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Well, that was interesting

oh, moment is over.

she painted her toe-nails pink that day,

then smiled and felt happy,

as she ran out to play.

 

pink and glitter is what she would chuse, 

when she was sad and alone, 

and couldn’t take more abuse.

 

strong and mature,

as now a woman grown,

picking colors considered demure.

 

sometimes where no one can see,

her toe nails are pink,

and inside she is free.

 

 

I have a snake for a pet. He’s strange and quite.

He changes his skin a couple times a year. Would that I was like this snake.

He’s wants are simple. His needs are basic.

When met, he’s content.

Far more complex, humans follow no rules.

Save for the ones they make up.

I want to change my skin, I want to shed my rules.

By more and by less, distortion holds.

All new and clean, to begin again.

 

Will all the new be replaced with old?

Can it take shape, become recognisable?

Don’t let me be the same.

 

Have you changed your skin?

Snakes don’t share secrets. Will you?

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Another bad day among bad days.
The add up,
all too much
too often.
There are bright days
and good points.
But on these bad ones
they’re hard to remember.

It always comes back,
like the end of a circle.
The feelings of hopelessness
and sorrow.
I never feel like enough.
Lacking basic skills,
failure is eminent.

As I lay in bed, night after night, trying terribly to get to sleep I think. I usually find my mind drifting to the things that I do bad, the shit I say wrong and all the mistakes I’ve ever made. After watching tv and reading books, I’ve happily learned this is normal, kinda.

Lately, I’ve noticed I keep doing the same stupid shit over and over again.

I don’t learn, I don’t change. I’d laugh, if it wasn’t kinda sad. (Ha)

Yesterday I had a melodramatic breakdown in front of my husband after my procrastination problem made me late for registering for school. It’s no big deal in the long run but I fell down the snowy mountain and it took a good half an hour to an hour to walk back up. Husband just sat there and watched me cry and verbally vomit all my feelings about myself. It was, not good. I believe I scared him. But this is an example of my poor behavior, procrastination, getting in the way. That mixed with the really depressed mood I’ve been in the last few weeks contributed to me telling my husband I wish  to kill myself. And while that may be true, I didn’t really want to burden him with those worries. I’d probably never do it any way. Why tell him about it to begin with?

Argh.

Donovan’s mother died when he was three. All he remembers from his mother are the memories that his aunt passed to him. Shortly after his mother’s death, Donovan’s father also left him as well. It was from these losses that Donovan became a member of his Aunt’s home.

In his Aunt Donovan found love and pity, as she loved her dark eyed and fire haired nephew in the memory of her lost sister. His Aunt’s husband, however, thought nothing of Donovan except that his presence was another to feed and clothe. His position of the outsider in his aunt’s household led Donovan, by his fifth year, to spend much time alone in the woods near their home.

It was in these woods that the slightly sad and shy youth met, one blissfully tart Spring day, a faerie. The vernal faerie had seen Donovan wandering the woods often and was intrigued that the child contained no fear of the wood that was purported to harbor faeries. The lonely Donovan had not been privy to these stories and took to the woods with youthful curiosity.

Accepting as children can be, Donovan invited the faerie join in his game involving meticulously placed twigs. In his fifth year, Donovan spent many a day in the company of the faerie and both grew enjoy the presence of the other.

Donovan, still desiring a place within the household, shared the stories of his time with the faerie with his cousins, encouraging them to venture to the woods with him and join in the revelry. His aunt, however, forbid the children to venture to the wood, including Donovan, and forbid any talk of faeries. His Aunt, fearing Donovan was more like her misguided sister, demanded her husband to take Donovan as an apprentice in his smith shop.

Too young to work the metal, Donovan spent the next years cleaning, running, moving and learning. Exhausted from the laborious work and growing comfortable in his tenuous membership within the family, Donovan shied from the woods. Donovan’s faerie friend returned to the wood in hopes Donovan would too, as he had grown fond of the boy. As the years passed, however, the both boy and faerie grew farther from their time in the wood.

In his tenth year, Donovan, in an increased position as an apprentice smith, returned to the woods in search of lumber. Angry at the mortal who dare trespass into the wood, the faerie too returned to see vengeance upon he who defiled his beloved niche. When Donovan returned again seeking lumber, the faerie attacked with all his might. Cowering on the ground, Donovan locked eyes with his assailant. In the eyes of the two recognition bloomed.

Neglecting his task, Donovan spent the remainder of the day in the presence of the faerie. The two, on the road to maturity, talked of the many experiences encountered in their five year separation. The memory of friendship lost kept the pair close all through the night. When it grew time for the tired Donovan to return to his Aunt’s home and face his Uncle’s wrath, he made the promise never to damage the woods again. In return he asked the faerie’s name.

