…And he stood alone in a sea of souls. For not one man nor creature could move the stony silence.
From the highest heights to the depths of the sea-the shout was lost.
For who does listen to the shriek of the lost soul? Not I, not you, not we together.
For the veil of aloneness shrouds all.
The dark is a place for indiscretion. In the dark we are simply animals out for carnal pleasure. Hunting, Judging,Preying. For in the dark we are emboldened. No longer do we creep around pleasure. Dive into ecstasy. Explore one another, no longer two but one. For where else can synchronization be so rich? Hushed moans, sweat, shivers. Skin to skin, attraction to reaction. The dark is a place for indiscretion.
The whole world spins on one axis, yet we each have our own personal axis. Whether that may be another person, a job, or a hobby; if that were to vanish, then what? See that’s the million dollar question, there is no “then what”! I was so scared to let go of my stories, my fictional life. I was scared that when I let them go, I would no longer have any sort of identity. In the end, I guess my life revolved around my story telling. The truth of it is, I am just your run of the mill kid trying to figure out what the fuck to do. I was so scared of being ordinary, of blending in, of getting swept away in the normalcy of daily life. Yet, here is the deal: It is not a crime to belong. I worked so hard to make myself an outsider but when push came to shove, I just wanted to be on the inside. I guess the point is, without my stories, my fictional life, my world still keeps spinning.
Life is nothing but a series of missteps and miscommunication, throw in a few good moments and some fantastic characters and bam, it’s noteworthy. I myself have become one of these fantastic characters over the years, although the word may actually at this point be caricature. Ya know? Those highly distorted but probably frighteningly accurate representations of the average Joe. Yep I am one of those. My name is Emily, but depending upon who you ask, I am eight thousand different “Emily”‘s. Awhile ago, my mother finally decided it was about damn time to call my bullshit and tell me that I need to fix my compulsive lying issue. (See, now you are gonna second guess the whole blog; because when does a compulsive liar tell the truth?) I was utterly indignant, stuck my nose in the air and accused her of being nosy and over protective. I secretly wished, every day that she would just leave me alone; let me travel, let me drop out of school, just be my very own person. (Ironic because there are so many versions of me.)
Unfortunately, this is not my current situation.
A couple days ago, after a few months of smooth sailing and secret resentment she drops the BOMB. Nope, those aren’t just calcifications of breast tissue it’s cancer! Ta Da, that is a magic trick because just like that I for once felt utterly responsible for something. Shit, all of my wishful resentment has caused cancer. This is my fault for wanting to be left alone, is it too late to pick back up my Catholic faith? Anyway I know realistically that the cancer is not my fault but I have also realized that if I am to be fully independent, I most likely can’t handle it. So karma is a bitch right?
Sincerely, Emily the Liar.
You call me baby when I make you cum
Only all I feel is numb.
Your gratitude is palpable but not sincere,
It’s the hollow in your eyes that makes me fear.
I can’t help but to feel,
the torrid relationship we have is nothing real.
I want you to see me
Not my hips or thighs,
But the sea green of my eyes.
Look at me and call me baby
I wish you wold feel something for me maybe.
I grieve the loss of you every day,
though I have you so close in all the wrong ways.
You call me baby when I make you cum.
Often, as writers we try to encompass our audience into the story, or poem or whatever it is we may be writing. On this occasion, this post is purely about me. Emily Marie, and my fucked up quest for validation.
My whole life has been one masochistic quest for validation and acceptance. From group to group, my outfits changed, my persona changed, my stories changed, my life and attitude changed. Now, some of these changes have been hugely beneficial, they have created who I am today (although I still have no idea who that is) for good and definitely for bad. On a larger note, this changes have just created chaos and puzzlement for those around me. Those, who have stuck around long enough to witness my changes. From group to group the want to fit in has been so tangible it’s like a ticket that says: Congratulations you finally fit in!. Clearly, that ticket never appeared. Chasing acceptance and validation is chasing an elusive ghost. Glimpses here and there but nothing solid. Solidarity is something I have sought out since I can remember though I am probably the least solid person I or anyone else, has ever known.
In the past few months, my life has been in utter upheaval and I have been really trying to dig deep and find who I am. Which by the way is no easy feat. I will say, I am working on validating myself. Maybe one day, I’ll create a post detailing the nitty gritty liaisons and encounters I found myself ensnared in, on my question for validation.
