free thought ramblilng


I’m missing something, inside. It’s something that was never really there, but having him in my life made me feel as though it was. The pain he caused made my insides feel full…bursting at the seems at all times. I was an emotional Roman alone in my vomitorium, awaiting the next course.

Tonight, I feel the vacuous me that I am. Neither drug, nor drink can stir any emotion but dread. The dread one might feel as they stand at cliff’s edge, wondering if someone might come along and give them a push. Because that’s all I need. I need push. A reason. The lightest tap will do.

In my wildest dreams, I never thought he’d die. I wished it, begged God for it…There were many times that I was close to dispatching him, myself. The love his sons had for him saved his sorry ass. I think that’s part of why I feel like I do. I am shocked that I didn’t kill him. Is that bad? I don’t know anymore. I honestly don’t. He always said I was a sociopath. If I were, he’d have been gone long ago. I’m only a woman who has lived with a fucking pain machine for three decades. That’s all. I. Am. Only. A. Woman.

I feel as though I’m dying, too. I can feel the cold of the Darkness inside of me. It’s all consuming, and something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Even as a child, it was there. I was a child living in a world of degenerates. Every minute of spare time was spent tagging along from one bar to the next with my grandparents, who raised me. It isn’t easy for a girl child in those circumstances. My Darkness saved me. It allowed me to recognize the Darkness in others and, knowing mine was always stronger, as my grandmother taught me, I was able to deal with them. These disgusting men with their wandering eyes…hands…stealing kisses from a child. Disgusting maggots. I wish I’d had the ability to kill every, single, one. I never told my dad because I knew that he WOULD kill them. My grandmother knew, but did nothing about it. I quickly learned the art of being frozen in a smile. I was a mimic; a puppet with no emotion of her own, only that which she adopted from others.

I don’t understand how his death has brought these things up in my mind and heart. I don’t allow these thoughts in my world. They are lighting in a storm, already raging. Perhaps it’s because I have never had a moment on my own. Truly on my own. I went from home to being a wife, mother, reconciled with my own mother…the list is long. Maybe the pain was good for me because it occupied my mind. And there was love. There were good times. Great times, even. But things didn’t end well between he and I. And, the second he was gone, I felt it…the Darkness at my shoulder. Within a week, the memories came to the forefront, tired of their home in the recesses of my brain, I suppose. They seem to have mixed quite well with the guilt and sorrow and grief. I feel like a playground for devils and fallen angels. Overrun and pushed around. Yet, I know that nothing they do can compare to the damage I can do to myself, of my own free will.

I’m tired now. Meds are finally beginning to do their job. I hope to sleep tonight. I hope he stays put and leaves me alone. I want him to go on to wherever he is supposed to be and leave me be. I want to close my eyes and see nothing but blackness. No faces. Not his, not anyone’s. I just want to be left alone to figure out who I’m supposed to be. It has to happen soon, or I’ll cease to be.

the wee hours

In the wee hours, you see things that the Light won’t allow. There are shadows and sounds, whispers of another world. Spirits dance in the wee hours. Some hostile, some as gentle as doves…but all of them, they dance. Your heart calls to you in hours so late that they’ve become early. Revealing your secrets, long kept. Exposing the forgotten things…forcing you to witness their power. Then, they pull back, ever so gently, letting you know that they will return to that hidden place where they’re kept.

As dawn threatens the darkness, you find yourself anxious. Eyes probing the darkness, awaiting the slightest hint of blue, because your hope lives there, in the Light. The new day offers redemption from the rituals of the Night. Offerings are tucked away, and the challis, long since drunk dry, is carefully posed in its place of honor. Always within view, it reminds you of the yield, fed you by the willing. Just as you begin to realize the glory of what was, morning sun washes away the ceremony of it all and leaves you, a child of Darkness, to your redemption.


Grandmother’s Birthday


My grandmother would have been 87 years old today. Fortunately, she passed on the eve of my 30th birthday. Twenty five minutes prior, to be exact. I honestly believe that she was trying to hang on so that she could die on my birthday, just to make sure that I’d remember her. As though I could ever forget. Her.

I don’t feel good about saying bad things about my grandmother. But I don’t think this day can pass without some observation concerning the impact that her abuse had on my life. In my mind, even now, she is almost demonic. I have yet to meet another human being who is as treacherous and cruel as she was. Yet, in both of those things, she was brilliant, really. It takes a lot to manipulate so many people in the way that she did.

For reasons that I don’t want to think about, my grandparents ended up raising me from infancy. My mother was still in my life, and I knew that she was my mother, even though, as soon as I could speak, Grandmother had me calling my own mother ‘Lil Sister’. Still, I just knew that Lil Sister was my mommy and she was going to make things right and stop running off and leaving me the way she did. But, that wasn’t to be. I recall the day that I knew my mother was never going to take me home with her again…the day that I knew she’d no longer be my mother and that it was time to stop missing her. I was four years old. On that day, I stopped the silly fantasies of a small child and no longer allowed myself to dream that my mother could, or would, ever love me.

The available alternative to Mother was my grandmother. She was addicted to pills and her own ego. The woman was built like a brick shithouse, but she behaved like a blow-up doll that had come to life. She tormented my grandfather, who was my hero, and he, in turn, tormented her. Although I never saw him lay a hand on her, I’d beg him to kill her when they’d fight, which was often. Even at my earliest memory, I was aware that death would be the only thing to make her stop what she was doing to me. As it turned out, so many years later, that was still true.

