Bleeding Warrior

The first blow surprises. It doesn't scar.  The first blow bruises. My soul, now, purple and green and tender. But the first blow is just that. The first.

The names are loud, adjectives. Definitions, images, pictures. A portrait of my unworthiness. Those names, those names are daggers and arrows. The aim, precise. In the mirror, I'm Dorian Gray. No reflection, no beat. Just definitions. Acceptance and shame.

There is time. There is change. There is death. Calm and stale. And putrid air. And skeletons of what I once was. A proper name I don't answer for. But mostly, and always, there are storms. Storms, always brewing. Storms, always raging. Internal, volatile, unpredictable. Personal hurricanes in the desert. Impossible. And everything within is sand and heat and tearless. No shelter.

And aliases, and bruises, and hurt and scars so deep and invisible, all become my truths. Topography of hundreds of blows and come backs and fatigue.

Vices are many, I try a few. I want them. I want to be anything but this self I'm not. Take away the burden of being me, it's a plea.  Blades were supposed to be my relief, a life line, a feel. But they are just messy. Nonsensical. Shallow cuts on a skin so callused. Superficial marks of an intangible pain. Tinting my skin, they touch no deep. 

Crimson fingertips, furious, profane.  Keyboards and phrases. And words, many words rapping my life in periods and metric and stances. Poetry.

Discovery and acceptance and, maybe, vulnerability. Poetry. And I mumble my name. I have a name. Strange sound, welcome sound. A proper name. A warrior's signature.

Written as a gift to this incredibly talented writer, beautiful woman that I have the honor to call a  friend – Stephanie Kusiak -, in celebration the publishing of  her book Lost & Love. Millions of “thank yous” to Steph  for the permission to post it here. 

Loosely based on the characters of Lost & Love – from what my mind thinks is Rachel’s POV

I scream YOU. I scream of the solitude, of absence.

I scream anger. YOU, altruist fool. I scream at YOU.

I scream hard and long and forever. I scream for lost time.

I scream YOUR name like is everything and anything I need.

I scream of longing and wants and surprises.

I scream because YOU are here.

I scream YOUR NAME.

I read YOU. I read YOUR language. Braille.

I read YOU with my fingertips. Digitals discovering skin, tracing pleasure.

I read YOU softly and carefully. I read YOU.

I read YOU South and North. My universe. My ground. My future.

I read YOU. My map, my treasure. Every inch. Geography.

I read YOU mine.

I read YOU out loud.

I write YOU.

I write YOU with my tongue. I write YOU in symbols and numbers.

I write YOU, my alphabet.

I write YOU promises and curses. I write YOU, my will, my testament.

I write YOU of loss and pain and of YOUR stupid sacrifice. I write YOU scars.

I write YOU of encounters and hope.

And we write dialects together. We only understand it.

I write YOU in my life.

I sing YOU. I sing YOUR NAME.

I sing YOU because YOU are notes, and melodies and lyrics.

I sing YOU, muffled, hot, wild, sweet.

I sing YOU and my mouth is full of YOU.

I sing YOU. I sing YOU praises while lips trace mounts and peaks and valleys.

I sing YOU. I sing YOU. I sing whispers and promises.

I sing YOU welcome.

I sing YOU home.

The stupidest things I said, I said them to you. I want them to be said, but not heard.

I meant them. There is no denying. But they were not for you, Not to you.

They were, they are my demons, my ugliness, my burden. They are me. And I despise 

them. I despise "me". 

I wince the moment silence is no more. I wince because now you know.Now you 

know "Me". And I break. You can't see it. But there's glass, and heart and pieces. They 

are broken. Two, three, ten million pieces. Impossible to mend. Mosaic of "Me" . 

I don't seek forgiveness. I don't ask for it. I don't believe in it. Sorrys are easy. Sorrys 

are cheap. Sorrys are disposable, forgettable. I need for you never to hear them. I will 

never to speak them, speak of them.

I don't need forgiveness. Penance, that's what I shall have. Penance and burn. Fire and 

uneasiness. Numbness, I pray. I need numbness. My comfort, my known. "Me". 

Feelings are disruptive. Unwelcome. I crave the emptiness, the void. Not to feel, my 

comfort. "Me"

Who I am, what I am. Nothing is always better. No joy, no pain. Numbness. It's better 

that way. Always better.I can walk. No flowers, no sunshine, no rain, no heat. Just walk. 

Asphalt. Steps and tiredness. Steps and infinite. Strength and brokenness. "Me"

Of Emeralds

She likes green. Green eyes. Green sheets, green duvets. Green pillow cases muffle her moans, her ecstasy.

She likes green. She always did. She suspects she always will.

Ocean crystal green, licking the white sand. Ocean green, giver of life. Pools of green. Creators of energy, bodies salty like the ocean green. Bodies intertwined in the infinite.

She likes green. Leaves and trees and grass and smells of Spring and May. The crisp air. The picnics and laughter.

She likes green. Her birthstone, her compass. Purists and theorics will argue with her. Green is not a color. It's the pregnancy of real colors. She doesn't care. So blue is the sky and the Earth from afar. And yellow is her. Yellow is sunshine and brightness and heat. And she adores her. She adores her adoring Summer and joy and children and love. Her body is heat. And she thinks yellow and green are a great combination.

She adores green. Hazel and infinite. And permanent. She wears it. She wears her, her hazel and her glory. She, the one she adores, is her green. She is emerald and precious.

Emerald green. Hazel. And jewel. Her jewel. She screams green. Legs tangled in green. Creating energy and universes and juices and fantasies.

Yeah, she loves green. She always did. For her, to her. For forever and a day.

For Bella

It's arid here. It's always been. Arid and brown, and listless and lifeless. And just that.

It never rains here. It never really rains here. It drags, this infinite wait. And I wait. A piece of green grass, a tiny bit of emotion, an orgasm. To feel again. Life.

I long for rain. Rainy days and drenched clothes. And grey skies. And melancholy. And fireplaces and hot cocoa. Numbness no more, washed away. I want life-giving moisture. All consuming moisture: in the air, surrounding me. Moisture between my legs. Life.

Who would have guessed?

An orchestra in my chest, the simple tone of a ring. And the sound of your voice. Then it rains. And it's green. And it's drops of laughter and storms of words. It's shaking body's, it's thunder and lightning fire. Moans and beautiful curses and names and moisture. And it's orgasmic flood. Feeling and dreaming. Life.

It's raining. It's raining YOU.

And I'm smiling. I'm soaked.

Life