He refused Donovan’s request, telling Donovan the of the power names hold and the condemned their flagrant use in the mortal world. He did however, bestow upon Donovan a gift. In the light of the waxing mood, the faerie gave Donovan his first kiss.

In his Aunt’s home, Donovan encountered, once again, anger and disappointment. In the face of these emotions Donovan made the vow to behave better, claiming fatigue left him asleep in the woods all day. His new memory of the faerie, Donovan told to no one, choosing instead to keep in secreted in his heart for him alone.

True to his word, Donovan never went in search of timber in the faerie’s woods again and became the model apprentice. For years Donovan worked hard by day and slept soundly at night, and remembered his last moment with the faerie fondly.

On the precipice of adulthood, Donovan was a skilled smith and the pride of both his Aunt and Uncle. This change also brought, to Donovan, the notice of the preacher’s daughter. The respectful and mannerly Donovan was growing into desirable mate for all the blossoming town daughters, the preacher’s daughter was just the most assertive.

On a crisp Spring afternoon, the preacher’s daughter stole away from her father’s watchful eye to the side of the smith’s humble nephew. Ripening curves hid beneath her dress, the preacher’s daughter implored Donovan to meet her in the woods later that night, when the moon was full. Filling with the passions of youth, Donovan agreed.

The day passed in a nervous confusion for Donovan, who was unsure of his meeting with the preacher’s daughter. So anxious was Donovan that he made his trek to the woods earlier than planned. It was in this state that the faerie found Donovan. Fully enveloped in a tense inner argument, Donovan neglected to notice the presence of the faerie.

With a chuckle, the faerie alerted Donovan. In the distance, the form of the preacher’s daughter could be seen slowly walking the path to the woods. The tension in Donovan grew. In the approach of the girl he saw marriage, fatherhood and a life as a moderately successful smith. The slide into responsibility and adulthood left Donovan feeling disoriented.

Sensing the distress of his friend, the faerie clucked Donovan’s hand. In the eyes of the faerie Donovan saw something else. The unexpected, the scary and the euphoria of path less traveled.

The snap of twigs underfoot informed the pair the girl was almost upon them. Serenity filled Donovan as he reached with is free hand, the cheek of the faerie. With the surety of youth, Donovan kissed the faerie again.

As the pair silently walked further into the wood, Donovan again asked the faerie for his name.

This time he answered, “Anafiel.”

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The dust on their feet tells a story
of how far they’ve been and how far they have yet to go.
None in the name of glory.
They will be no one you will ever know.

Home is not at hand.
No roots grow while diffusing.
The space they travel in this land
is no place of their choosing.

No pity is needed.
For they’re wealthy in ways.
Children stories they have heeded.
They’ll be together till end of days.

While home is no where
and everywhere just the same.
Home will always be there.
A home only devotion can claim.