Belonging is a funny thing. It is more a feeling than an activity. When you belong with someone, or someone’s this automatic sense of security and giddiness just washes over your body. Well, at least for me anyway.
My whole life has been one big bandwagon. I’m with this group, no wait I’m with this group! I’m a drifter, I never attach myself and I don’t really belong anywhere particular. This all has changed recently in a big way. I have found myself linked to a motorcycle club that has become a family to me. Now, I haven’t known them more than two months, and I don’t know all of them. Regardless, they are ride or die, if I am one of them then that’s it. The cool thing is, I am not a biker and I don’t want to be, but I still belong. Albeit I belong by default because of my boyfriend but nonetheless I am in there.
Call me naive, and call me young (because I am.) but these guys are family and I love being part of the club. Tons of bad shit about bikers is constantly spewed but at the end of the day, those guys are brothers and that is definitely something I can get behind.
So here I am, no longer a drifter.
I’ve mentioned the idea of lying before now but thing is, I am the one doing the lying. I am the one being sneaky and underhanded. I am the one who holds all the cards, its a royal flush baby. My lies are pure gold and they get gobbled up like PEZ. Sometimes we lie to protect, sometimes to help ourselves and other times just to bullshit. The problem is, the liar doesn’t really feel the sting until they are the ones being lied to.
Ya know, I was going to make this hypothetical but then I realized, shit that is just one more misguided truth. Here is the deal: My boyfriend lied, big time. This isn’t about sympathy or calling him a bastard, because he isn’t. He just lied and I of all people, get that. We have been together for awhile now and in recent conversation I said “hey babe your birthday is soon you will be 29.” and there was a pause, I stand corrected, there was THE pause. So he tipped his head and kind of just looked at me, followed by “Well, actually I will be 34…” Oh boy. There goes the wind, right out of my sails. Good Lord Almighty, I was creeped out to the umpteenth degree. He rushed on to to say he didn’t want me to see him differently, and yada yada yada. I just kept walking, tuning him out and calculating the age difference in my head, which mind you, had just jumped substantially.
All in all, I was hurt and angered that he had blatantly lied to my face, how could he hide something so large? What else was he hiding? If he genuinely cared about me, where was the honesty? These questions looped through my head like a perverse soundtrack. Eventually I shook off the weird vibes looked at this man and knew I could forgive him and move on. But the kicker is this: for once in my life I was able to step out of my own selfish shoes and look in on how the people around me felt.
Lying hurts, it hurts to be lied to. It is deceptive and sneaky and sometimes we don’t even catch ourselves doing it. I certainly have been known to fabricate things, that quite honestly didn’t even need the touch-up. So karma is a bitch, poetic justice even. I guess my point is, we don’t fully understand the ways in which we hurt others, until we get hurt.
Anger can be beautiful but so fucking destructive. The rage just builds up so goddamn hard and a surge of violence just shocks every fucking fiber. Being lit up like waves of electricity coursing through a whole being. Smash, over and over again. Bam there goes a wall. A bloody bruised fist. Weak and shattered. When the anger dissipates and the sorrow takes shape. An animal unto itself. Sorrow is the fucking team of demons dwelling inside. Waiting to attach and feed on the shame and weakness. Soul food for demons. Like fuck, anger is brutal. Emotion is too raw and masking the anger is a joke. Be angry. Be hurt. Fucking scream.
Don’t let the demons win.
I am tired of living every one else’s truth. Here are some of my own truths.
-I want to waitress, I want to make tips and wear a heinous uniform.
-I want a dingy beach condo, that smells damp and sandy.
-I want to learn to play the guitar, I don’t mean just learn a few strings, I want to be Pink Floyd proficient.
-I want to publish poetry. Not wishy washy poetry, but beautiful gritty poetry. The hard to stomach type that revolts and delights all in one.
-I want to do something dangerous.
-I want to see Iowa, I want to walk around and leave a mark on Iowa.
-I want to be in lust, feel the fear and desire in my stomach. The clammy hands and the want.
-I want to be in love.
-I want to go see an underground concert, get caught up in the madness of it.
-I want to sleep in a damp bathing suit, and not worry about being called “musty”.
This is a list of things that I need before I die. Sometimes I think I might die.