions
your scars
your mistakes
your misspoken words
your hurt
your intentions
your respect
your flaws.

Work.
That.
Shit.
Moving Earth with every step
Every toss of the hair
Every flirty smile
Well polished on the outside
In the way you move
the way you carry yourself
Take notice
Work.
It.

Shit happens.
As if this phrase ever helped anyone.
Yes, of course shit happens
It happens to others
To people that aren’t as fortunate as me
It doesn’t negate my perception
My truth
Shit happens
as a dismissal of true emotion
Is this shit even relevant?

Enough.
Enough of this shit.
Your tongue churns out lies like they’re hot off the press
Like a record skipping
Hollow words
No depth
No meaning
Enough of this deadbeat dad shit
This nationwide epidemic we ignore shit
Enough of this poor single mom shit
This struggle to get by shit
Enough wiping my son’s tears
Crying for his father
For any father
For a man he will never know.
Fuck that shit.

About to lose my shit
Yet it always comes slinking back
Anxiety tightens the brain
and you run out of deep breaths to take
Teetering on the edge…
of what?
What would it look like to just surrender?
To just give up?
To just let shit go.

Quit.
Talking shit.
Pack that shit
Pass that shit
Light that shit
Smoke that shit
That green shit
That “take the edge off” shit
Quit.
Taking shit.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean shit
(but it does)
You tell yourself you are
Over this shit
Done with this shit
Yet, you keep coming back for more
This shit
This waste
It camps out inside you
Gypsy traveling sadness shit
The wander the earth alone shit

The realizing
We are all in this together shit.
Rebuild shit
Reinvent shit

Stop.
Stop this shit.

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Grey Matter

My mind was full of thoughts, some stabbing, some burrowing, some digging deeper, past the bedrock of my limbic system where they found the grey. The grey matter of emotion where memory lay still in a cold room, wandering. Then the words came slipping out effortlessly, silently; while inside that cold room was screaming.

The words were quiet, falling out while blood vessels and the space between synapses held on tight.

Tight like my jaw, grinding, forcing bone upon bone, a bright pain. Tight like an animal in a trap, rusty teeth, sharpened.

Tight, closed jaw with eyes wide open, while my pupils grow full, dark resting upon black holes where nothing escapes. Eyes that defy gravity, nothing tethers them or forces them shut. They float freely, always seeing. Always watching. They always see. Playing over and over- an old filmstrip spinning.

I smile and the there is sadness.

I hope and the feeling of helplessness gets deeper like sinking in a bog, lungs full of peat, a stomach of decay.

I try and yet I am back at the beginning.

A rat trapped in a labyrinth, waiting to ring some bell, win some prize, be rewarded for all my hard work, my due diligence, some recognition for this perseverance. This constant state of survival.

Not some Darwinian survival of the fittest, because fit does not mean strong. It is survival of the weakest, the weakest moments, the weakest hours, the weakest lies…these are the things fighting to survive. The human parts that define.

The weak laughter drowned by sorrow.

The weak thoughts.

The “I’m not good enoughs” and the “why do these things happen to me’s”, the “I’m unworthy’s” and “the unlovables.”

I am more than this.

More than these weak, these willful insecurities.

I try to push them aside, tuck them away in corners of my mind. I try to overcome and affirm. The hardest memories. Not the ones where you were loved momentarily, brilliantly, blue sky, sun shining, passionate kisses and sunkissed skin, bodies in and around one another.

It’s not these memories.
The memories that hurt the most.

The ones you can’t sleep with, the ones that turn you inside out. Those feelings of happiness that feel like poison, like drinking sweet shiny pieces of broken glass. The traveling pieces you hunger for, moving from lips to eyes, to tongue, to arms wrapped around you and the feeling of losing something that has barely begun.

The fear, the constant sedimentary fear, the build up, the erosion. Climbing up and over only to be pulled back. You don’t hold, you pull yourself back like a rubberband stretching, like breathing, the constant state of a heart beating.

Those plastic memories.
The hardest ones to let go of are somehow the easiest to keep.