Sometimes I can’t seem to write anything at all.  I choke on my words, having one million thoughts one moment, and nothing to say the next.  Where a moment before I had it all worked out, staring at my screen, spacing out at this empty page, I cannot find it in me to begin…

Junkbox of bits

I think on failed sexy times when screaming in my head are perfectly clear ice cutting words on repeat.  Loudly looping whole sentences.  Paragraphs of explanation and pages of meaning clearly outlined and trapped there in my mind.  An essay concerning what you need to know about me in this very moment.  Yet my mouth remains unmoving.  Synapses won’t fire.  Lips, teeth and tongue conspire against the inner novel you need to hear.  How will you understand what is going on?  How will you know what planet my innards have landed on just now, jettisoned from the trust and ease we started our night out with by this trigger-happy Ringleader with a torch buried in the memory part of my mind and taking over the scene…  I was here and happy, and then all in an instant, he struck a match, and I was gone.

I want you to follow me from our stack of mattresses and suitcases of sex toys, from our cuddling upright in the street and lovemaking adventures through a closet of bad memories to the alien moon on the other side.  Cluttered with screens replaying past images and the cagey feelings my inside landscape lands on.  I have a well known distant land where shame and embarrassment are the norm, where I can’t figure out how to break free, where I hear dogs in the distance and I can’t figure out how to get back.  I want to be better than this moment, but I cannot tell you how or no or mutter “stop”…  Because I love you.  Because I loathe myself in this place.  Because I think it’ll just blow over on it’s own.  Because I didn’t internalize the right way to think about safety or advocate for myself.  Because maybe this time I won’t get hurt if I play along until it’s over…  I’m in a trap.

But that isn’t how the story ever ends.  Past relationships’ beautifully woven tapestries of trust form thin spots and unravel a little.  Over time we can’t agree on how to fix it or just don’t.  A facade of patches creeps across the picture and we lose sight of what it once was, what we set out to build.  We don’t fix things by unraveling as much as we might need to in an effort to lay new stronger threads on the loom, building back a newer and better picture from the old.

But maybe if we could be fastidious enough in our building to weather going back and doing something well and right we’d breathe better at night.  We’d have a stronger tapestry acting as net to catch me when I shoot through the stars toward my dead place planet.

You don’t deserve that alien moon streaming through my pumping veins; I’m sorry my blood is sick sometimes, entertaining the virus waiting until I am weak enough so that he can whisper the command “fire”.

Put a shuttle in my hand, love.  We can go back over this one together.  Lets rip it all apart.

Time to write.

To Breath and Being,
~ Karin

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~Thank you.

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