The first reason

“Hey! It’s Hannah… Hannah Baker.”

For the most part; the last few weeks have been great. Amazing even.

For a few days I was stuck in a day-dream of what I thought was finally reaching a pivotal point with a special person in my life. I got a work promotion and generally… things just seemed like they were falling into place.

My, wake-up call began with much more than having my livelihood potentially threatened…

It seems my heart beats way too fast for any living human to be comfortable with.

I started watching 13 Reasons Why as a point of curiosity…

But it soon turned into an obsession with that one thing I romanticize more than love itself;

death.

No this isn’t a plea. It is more like a confession.

I already know the way in which I will choose to exit; right now it is all about timing. It definitely is not my time YET.

It’s 02:07 a.m. and I am generally not concerned about how many of you will see this as “attention seeking”. After all, I lost a friend because everyone around didn’t see past the stretched out arms.

My arms are no longer outstretched. They are tucked safely underneath my chest, unwilling to be convinced otherwise and aware that at some point they will choose to behave in a way most comfortable with a clean exit.

‘ Settle in, because I’m about to tell you the story of my life.  More specifically, why my life ended… and if your are listening to this tape –  you are one of the reasons why.”

“my angel” – you are the first reason.

 

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My First Poem

I am unashamed to say that every love was my biggest.

That is to say;

No one else mattered when I was yours,

besides…

I hadn’t even noticed that we weren’t the only ones.

There are only one-and-only moments…

So I made the best of ours and then carefully stashed them away in my garage

full of “special memories”.

 

At midnight you walked into my room,

your eyes were a river source,

your hands – what propel earthquakes.

You stretched out your arms towards the stars on my face

and I wished I could wipe the honesty off your eyes – it cannot be unseen;

the deep breath in my ear will not go unheard and

the pulse between my thighs is feeling itself so bad

I imagined you proving it wrong with your mouth.

 

There is a plum in my throat and you are kissing her.

This pulse between my thighs turns into

an accidental spray of chili-pepper juice behind my eyes;

and you tell me she has enough milk to heal all of the blind.

 

I’d rather go meet Morpheus in the darkness and remain there.

I’d rather not hear that you know I know how to love you best of all.

 

I’d rather go blind than to have seen that truth behind your longing stare.

 

At midnight…

After you walked into my room; the ball and chain off my heart finally broke the link with their weight, and I am willing to praise you for this act of grace.

Come save me while you break her heart,

Come heal me while she bleeds all out,

Come kiss me while she’s turning blue,

Let past death birth our future.

 

Let’s be the only ones

Let’s have our one-and-only moments…

Let’s play them on repeat, press record, produce and own them.

 

The road to awe…

Be the journey I would choose even if I had a million tries…

 

I am unashamed to say that;

Every love was my biggest one.

Hi, I Love You!

I’ve come to realize that I have a love problem.

I’m the kind of person who will be sitting 100m away and still have you feel my stare on you;

Until you’re so uncomfortable that you have to come find out what my problem is, or maybe try to leave but either way – I will intercept your departure and I will say something completely ludicrous like –

“Hi, I love you!”

You will pull away nervously, not knowing the most acceptable response,

yet… not walking away and then I’d introduce myself.

Maybe you’ll just leave me standing there,

Maybe I’d deserve it…

Maybe I would never know your name

and maybe you would just pretend you hadn’t heard me.

But just MAYBE

You will laugh and stumble over our humble sense of humor and retort with something like;

“Here I actually thought your name was I love you!”

I’d tell you that you’re stupid

and we’d both decide that honesty is worth the awkward.

You’d buy me a bottle and leave me a riddle on its bottom.

You wouldn’t give me a hint

But I would figure it out with only my fingertips.

 

 

 

The Inner Bell

Some people like to call this instrument your intuition.

It’s all good and well that we attempt to be as intuitive as possible. Some authors even offer up a good few ways to sharpen this instinct, but here’s where I have a problem with this;

When your survival is based off of fight or flight, and the experiences you have had trigger specific reactions – how accurate is the inner bell?

For example;

a friend of mine is currently battling with trust when it comes to a new interest in her life. She says that he’s predominantly different from most people she’s been with thus far in his character, but there are a number of behavioral patterns which set off the alarm in her.