In any case, I hope that I can someday remember something good about the woman. She was beautiful. I suppose that’s a good thing. Except that she used her beauty as a weapon, of sorts. And I know she rescued animals. There was always some strange creature being cared for at our house. And stray children. She did take in children that needed help. She’d shower them with love, but she withheld it from me. She beat me every chance she got. And she cursed me with these odd bits of mumbo jumbo. I found it comical even when I was little. (I was on to her bullshit from a very early age). I tend to think that it was because I looked so much like my mother or something…that she’d beat me. It had to be something like that. There had to be a reason. Who knows? I just always spend this day, year after year, trying to think of something really good in her…a memory to grab onto. I’ve yet to think of what that memory might be. Perhaps that makes me a bad person, too. I guess I’ll just have to live with that.

I won’t say that I suffer ill effects from the abuse she imposed upon me. It did not make me a monster. I did not visit that on the heads of my boys, and they are good people. The things she did have always served as a guideline as to what not to do…how not to live. Maybe I should be grateful for that. I am grateful that my mother and I have been able to, not only reconcile, but flourish as mother and daughter and best of friends. We share a pain that never quite leaves us, but has been rendered powerless in our lives. That’s a miracle. To me, anyway. And, in many ways, my grandmother made me stronger. To her immense disappointment, I was always stronger than her, even when I was small.

I found a letter many years ago that my grandmother had written to my uncle when he was in the Navy. I was two years old when it was written. She complained that, no matter how many times she’d say ‘no’, I’d say ‘yes’ that many times, and one more. She said I was the most cussid child she had ever known and that I was very difficult to love. I kept the letter. It’s in an old box, somewhere. Now and then I run across it and, for some reason, I always laugh. I’m laughing now, just thinking about it. Because I’m the type of person, so many decades later who, when she’s told ‘no’, she will say ‘yes’ that many times, and one more. Defiant? Maybe. Determined? Absolutely. Strong? Till the bitter end. So…thanks for that, Grandmother, and a very happy birthday to you!

where true power lies


i awaken to you

filling the darkness

and i am afraid

even so, silently, you watch

you gorge on my fear

you mock me

no consideration, no mercy

relentless, as always

my peace, stolen

as my mind races throughout the night

imagining the possibilities

of different beginnings…endings

questioning myself


and i cry


remembering your weight on my body

your big, rough hands…other things

on the longest night that i ever lived

and i realize now

that it was all just a show of force

a temporary action meant to unlock a particular door

the words that you whispered

like a demon, in my ear

daring me to defy you

telling me to ‘give you a reason’


i couldn’t possibly have known then

that your true power would wait patiently

slowly revealing itself in shadows

and bumps in the night

that it would watch me, in silence

from the darkness beyond my sight

and i would feel it


throughout the decades of my life

for, had i known this truth to be

i’d have given you a reason

to deny me another breath

more than enough reason

to take whatever was left

thinking about randy

36164[1]i recall your scent

your sound

the shadow you cast

but i cannot see your face

the pain of your grasp

your hands in my hair…tearing it away

i can feel those things today

but i cannot see your face

i remember the night

you put your gun to my forehead

as i stood awaiting the trigger

i clearly recall the look in your eyes

and the fear in that place

but i cannot see your face

First, By Heart


i explore, first, with my heart

convinced that it can divine what is true

secondly, my gut

certain that it will know what is unseen and protect me

funny that they’ve been wrong so many times

yet, still, i listen closely

for their final words

my spirit…that, i’ll ignore

because i prefer that it go untouched

unsoiled by the goings on of my conscience

though it beckons and signals

i turn away

so that at least one part of me

will remain pure

ruined not by the filth of this world

fantasy on a monday afternoon

red-1you belittle me, thinking that it puts me in my place

you yell so that i will not miss a word

you ignore me so that i will disappear

and i despise you

because i can

while i’m gazing in your direction

as you go on and on

filling the air with the noise of you

i may look blank

i may even smile

but a bomb is going off behind these eyes

though my hands are politely folded in my lap

as you ‘mickey mouse’ things to me

oversimplifying so that my silly self can understand

the genius that is you

in my mind, my hands are clenched

around your throat

your face, red, as you gasp

breaking out into a sweat as, finally, you fall to your knees

at last, red gives way to blue as i blissfully finish the job

as i come back to myself

after bathing in this fantasy, divine

your mouth is still moving

hands flailing

and you’re still explaining

whatever it was

that was so important

i maintain my composure

my pose,  unchanged

as i take it all in

the sun rushes in through the window

blinding me with its purity

like a doting mother

it wipes the darkness from my filthy face

though i turn

this way and that

trying to wriggle away

it is relentless in its determination

to make me look presentable

it straightens my shoulders, brushes the hair from my eyes

allowing me to leave behind

the things that found me, deep in the night

In The Wee Hours

The night, so very dark
Peers back at me as I sit, looking out into the onyx nothingness
Trying to understand it…experience it
At times I’m unsure where the darkness ends and I begin
In these, the wee hours,
Where it serves no one to wander too far from light
In time, dawn will come
And the darkness will retreat
Taking its secrets along with
As it turns its back, and leaves me here
To face the glare of the morning sun alone
My own secrets, exposed
My eyes downcast

In The Pitch-Dark My Soul Runs Free

Night falls upon my view
Yet I’ve no compulsion to see
Satisfied that what is there
Beyond the reach of Light
Is enough to sustain
My wildest need
As I venture out into Darkness
My path veers gently to the Left
Experiences encountered
Both sacred and profane
Feed my soulish side
My pound of flesh, freely given
All demands ignored, it is only mine to give

I feast until the early dawn
Then find my way Home
To the safety of the Light
My toll, paid
I fall off to sleep
Forgetting that which happened
Within the pitch-black night