Dear Mr. Eldridge *Trigger warning*

When the day breaks, I nearly forget who I am.
Air is tight. My skin, heavy.
This face I wear, is not my own.
So why is it attached to my body?

What is this body…?

I go along with my day.
I know, the fog of the past will reach the ground in time.
Face to face I will be, with reclaiming what is mine.

I realize,
I may have never actually known myself, my face, or my body.
How could I,
When I was nothing more than one of your possessions?

All of me belonged to you.
Down to my every thought, every emotion.
You were the very thing that fueled my every action,
And reaction.

I’m headed home, now.
Such a long time running.
I’m worn down.

Do you remember who I am?
Do you ever think about what you did to me?

I saw your face in the nonexistent shadow of pitch black night.
I ran away from your memory, in the light of mid-day.
It was obvious to me, my strength was fading.

Pin me down beneath your cruel, somber, expanding flesh-
For only one more day.

I saw the clear of the moon’s reflection.
I don’t need, not another second.
Take myself back to that day. First grade.
I decided I didn’t want to look pretty, anymore.
No more dog print dresses, shiny black buckled shoes, or French braids

Just sweat pants and sneakers,
I thought.
I won’t even brush my hair,
I thought.
I’ll play in dirt and I won’t shower,
I thought…
You would leave me alone, but you didn’t.

No matter how hard I tried.
Refusing to be dolled up- Pig tails and mom’s perfume.
You just wouldn’t.
Play thing.

And now that song you used to sing, each night as it was time for bed.
Put me fast to sleep, so you could begin touching me.
It rings in my head, like some sort of Buddhist chant.
Like the universal “hum” of the earth rotating.

Reminding me…
Of my purpose…

You sick son of a bitch.
Did you think you would break me?

And what? You walked free?
Because you never used your tiny dick, to rape me?
Did you think fear would eradicate me?
That I’d remain small and quiet?
Worried that you would one day find me?

Let that fog come. Let it wash over me.
You do not have the power to suffocate me, anymore.

6 feet tall, but you are so fucking small.
Taking advantage of a little girl.
You must truly feel awful,
About yourself.

What grown ass man needs to overpower a child?
Just to feel some sort of validation?
Am I expected to feel some sort of humiliation?
That I constantly allowed a man to conquer me,
Based on mere intimidation?

I’m all grown up now.
And yes, the damage you caused still lives within me.
But so does knowledge and strength and courage.

Face to face I stand, with reclaiming what is mine.

You picked the wrong little girl,
You sick son of a bitch,
You picked the wrong little girl.

Don’t Read It

All I want to do is create.
My passion,
I hope to use one day to ease this financial burden,
I didn’t ask for.
Although, this means so much more,
Than making a living.

My soul is crying out.
Pieces of me are dying,
Every day that I waste time NOT writing.

And this generation,
Said to be more self-centered than those that came before us.
We have the Renaissance.
The scientific revolution.
The age of enlightenment.
We have the signing of our constitution.
And yet another revolution.

That last one,
You must have learned about in high school.
But let’s not get too ancestral.
I know it’s easily forgotten,
When your mind is overflowing,
With the opinions of other men and women.

After all,
The key lies in modernization…

So what do we have now?
The social media era?

And what will come of all that has begun?

When all you have is 140 characters,
And if you say too much,
No one will want to read it.

Every word I write,
I fucking bleed it.
But if it ain’t a selfie,
A text from a fuckboy,
Or a cute cat video…
This generation doesn’t see it.
They don’t need it.

But my dreams will not be jaded.
This fire within me will never die.
An attempt to extinguish it,
Will leave me feeling suffocated.
So this hunger I have,
I must feed it.

And one day I’ll be able to say, “I made it.”
There’s no doubt about that,
It’s for this day I live,
And I WILL obtain it.

And half of those I know right now,
Will see my posts and probably scowl,
“This is too long, I won’t read it.”


*Side note: In case you were wondering, yes, “When your mind is overflowing with the opinions of other men and women” is totes stolen from Sherwood Anderson’s “his mind filled to overflowing with the words of other men.”