‘He’s excruciatingly honest some days,” she says with this playful sparkle in her eyes, ” and on other days I don’t know whether or not he even wants me to speak to him at all. He’s short tempered and secretive. Before I can confront him though he goes right back to being charming and interested, he calls, he shows interest, he shares. I on the other hand feel like I’m losing my mind from all the back and forth.”

Funny, I know how that feels and the best advice I had was to trust until she has reason not to… but, I’m concerned about having said this. The attitude of the all-forgiving, easy going, trusting saint has shattered me more times than I can count. The most infuriating part is knowing that you could have walked away earlier, you saw this unfold and yet; you chose to stay. Masochism at its  finest.

This is where this “inner bell” could be useful… if it looks rotten and smells rotten – don’t eat it!

What if it isn’t rotten though?

Ever smelled some of the pre-basted meat you buy at some stores? It’s nauseating!

Does that mean you just chuck the bulk away and never set foot in that particular store again? Maybe… but there is a way to fix that. There is also a way to find out whether someone is worth the effort or not – get to know them.

The urge at first is to word vomit about all the strange and scary yet wonderful feelings your chosen other heart-beat evokes in you. Don’t do it. It’s scary for the person and most times unnecessary.  Besides there’s all the time in the world to be romantic and silly. Rushing it might trigger the behavior you fear most them.

Ever considered that they too might have this so called “inner bell”? What if they too were hurt, by the exact opposite of who they are? Just because someone spends more time on the phone with you or is good at creating habits in order to keep you from questioning does not mean that they are not hiding anything.

Then there are the people who hide temporarily. The people who want to expose themselves but need to be coaxed out of their shells…

The possibilities are endless and people are different… our experiences (although shared in the collective) differ. Our fears, doubts and triggers are all different. As a younger me, I was all about the intuition thing. To an extent I still am, but here’s the difference; if I doubt I ask… in other words, if it looks rotten and it smells rotten then taste it. Not saying eat the whole thing – just try it out.

Many of the worst situations I ended up in were because I FELT that I was being messed about. Work wise, with friendships and love… and in all the other ways in which our triggers warn us. Fear tends to be the most powerful emotion. Yeah, we all like to think that love conquers all but in most cases fear trumps love.

I’ve also been at the receiving end of someone else’s “inner bell” .  It is absolutely the most frustrating battle I’ve ever had to fight, and lose. You don’t FEEL like you can trust me? Why? Have I done something wrong? No, your fears are greater than your feelings and there isn’t a damn thing I can do or say to change that. I was angry for the longest of time until I saw the hypocrite in me.

Tasting is so much better. Firstly because there is never the ongoing “what if” scenario. Secondly … you might be surprised where you end up if you just force your brain to just keep quiet or at least whisper. I definitely don’t have all the answers, nor am I saying you should leap off every cliff without even checking for depth…

Just stop allowing your fears to dictate how you live your life.

We have politicians doing that for us already.

There is nothing sweeter than the elevated feeling you get when you can’t get someone off your mind. It takes over and suddenly, you see colors you couldn’t see before, taste things differently. Random heart palpitations happen and dreams become a constant state of being. Enjoy that. Revel in it. Be a kid…

And if it doesn’t taste rotten… soak it in vinegar for a few minutes.

Tattooed Everything

‘Sheets of empty canvas
Untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me
As her body once did’

Sometime in the future…

“Poets are liars.”

Jennifer walked out on me today, because I called her Abby… but really I think it’s cause she got sick of my inability to give. Orgasms are one thing I guess, but most people want to feel some sort of “connection”, some scorching in the throat to convince themselves they’re feeling. No judgement will be passed from my side, plus I wish her all the best; after all… I used to be someone who felt things and loved people.

Used to…’

‘All five horizons
Revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed
Has taken a turn’

Sometime in the past

“Poets are liars.”

I experienced love  in my dreams. Perhaps it has something to do with all the dreaming about her . My long haired, pale-skinned dream. The first time it happened I cried in my sleep and I felt the burn of her lips on mine for years thereafter… I still do. To stare into nothingness, or the most picturesque landscape was to be thrown back into that snapshot moment of forever, and she had no idea I was reaching for her, but then neither did I.