Once, when I was probably 14 or there abouts, my step father told me and my siblings that we were baggage. In a drug filled mania, he explained to us that he only loves our mother and we were extra. Now, for me in particular this was difficult, because I always thought of myself as baggage, unwanted and unnecessary. My mother got pregnant at 19, my father bailed and I was left with abandonment issues aplenty. Then, my mother and step-father had children, one boy and one girl. My sister was, and still is, my mother’s mini-me. They both possess the same auburn hair, a splattering of red freckles across almost the same small nose and the same gap-toothed smile. Blond blue-eyed me, the only blue-eyed person in my family I might add, just couldn’t compete. Not to mention, they have that something special that makes people like them, the same genetic that apparently skipped right past me. Now, while not physically similar, my brother and step-father shared many interests, not limited to their addictions to video and computer games, and he is the only boy, there’s special right there. In a family of five, five being a prime number, someone most assuredly gets left out and that someone in this instance was me.
While that might not have always been the case and if you talk to my siblings they might possess different insight than I do about our childhoods. For me, though, I always felt like an outsider in my own family. It was very challenging, truly difficult at times, growing up feeling left out at home and at school. I never felt like I fit in any where. I’ve always been awkward. Like when you’re right handed and you’re use your left hand and you’re amazed by how it doesn’t obey, as if it belongs to someone else. Using your left hand feels so odd, in fact, you would like to stop as soon as possible and that’s pretty much how I socialize. I was that kid, the one who said the wrong thing that brought the conversation to a screeching halt. Silence proceeded me into many a gathering of minds throughout my childhood. I battled with bullying and teasing long before it went viral. I was left out of games and told that I wasn’t required at birthday parties before it became the focus of a news segment. In short, I didn’t have many friends and always feel different.
That feeling has followed me my whole life and to make matters worse, as I grew up and started noticing boys, they neglected to notice me back. Many, many times I had my heartbroken by a crush who never liked me. Many crocodile tears were cried into white pillowcases over the years. Once, the skinny neighbor boy told me he knew I had a crush on him but he didn’t feel that way about me, after which I went home crying to my mother. I told her she taught me to be mean and made me unlikable to boys and with her gap-toothed smile she laughed at me. To this day, I’ve only had two boyfriends, well three if you want to count a 7th grade boy I talked on the phone with after school for about three weeks as a boyfriend, although I don’t.
So, by 14 I thought I was a Katerina Minola character, so awful in nature that I would never find love. Like Elizabeth Bennet or Jo March, I thought I was bound for spinsterhood. But one late summer day, July sometime, I received a call from my friend Cendy. I was sitting at home, in a tank-top, shorts and no shoes wasting time on the computer intent on continuing my lazy day at any expense, when she called. That lazy day wasn’t to be though, she informed me that the cute boy we saw only days earlier was at the skate park, a local haunt for teenagers who engage in athletics and the people who watch. Like a blur, or a teenage girl on a mission, I put on a baby blue shirt and my white and purple Etnies and rushed the three blocks to the skate park, which was very difficult because my Etnies were not very fitted shoes. There I found Cendy and her friend Ben hanging out with the cute “gothic” kid we had seen previously. He was laying at the foot of a large, leafy tree wearing black pants with blue stitching, a black Slipknot t-shirt and black fishnet covering his arms. His brown but so dark it’s almost black hair came down onto his forehead in meticulously created curls. I remember noticing for the first time that he was in possession of a mole, off to the left above his lips. Over the new few hours, it wasn’t just his looks that sent my stomach butterfly dancing, it was his personality too. He was funny and made me laugh, a lot. Even when the group was engaged in an all out medieval war, in place of swords we had sticks, I couldn’t help but enjoy his presence. For the longest time I had a small pink scar from where he hit me on my thigh. And he noticed me! I went home that night thinking he might have liked me.
Some of it seems like a dream to me now, our first meeting. I didn’t even know his name by the time we awkwardly walked home after the streetlights turned on. In the dark we talked about upcoming school year and what grades we were entering, he was going into his junior year and me, my freshman. I broke away early, walking diagonally across the street that led to the one my parents lived on, feeling weird that I walked away so soon but knowing it was because I was nervous and lovestruck. Later that night Cendy revealed his name to me, having heard earlier in the day. I didn’t seem him, Jason, until school started again.
He had a custom of wearing headphones and ignoring people, so when I saw him at the bus stop outside my school it was a bit of work to gain his attention. Being a savvy teenager in the 2000’s, and taking his attention as encouragement, I gave him my e-mail address. In what felt like months I waited for an e-mail from him. It came on September 11th, 2001 and we discussed the American tragedy that had occurred earlier that day. We began to correspond via e-mail and instant message and then onto phone calls. We had our first date shortly after that first e-mail. In actuality the date was very informal and we just hung out at the same skate park we had met at.
The remarkable, funny, strange, and amazing thing about him, is that he really liked me. Even after he talked to me, even after he saw just how awkward and rude I can be, he liked me. And I felt comfortable with him, I could talk to him. Like that sense of ease you get when you return home after a vacation, I felt that with him. I’ve never once before, or after, found a person that I took to so easily. Even with my family I was never completely myself. In all situations in my life I present a different me to suit the needs, but with him it’s the me that’s closest to who I really am. He has given me, the hunchback, asylum from the mob by just being there.
Now, ten years later I can handle anything knowing he’s there. We’ve survived three years apart, two deployments to Iraq and my mother and we’re stronger than we’ve ever been. It’s cliché, I know, to write about how meeting my husband changed my life but it did. I’m not talking about the money he makes and not about how he got me out of my parents house, the war zone that it was. I’m saying he has changed how I look at myself. I am still the same awkward kid inside, the one who had trouble making friends and says the wrong things. But now, at 25, I’m looked at as strange, like I’m supposed to have figured out how to behave by now. In him I find hope, I see the similarities in our personalities and love them in him and realize I might not be as horrible as I fear. When I hate myself, he loves me enough for both of us. I’m naturally a pessimistic person, my mother has always told me this, but he makes me slightly less pessimistic, because I’ll never be an optimist no matter how great he is. He is my sanctuary, with him I feel whole and hate the world a little bit less.

This was for a class I’m taking.

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