A few things:
1: I don’t normally do this sort of thing. (Ya know, plagiarize dead people.)
2: I just REALLY love the quote.
3: I don’t think he’ll mind…


Rice Speck

I have the day off from my soul crushing job today (it’s really not that bad, it’s just not writing.) Had an appointment thing mid-morning, came home, ate, took a shit, meditated, and now it’s been time to sit down and write since like 3:30.

And here I am, staring at my screen, obsessing about the piece of yellow rice that is on my living room floor. I vacuum just about every day, rarely ever going more than 2 days without doing so. I have no idea where the rice came from or how long it has been there. How long have I missed it while sweeping? Was it lodged in some corner or crack, and is just now suddenly appearing? Did my cat or dog find it and attempt to eat it?

Because the history of this rice speck is sooo fucking important…

Now, if I vacuum the living room floor, I’ll have to vacuum all of the floors. If I vacuum all of the floors, I might as well do the handful of dishes that are in the sink. If I do the dishes, I’ll find myself wiping the kitchen counter. If I wipe the counter, I’ll have to wipe all of the surfaces, everywhere.

By that time, I’ll be thinking about bathing my cat, cleaning the hamster cage, clipping my dog’s toenails, clipping my toenails, reorganizing closets and cabinets, cleaning the litter box, dusting baseboards and blinds, windexing windows, cleaning the fan, making the bed, deep cleaning the toilet and refrigerator, and checking my cup of pens to throw way the ones that are out of ink.

Hours will pass and I’ll build up an appetite. I’ll cook, eat, and create dishes. Then I’ll have to vacuum the crumbs, wash the dishes, wipe the surfaces…

It’s best I stay right here. Talk, well apparently write, myself through this ludicrous, completely mental idea that a rice speck is actually having any sort of impact on my day. Because it’s not really about the rice speck, is it?

Perhaps it’s about fear or intimidation or doubt. Perhaps it’s about having to do something that can, at times be relatively challenging, while the rest of my days are filled with tasks that are rather simple.  Perhaps it’s something a little more mental than all of that.

But it doesn’t really matter….

In fact, I can get up, throw it in the garbage, come right back to this desk, and get to work on what I always say is one of the most important things in my life- what I claim is my passion.

Or I can sit here, keep myself fixated on it, while simultaneously yelling at myself “just write, asshole”, accomplish absolutely nothing, and then lie awake tonight thinking about how I wasted my time today.

I think I’ll just throw away the rice speck…

Goddess Part 1

She lies down with her new lover. The air is damp, her skin sticky. The space between her inner thighs is a sweltering mix of sweat and cum. The sun beaming in through the side window has her feeling feverish, but she doesn’t want to close the blinds. Bright sun rays highlight her lovers face; revealing every line, every newest wrinkle and fold, every unruly blemish. She wants to take every delicate imperfection, turn them inside out, and etch them into her brain so the memory of this moment will never leave her.

She’s been waiting for this day for two unbearably long months. Been saving herself; something that is typically very difficult for London to do. She is somewhat of a hedonist. She believes that pleasure and happiness in life are the absolute most important things. For her, if you aren’t enjoying yourself and your personal needs are not thoroughly satisfied, then life would be meaningless. Not being able to seek out and obtain the world’s greatest pleasures, would mean living a life of pure and profound misery.

Amari left for New York just a handful of days after they met, where she landed a modeling gig with a home décor’ magazine. Amari never experienced any difficulty landing gigs; she was stunning, fierce, and competitive. This particular job was incredibly important to her because her partnership with Central Living would help raise money for homeless LGBTQ+ youth in New York City. It was one and a half months of work, and two weeks’ vacation time at the beach to reward herself.

London couldn’t wait for her to return so she could personally reward her. Two full months of not having the freedom to calm her raging desire to orgasm have been torture. She’s hungry for Amari, desperate. She wants nothing more than to rip her clothes off and feel the entirety of her body beneath her kiss, to taste the salt from her skin, to be completely consumed by her essence. The fact that Amari is now spread out in bed with her natural beauty illuminating in the sunlight, makes it nearly impossible for London to maintain her composure. She has no doubt that Amari is just as eager. She must be playing some game, seeing how long London can hold out until she makes the first move, before she loses all control. London realizes this actually gives her the upper hand; knowing it would take the simplest gesture for their suppressed desires to erupt into every corner of that room.

(To be continued…)