Oh but she found me, and everything changed in my knowing I’d be temporary, and she would be the end.

It’s only fair to end off where one began.

‘ and all I taught her was everything
Oh I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands
Chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything’

We were aimless at first. Just two souls dancing and clashing and sometimes, meeting perfectly in semblance. Almost choreographed in awkward bumpy, rhythm-less touches of one to the other. She taught me that to create was to give everything away, not expecting anything in return. I could only teach her how to survive, to pretend, and never to trust poets.

I’ve stopped being a poet since… now I draw the fantasies of silly little Abbys, Jennifers and generally girls who romanticize the permanence of ink on their gullible, sapped skins.

I remember her every kind word…that permanence will be mine.

‘Oh the pictures have
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything’

Sometime or other

“poets are liars.”

I wake-up drenched and shivering with my arm outstretched towards that side of my bed that was once occupied. That’s when the itch begins. It starts behind my vocal chords and I can’t even scream. My eyes are next, but I can’t cry so the shaking and drenching only worsens.

So I lift the machine, I tare off my shirt and distribute just enough ink to cover my “heart”. Not that I believe I still own one.

This is a madman meditating to the sound of a needle and not to stop until the itching subsides, or at least until I am able to cry.

I take a walk outside
I’m surrounded by
Some kids at play
I can feel their laughter
So why do I sear

Present time

“poets are liars.”

I chose this repetitive phrase, because it is true, which is why I can’t poem anymore. I’ve been learning the value of honesty… truth…transparency…fighting for the woman I love. This is a forward to a time where I might be alone, but maybe I won’t. There are no givens, no certainties, but I can’t help but give myself away for what I hope is the last time. The itch is ever present and it reminds me it is there as I trip over my shoe laces, though in the park; no one cares about embarrassment.

I hope.

‘Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin
Round my head
I’m spinning
Oh, I’m spinning
How quick the sun can, drop away’

Sometime or other

“poets are liars.”

I can feel my hand pressing way harder than is recommended for proper ink work… but it makes no difference now. Let me be the embryo of ugly grey scar-tissue. Let it bleed and tare and scream in its muted expression, how much it feels like being abandoned or worse, being lied to. I’m no longer a poet…

My drawing lines thicken.

‘And now my bitter hands
Cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures had
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything’

…and thicken…

All the love gone bad
Turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see
All that I am
All I’ll be

…and thicken…

‘I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life
I know you’ll be a star
In somebody else’s sky
But why
Why
Why can’t it be
Why can’t it be mine’

But I am not a poet, and grammatically this sentence is incorrect because of the first word. Also… I don’t own a tattoo machine (yet) and I’m only still learning to draw, as I am learning to love, to interact… to live and not feel guilty for it. And if you are to be someone else’s star, my love I’d look up to you while my lines thicken. But until that day comes, I refuse to be a poet, I refuse to think back or forward or sideways. Promise me to look here and I will lock gazes with you and we can paint and laugh and love and fight… do all the things I’d miss, while you’re still mine.

I love you.

Heritage Day

Today is my last day

 

I manage to crawl off the bed that ceased to be coupled almost a decade ago

then land in my still relatively tiny bathroom, though my own physique seems to be shrinking by the second now

I look up at my reflection and I realise the purpose of mirrors

There is a headline,

my face

wrinkled and grey beneath its letters seems to unfold like an over ripe flower without ever having been touched

it says;

Heritage Day

I shuffle along until I trip over the now almost dry white board marker and I begin the list:

One: I inherited the dark lines of deceit off my mother’s core

Two: I learned how to live with being a liar

Three: I came as a foreign being full of love

Four: I was denied love but I’m still leaving filled with only those four letters

Five: Life was beautiful though the darkness is always the beginning of a new story

Six: I inherited the art

Seven: I will never forget

 

I rinse myself off and decide that it would be better to leave full of hope

After all

3 months before they expected me I was ready

13 years before I was

they weren’t

my family

 

