Ink Stained Soul…

You didn’t deserve to share my bed.
Words, pretty words.
That was your one and only skill.
Any boy can put a stick in a hole.
Such a shame no one taught you the sensuality of a woman’s body.
The manner in which in can entrance you.
Men know a woman’s body is an alter.
One to be taken in and devoured.
That’s why your body count is so high.
Death by a thousand unsuccessful ego driven nuts.

How clever that the singular being who calms me, consumes me, inspires me, and makes me more of who I am. My muse, desire, safe place in a storm. Witty and iconic. Wrapped in charisma, humor, and brutality. I do find it comically ironic that this enigmatic man is also the one that holds up a mirror to my deepest wounds. Forced to see all that is him and me as both individuals and when we come together. Captivating me with a journey of how far this can push me and help me become who I’ve always been.

You shared my private information. Things shared in confidence were betrayed. Over drinks, at gatherings, on the phone, in the bed of others. I hope you understand that while I stayed silent; I do not share the same views of loyalty. In my silence, I do what I have done since I was a child. I have a long-standing alliance with my story. I will keep you a secret, but it’s my turn to tell stories. With my ink ready, I hope to captivate more of your fandom with my name and business in your mouth.

As the candlelight flickers, my thoughts wandered to you. Was it the music, the memories, or just a tug in our bond? Tears welling up in my eyes. I pictured how I would feel if you no longer walked the earth. Floodgates pouring through me. I fear a world without you would devastate my existence. I don’t think my lungs could breathe in air that didn’t have your soul in it. That kind of loss is incomprehensible to me. The world needs your smile, the one with that glint of shine that reaches your eyes. How boring life would be without your mind and wit. Where would my love go if we weren’t under the same moon? I would remain frozen in grief. A perpetual state of a tortured poet for all my days.

Daughters are not as forgiving as the women whose hearts you toy with. Observant and watchful as they grow older, words of criticism for females are noted, even when casually mentioned. The eldest daughters are often the least forgiving. Each small remark or disregard for women around her is noted in her mind. Attempts to treat her like a princess will fall flat, like cheap watered-down wine. You can love her and give her everything, but she will still see the kind of man everyone knows you to be. The kind of man who doesn’t care how you treat us. A lifetime of speaking poorly about how we speak, act, and dress. How the only thing they hear is what other women do and don’t bring to the table. They internally clocking you as not being our “daddy” but just another man because we notice the hindrance in your voice as we get older turned to woman around us. Watching you treat other women like they are only to be used for your schedule and needs under the guise of responsibility. When a daughter’s eyes and mind open to that fact, we are not daddy’s girl because we are a treasure; we are daddy’s girl because he’s afraid a man like him will deceive us, just as he has deceived another man’s daughters.

Excitement hit and I had no one to call.
Sure I could call whoever I wish, but the one I immediately wanted to…
I couldn’t bring myself to reach.
The phantom that haunts my heart.
Hesitation and silence have blocked the path.
Perhaps it gave clarity.
I have such exciting news.
I will just go write.

The fabric of who you are was woven before your first breath drew air in your lungs.
Sacred threads of a beautiful soul waiting to learn along life’s paths.
How many times you fall, then stand back up?
The muses along the way that inspire you through lessons.
Shaping who you become through each challenge and choice.
All in effort to find yourself.
Who you actually are when the world doesn’t see you?
The lessons leading you to your ability to be yourself.
Unwavering in opinions of those not critical to your outcome.
Being able to stand in all that is You courageously.

When I was little I would stare out my window and see the moon. Her sparkle dancing on the shore.
Drawn to her and the water by night and the sun and water by day.
Overflowing with joy the days the moon sat in the sky near the sun.
Nights I couldn’t see her from my window, I would push my screen out my window to sneak out to find her.
My teen years I spent writing about the sky.
Climbing out my window to the roof every night.
Sitting there talking, feeling, listening to music.
My constant love and support.
The part of me that has had this love affair she remained untouched.
My silver lining to life’s harshness remains in the glow of the moon.

Cry not for me after I am gone.
Consider me as you did while I danced with the living.
Put no flowers for me if I could not inspire it with breath in my lungs.
In the afterlife, I will also require
a genuine soul.

The quote “I’m not who I was before because she did not survive, I am who came after.”

I understand this down to every depth of those wounds, intimately. I also don’t believe that is entirely true.

Dissecting the darkest parts of myself, I still see her – the girl that has loved the moon, stars, sky for as far back as my memories can carry me. The one that loved nothing more than to be near the water, talking to animals, with toes in the sand and dirt, watching clouds. Grounded in myself. The beauty around me is bright still, and it’s emerging again. I don’t believe it’s truly gone because I found her in there. The part of me that died was the part that trusted people to have my heart. The idea that every soul and every life could remain untouched by evil was what was shattered. I lost trust in humanity, and now I see darkness lurking in every corner.