As I sat outside in the candle lit night, across from a child of Eve, a woman who so bravely brought me into this world, I listened as this woman, my mother; spoke kindly in conversation saying “All I have ever wanted for you is for you to be comfortable in your own skin”
As if she knew that I had a constant shiver in my spin, a creeping feeling of paranoia and fear. As if she could read that I was so afraid to embrace all I was feeling and fearing in life and that all I needed to know was love.
The love a mother, the way they leave trails of sweet kisses on your face as you drift to sleep or hold you in the water of the ocean, arms wrapped around you like you were being, once again, swaddled in a blanket like you had been years ago.
My mother has been present for years but I didn't truly meet her until recently. We lived in the same hollow house, she signed my permissions slips and made dinner but she was not known to me. Never allowed to reveal herself to me, she remained a mystery, packaged in a perfect plastic exterior. Like many families there was an unspoken expectation to fit a certain image, each member played a certain role, dressing and attending rehearsals for their part?
Like so many she learned to live a lie, forced to ignore the bug infestation under her skin and just put on another layer of clothing, of make-up, another costume and simply play pretend. Pretend that she is perfect. Pretend that she is fine. Pretend that she is happy. Pretend that everyone else must be blind. Like that they can’t see the signs or symptoms?
And like so many daughters of Eve she wandered tasting the fruit of the forbidden tree, hoping to find satisfaction in something, never seeing what she was meant to be. Or acknowledging the beauty the she as women possessed. The gentle love of a child lay upon her mother’s breast and I know I curled up in my mother’s chest many nights just to see if her heart was still beating, cause in her eyes I could see she had been weeping and I wondered if her heart was truly broke. I know that Eve was crying for her daughter, for my mother, for me, when she saw the broken hearted burdens that we both carried.
Some nights I speak to my mother’s refection in the mirror when I look at myself; I speak to her kindly as she has to me. I see Eve in my eyes and hope that her beauty will spread within me. I wonder though, if my mother sees herself when she looks in the mirror? or if she sees who she has been, or if rather she sees nothing but others opinions and expectations weighting on her back? Curling her over and the waist to where she can’t even see her most important scar, her naval. The declaration that she was worth laboring for, a constant reminder etched in her skin. I dream of the day that we can meet our mother Eve, speak to her and learn of her aged wisdom stand in the presence of the only woman who has a scar less stomach.
I just wonder what my mother would say if I asked her today, “are you comfortable in your own skin?”

They say that it gets easier with time.
They say eventually I won't even think of him.
They say that I'll be whole again, I just need some patience.

But with time, it's only getting harder.
With every night that passes and he isn't here,
He isn't holding me,
Or talking to me,
Or giggling with me.
He isn't doing that with me,
He has her for that now.

It's been two months now,
When is eventually?
I still think of him with every waking second.
I still think about the unexpected kisses,
The holding me at night,
The smell of his skin against mine,
Whether we were just hugging,
Or we were cuddling at night, hoping that sleep would never reach us.
I still remember every conversation,
And how he said rum, instead of room.
And how he hates people on bicycles.

Whole again?
The only time I was ever whole was when he was around.
It was only when he would pull me in his lap,
Or when he would smile,
And the lines around his mouth and eyes would show.
He made me whole.
He was the missing piece.
And he is gone now.
So tell me, when an I going to be whole again?

When are you going to be right?
Because I can't live without him,
The only thing keeping me alive is,
My best friend,
And the memory of how it use to be with him.

I love you Micah Elijah Garcia.

Oh, is that the way it is?
Is that a freaking fact?
How about you meeting me halfway
And we can bridge that gap

You're so sure of yourself, aren't you?
You know just what you're talking about
I believe, perhaps, the greatest virtue
Is in our ability to doubt

Go and tell it on the mountain top
And examine who comes to listen
A bunch of lost souls caught in a trap
All ready to do your bidding

And now the question is;
Just what is your intention?
A sanction for your own beliefs
Or an army standing at attention

March them out to spread the word
The one that you're so sure of
Contented cultures will crash and burn
In the lands that you'll become lord of

Just listen to me for a second
I'm sending you my letter
Second guessing can be a blessing
Quantum questing can make life better

Do you go to sleep in shame and guilt
and fear of future consequence?
Those fears are senseless in their root
Your mind is your divine providence

So let it go and figure out
That no final answer can be preached
Pay attention to the lessons of your life
Realize the ultimate answer is forever out of reach

I know a lot of people on this site are against certain types of writing's so I'm just gonna warn you before you scroll, this is dirty. Not trying to offend anyone, but these are the thoughts of an extremely sexual being (me). I'm a very complex individual and have many sides. I'm actually having to pursue another site, cause it's so plain here. Someone said to me in a message, "I'm tired of reading about love and nature" haha, me to. Let's get some diversity going people!

