The wardrobe whispered the call of majesty

I obeyed my longing eyes

past the dioors and my goodbye suit

I found the two letter phrase barely in disguise and I remembered why

Heritage day:

One: I learned how to judge myself better than anyone had ever judged me

Two: It wasn’t always sunny

Three: How to fake the smile through heartache

Four: How to cause the same

Five: My clothes are cheap

Six: I am unworthychocolat_l

Seven: I knew this each time we made eye contact… after all; we are self proclaimed judges

 

So neat, tidy and fresh I walk towards the lonely seat and the non functional tv

and on the top right hand corner of the screen

A phrase in white paint screams out at me

Heritage Day:

One: My skin colour murdered my first love

Two: I inherited the skill of not caring much for those attributes

Three: My father Died of a broken heart

Four: You saved mine

Five: Our life was puzzled together by vibes and muted sentences

Six: In the end, my quirks were irrelevant and your were my indica

Seven: I fell eternally asleep with the very thoughts that days and nights before had always haunted me.

 

Palm on palm now

My eye lids find their space

No tears left in me

My heritage day is eternal

and I only grew to know that the moment I looked into you!

 

 

 

 

The Fire

She is learning how to be grateful.

The steps are small, barely noticeable as the world calls and keeps on… There is not much to protest against, though the monsters in her head growl in a constant chorus of unfortunate beginnings and endings.

Nothing ever really ends where there are memories involved, and doubt is a frozen statue, alive enough to keep haunting her and misleading her… it wants to be a pillar and all she really wants is for it to disappear.

It is cold.

Everywhere.

Her teeth speak their own unknown language as the piercing breaths let out their steam and she knows she is alive and alove. Perhaps alove is the problem, the threatening to word alove out her mind and into the hearing range of that other…she is so alove it hurts, it wobbles her walls and her frozen castle begins to melt, but it is cold…

Everywhere.

She smiles unintentionally. There is a face, there are hands and lips and traces of traced bodies in subtle nights without beginnings and without reservations… or were there reservations? She wears a scarf

It is cold.

Everywhere.

So alive and alove she waits… she anticipates the return of her strength which is barely a word away. She imagines being sucked into that warm embrace and the doubt disappears. Her breath becomes natural and it lightens up like the darkness in her eyes as it begins to fill up with light.

She knows that this is it, that this is visible for the first time and once a problem is shown, it is also known, thus becoming an advisor rather than a nightmare.

It begins to change her perspective and she begins to understand… that warmth is not only a touch… it is a letter, it is a name and comforting kiss… It is hearing how much you’ve been missed and out of nowhere –  a sun appears; though

It is still cold.

Everywhere

Sacred Sex & Magick; A Review

The Web PATH Center have created, a short, sweet and tangible guide to why Sex Magick is important and helpful to and for the Pagan community all over the world.

This Moon Books release instantly captivated me, its non biased outlook and thorough layout gives this one a fresh feel and has definitely set a new standard for anyone who dares approach this topic without being more than sufficiently equipped.

In a nut shell: Enjoyable, informative and spicy!515q13csOzL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_

Gentling A Wild Cat (Again) ; the self-fulfilled prophecy

I.G. DIDOVA 07/03/2012 12:01PM

GENTLING A WILDCAT (AGAIN)

My head hurts

I am irritable, sweaty and jittery.

I have been stuck on the same sentence for what seems like a week, but still no word fits…

Giving my tired, short-haired head a rest on the palm of my hand, glancing at the tiny arrangement beneath my window; the continuation to the problematic phrase sneaks up on me in the form of a floating sapphire while the little blue box with its lid opened on the ‘Tuesday’ section reminds me that I am safe from hallucinations as the pill had been consumed shortly after dinner. Instinctively my head returns to its previous position in order to confirm the floating gem between the branches…

I give out a nanus-sized giggle as the single stone seems to have undergone a sort of transfiguration; it is now accompanied by what seems to be its twin and as a pair they have been pasted onto a leopard patterned body.

 

My world becomes a vortex of memories projected through the eyes of a cat whilst the last sound before the thriller is my voice repeating the phrase over and over… until the world is calm again and the filigrees of memories take the lead, like a mirage caused by the sudden dehydration in my mouth.

