Tapping into creativity
Is like tapping a Maple tree.
I'm not skilled at either
But I'll cheer when something trickles out.

Small panther in my house
His heart is as full as his dish.

I am no more solid than a dense fog in a glass jar.
My borders and boundaries are defined by my container.
I occupy this space, bereft of internal orientation or direction, floating amorphously.
Without containment, I would all but disappear.
To free me is to destroy me; there can be no trial.

Life is an ill fitting garment
And I with no needle and thread.

We hear about ****** assualt more these days,
and yes that has happened; Me, too.
But we don't talk as much about the near misses.
The time when I said no
and he tried a few times and gave up
Or the times I said no
and he put himself inside me for just a moment before rolling off
Or the times I said no
and he put himself inside me
for a few minutes
Until I grew louder and pushed him off.
The time
with my boyfriend
when I consented
But half way through his mood changed
and it did not feel loving
Or respectful.
It felt vindictive
And cold
and he must have felt my body
Tense
But he continued anyway.
Or the times
Too many to count
with my husband
That I participated
because I knew resisting would
Lead to an argument
Or anger
and sometimes
Aggression.
Was that ****, too?
I don't tally it under the same column.
But it wasn't fun.
And I think about it often.
And my body feels fluish.
Like the sense you get that a cold is coming on.
But it never fully surfaces
So I can never fully recover.

Something howls through a dense, dark fog.
My body lurches toward the sound, and I am mindful of the tickling reverberation in the bones around my collar.
Would most in my shoes plan their escape?
Find cover?
Grasp to find a branch or iron, something to fend off an unseen attacker?
Perhaps.
But I lean in.
And despite a wave of neaseau echoing through my viscera, I mouth a wordless prayer that the beast find me.
Put his face against my soft flesh
and press hard with a snout, or maw, until I feel that canine dripping in excitatory salivation.
My own saliva to meet his
as I smile in relief, and am torn open for once and last.

If you're going to live with your head in the sand
I beg of you, inhale.
Otherwise
Take an ear
Turn it upward
And listen
Til your lungs scream and threaten you
Keep listening
Til your legs shake and muscles burn
Listen further
Until you start to loathe the sand
And you see the unpredictable open air as the luscious power it is.