I'm gonna enforce orgasm's like it's the law
Lets get a lil raw
Marks you left on my back lookin' like I got scratched by a tiger paw,

We can go for a ride and I'll show you somethin' I been writing to this new beat
You get impressed and feel chills all the way down to ya feet
Shortly after that I can see
Me and you gettin' down on the bench seat

Of my '49 chevy truck , we anything, but typical and that's just how we like to fuck
Runnin' amuck in a world full of blind luck

My biggest turn on is the juices I get you to leak
I'm gonna get my burn on and turn up the heat
When I'm done you'll barely be able to speak
Your gonna need to recover baby, just go straight to
sleep

-J.A.M

Among dust bunnies collecting on the carpet of her bedroom are lullabies, matted into the seashell shaped ridges by eager toes.
Other mothers sing Rockabye Baby, but hers crooned the crash of ocean waves and the ballads of mermaids.
Memories like those sent shivers down her spine, cold fingered fairies dispatched to walk the tightrope of each nerve, triggering flashbacks of moment after moment.

Beneath a quilt of fallen oak leaves he found a baby hedgehog, infant bristles damp and lonely.
Some days, when it meandered curiously across half-written papers, its paws writing notes in a script he couldn't decipher, he regretted rescuing the handful of spines with the pale, inquisitive nose.
Leaves of muddied paper, though, became pages in a scrapbook, dedicated to moments more beautiful than he could fathom.

Following them were snapshots of sunsets over the lake, the first phrases from a concerto he adored, a polaroid of his fingers interlaced with hers.
Her palm met his without hesitancy, and the joy she felt reminded her of the mermaid's musings heard through the sleepy ears of a child.
On all sides it was warm and safe and fantastically real, simply because they decided it should be.

While she did say no the first time he asked her to marry him, it was only because to her marriage had grown stiff with age and its rusting hinges complained when she tried to add her own swing to its meaning.
He asked her again, of course, because she was the only person he'd ever met whose heart fit his jigsaw edges so perfectly, and this time she said yes.
Waits for the love, her mother told her; a fearless woman waits for love to ask twice.

On the winter solstice their son was born, whom they named Martin, because he thought it sounded courageous and she thought it sounded furry.
Distant waves tumbled as she sang her little one to sleep in the only way she knew how, and gave him hedgehog kisses with her eyelashes because butterflies are too delicate.
Dreams always came quickly and lingered in his mind, fantasies of whirling woodland dances and salty kisses from the wind.

They documented the unassuming; they tracked coincidence; they remembered the weight of every footstep and the cadence of every whispered "good night." They knew that even though they were obscured by the smoke of normality and stench of the future, every moment was unique. Among other things they found everything.

I wish I could sleep.
Days on end
an endless cycle
no waking at all.

Maybe when I'd wake up
the world would change
to something better
I'd be better.

I wish Rip Van Winkle
would give me advice
I can't seem to sleep
even if I try.

It makes me feel worse
the fact when I am awake
the people I love
are just asleep.

They are not conscious
While I am stuck alert
Not knowing why
I can't just sleep.

Sleeping for a long while
would be a gift to me
Not waking every few hours
like a newborn child.

If I did sleep for a time
I wonder what I'd miss
I fear I'd miss so much
Wake up and everything gone

I know it's strange
Unusually sad
I wish to sleep
But fear time passing

I hate waking
in the middle of the night
I hate sleeping
when I'd miss everything

The conundrum of it all
Fearing sleep yet need it
I must sleep.
Wish me luck.

He wants me to shut up about before and after, he doesn’t
sleep anymore to throw off a balance
between now and then,
here and later, when it happened in regards to tonight. My mind
works as a clock of who we have become since:
my body only exists in the place of Our Great Divide.
Morning is just sheets of velvet upon a
lover’s breast, to be peeled, to reveal her strawberry scars.
Evening is when I feel her fists inside my skin as if
I am being penetrated by icebergs
and I cry, your cock hasn’t been the same since it happened.
The blood seems to get lost in the train-track
to your veins. In our divide,
I wonder if most of it was passed to her half of your heart
but that thought makes me so sad I remember I am mostly water
whereas there is simply the milk of her curves:
I have the talent
of turning myself inside out when I want to be dead.
She just curdles. I was once the same,
he wants me to shut up about before and after but at least I
can cry on anniversaries without needing a calendar or
rotting the post of my ex-boyfriend’s bed.