 

Prelude, is the word best used to describe the moment when she bursts into my flat furious… both of us knowing only one way to salvage the situation.

I can see it in her eyes.

The light of my living room arrogantly ridiculed the one in her sapphires. So much so that I am scared off and in doubt my lips know only to twist and coil in to a smile…that smile… her… smile.

This act in itself is something like a language that only the hunter and the hunted understand. Similar to a contract, signed, sealed and guaranteeing a collapse of murderous intentions, only to transform them into bittersweet gasps and insatiable shadows, switching position; momentarily being the prey and in a split second, rising again to feast on an expecting, welcoming lamb.

Our eyes meet, lock, and recognise each other realizing that the storm has finally reached its peak.

The following moments are to be a musical of thundering, feminine grunts, accompanied by an inconsistent back ground of whispers and gentle clawing soothed by a salty rain which magically seeps out from our pores; still fully clothed yet naked… those are the benefits of knowing a body that is not your own as well as Da Vinci knew the Mona Lisa.

 

These fragrances encompass the roots of our desire, as my half-naked anatomy stretches to an eerie length in order to turn bright, electric sparks into a grey-kitten dark; welcoming the rain with the moist odour of nibbling pain gentled by the fluffy fur of the moon-lit carpet where lion and lamb become glutinous due to the excess amount of yearning flesh on craving body. My icy fingertips run around her bare hip in torturous spirals, claiming ignorance with every brush against the pink; that same place they so intently dismiss.

“Ssssss” These are stolen moments.

Her snake-resembling movement is violently clawed to a halt with a clear nail grip on stuttering thighs and mischievous hips then pulled just close enough as if in surrender only to painfully be pushed away again.

I speak out through a cork tongue, “I was under the impression that we’re waiting for the rain.”

At that I approach with my waist between her impatient legs, providing a false hope of granting her antidote to this silent, overwhelming hysteria.

 

“Screw the rain!”

 

My hungry lips travel south with a continuous kiss, hurrying past a perfect chest, not paying much attention to all the rest either, and in god-like synchronization the rain drops mercifully begin to fall to the rhythm of those inspired by the fleshy sensation between our bodies; creating the first verse before our chorus: drip… drip… drip!

 

From walls to wind are dancing feet moving ever forward while her skin presently owns my embrace and me.

I walk behind her almost in a waltz; my palms covering her eyes, nipples cheeky and excited by the static created when skin rubs on skin;

this grass is dampened by the slow drizzles of rain and as our feet connect to the green beneath them the tickle prepares us of the flock of shower drops, so the gentle wind gives in and gradually stops.

My grip loosens and thus my hands are left to unnerve every curve, soft mindful and cautious as they leap in a water-like manner, where a downward current is magnetic.

My breathing becomes inconsistent, hers on the other hand is heavy and deep, almost as deep as my fingertips dryly moistening, diving in then out… in and out… in circular motions.

A moment is all it takes for gravity to wrap us in a blanket of soil, leaves, my lips on her collar bone… hands wandering, alone… just then; it is my virtue that she takes while in shaking intervals our souls levitate… like a pair of savage lionesses in an excruciatingly pleasurable brawl.

 

The moonlight pierces through the trees and falls like a spotlight onto the mistress, excluding me from the white even as my body moves in and out of the ray’s radius. Our movements are urgent now, they roam but fail to tease; I enter her as she enters me and then the rain speeds up in accordance, heart beating so fast that I can feel it pulsating in my throat.

With my lips to her ear I utter in a questioning whisper’

“What are you?”

 

“I am Katt’s mosquito bite…”

Her fingers slide out; they begin to impress with a mind-map precision the surface of my tenderness.

 

“Effervescent tickles and biting itches… if you rub me you’ll only make it worse, leave me wanting more”

 

I follow suit, waking a petite thrust before she continues the monologue in her spotlight.

 

“Bursts of pleasure are delighted in, only when you scratch the pinnacle of my swelling… I hide and reside erect in between your porous dwelling.”

 

My teeth sink in as I struggle to keep my trembling hand in place and moving.

 

“Hard to resist me isn’t it? Come on give it a little rub… but be careful you might want to rub me again, and again, and again.

