I cry for myself, not sorry for myself but tears for that child, that pained beautiful girl from within. The lost and frightened uncertain girl of yesteryear that still resides and sleeps besides me especially during this time of solitude change and discovery in my life. And now, a woman who has hurt herself again because of this lost child voice essence that is gone but inevitably not forgotten. I have hurt myself again and allowed her, that girl to devour the wisdom and knowledge I gained from my strength in lust to be filled, touched, made love to. To share a bed and ice cream perhaps a sunset perhaps both. I have allowed the powers that be to construct for him and me to co-create a reality I do not want but was implicitly vulnerable to for a myriad of reasons.

Shallow and empty when I give, is a time I know it is not meant to be. For giving alone has inspired me but now without gratitude or appreciation, love itself tears my heart out. And the flame that flickered upon my heart-self is warped into a space and time so unfamiliar until it was felt again. And still I sit here distracting myself with him, allowing his inability and hope to debilitate me and take me back, take me back to a time I would and do choose to leave behind for all the reasoning one must. I am angry, shaken, disturbed and yet I sit here yearning, fucking yearning. Yearning to be fucked and fuck, yearning to be held and to hold, yearning to kiss and be kissed, yearning, aching, burning desire for something that either he can’t fill or only I can. And here I am sitting pondering, allowing my feelings and thoughts to truly surface desperately. Trying to understand the place I place myself and for what cause. And when I think of such, my heart plumps, my stomach drops and my eyes begin to fill with saltwater relief. I cannot believe that I have allowed myself, me child-girl or woman to create with this and danced a dance that has shattered my spirit and my trust and still I allow his voice on the end of my phone and I seek his scent and secretly hope a hope so deep that I haven’t even recognized it myself.

I have surpassed unconditional love into self-disrespect and if I do not stop now my self will implode and undo the careful stitches that have taken me a lifetime to protect my fragile heart and receptive mind. I do not know when to stop. As the roller coaster ride continues how does one choose to alleviate themselves upside down or height side up? This is my struggle and most damaging is that I know I must but I actually can’t at this moment in my life and so that is why I cry. I cry for that little girl that is involved in this fantasy and hopeless love she never knew in him but does so badly so madly she does. Me with all my intention, keep thinking, keep shrinking my intuition trying to trick it, thinking if I want it my intuition herself will be pliable, malleable to grant my wish, my desire but I know better, this woman, that the intuitive is a Goddess-compass that reveals only truth and cannot be changed my will or force. It is sovereign and like a good parent remains steadfast for the well being of the child.

And this is why I suffer, once again. I am self parenting my heart and mind and oh, how tired I am and oh, how frightened I am and oh, how rage-filled I am with myself for enduring a lesson I have already learned. Time is fucking me and since I see no resolve for matrimony I must insist on persisting the permission to excuse myself to a higher power of resistance beyond all that I have ever known thus far.

Ocean journey and starlit walks at midnight await me and my truest love. Maybe I do not know, maybe I am wrong or maybe that is my hope drugging me again. Since time won’t tell me I wait for my own self to reconcile what I thought I knew and as I have always known to be set free—sooner.