 

My hand exits… leaving my jaw, lips and tongue in a free range of opportunity as they begin to kiss the inside of her thigh, still I listen careful not to miss so much as a whimper.

 

“I am Katt’s mosquito bite… that unsubtle tickling itch… scratch me a little bit…”

 

Taste buds can no longer resist the beautiful taste they know will be, and so they move in with that special kiss.

 

“Give it a little lick… Right… there. See how that feels. Kind of makes you wanna purr… making little silly sounds as you indulge your salivatory senses with my ambrosia.”

 

The tireless muscle residing in my mouth now vigorously inspects this tantalizing territory as it enters… then exits… then enters…

Her nails grip on to me as she passionately pulls down on my skin in an almost branding sort of manner.

 

“Making my pink cheeks swell up leaving you with red blemished racing down the spine of your arched torso”

 

She wipes a drop of blood and licks it off.

Irrevocably aroused, I feel the approaching burst and her raging ‘mosquito bite’ meekly agrees with me.

 

Lifting my chin out of harm’s way, she throws herself into my chest (teeth-first)… glides into me and continues the paired journey to our peak while her fingers circulate and pulsate… her mouth sucking on to me thirsting blood.

 

“I am drunk your sap and so must you suck mine…”

 

Synchronized yet again we race towards that sacred… sacred… sacred…

 

“Vamp of a ten sashays turns to vampire… no scars but trails of little delights devoured.”

 

I can’t concentrate, I struggle to listen, my back arches, I feel the first wave of glazing delight…

 

“That sweet, that bEttersweet taste of sin, sensual energy…”

 

I own her trembling breath as we simultaneously cry out, and with the well awaited kiss, confirm the wondrous explosion of pants, moans and rain escaping now through the core of our physical being, boisterous and ready for the creeping bliss.

 

“You want to touch me again, don’t you?”

 

Exhausted and breathless we lay under the shelter of a tree. The landscape and scenery now just a contrast… steam and rain, dark and light… and then the moonlight.

 

She holds on to me as my lips press on to her forehead. I smell a tear roll down the side of her face as she looks at me, unwilling to utter a word. I could sense the real storm ahead so I did not dare to ask.

 

This was a moment not meant to be spoiled by thoughts and questions about what lay ahead in the morning. I whispered the usual sweet dreams in her ear. We were like bats worshipping one another…

 

And like bats, with the sunrise we were no more.

 

My heart threatens to tear out of my chest while I run down the stairs and towards the little place beneath my window, the sound of milk splashing on the inside of the small bottle as I skip past two steps, then three, then four.

A sharp left… then a right… then another right… now slowly… carefully.

 

The cat looks at me, cautious, analysing.

I take two slow steps forward, this bringing me close enough to place the bowl of milk just next to her front paws.

 

She seems confused, then does a catish grin in ridicule while proudly showing off her fangs and tongue…

 

“Black foot? Aha! So you’re a wild one. I have someone you might want to meet.”

 

She tilts her head still grinning at me and then the unexpected… she lays her paws at my feat.

 

I scoop her up and hold her to my chest… just then… a rain drop.

A small tear wells up in my eye as I begin to walk on back to my apartment.

 

“Well she isn’t here now Katt, but she will come back! I have some meat up there, bet you must be starving.

 

My palm gentles the top of her head

 

Again!

 

And baby… oh, by the way;

Her forehead had suddenly become the home of a trillion sweat droplets

The scent of a lost race against emotion was on her like a stale ashtray left in the middle of a tiny room for decades

perhaps the ashes of that which can never be repeated was exactly that

and the thoughts; no matter how consistent could not

clear out the depths of the buds; the heart that beats without feeling

the eyes that see without seeing

the sound of music without reaction

the dripping of sacred juices without an allure of passion

 

And baby;

That phrase will never be repeated

baby

that home will never be rebuilt

skin, fingers,flowers and hair

are the forefathers of a numb heir

to an empty castle

with naught but walls, bars, creatures, dragons and demons

 

the wolf alive in me alone will continue

baby

but wolves

oh wolves love once only

and… baby..oh by the way;

once only