I write my paradise
While my soul is in demise
I write to escape
In words I take new shape.

In you I had an ally
Until against me you planned a rally
For order and control
It was all just for show.

I loved and still do
All the good I saw in you
And when the moon is anew
I'll pray I never met you.

I’m taking control, making changes.
Some for the worst, others for the best.
I don’t like to evade or retreat.
My secrets are inconsequential.
I’m taking things into my own hands
- I kissed my therapist. On the lips.
Life is but a game of ‘Smash or pass’
and I hate waiting for ice cream.
“I like the way you move,” he said, “I like your skin.”
“It’s what people notice first” I admitted, “want to see it?”
Or maybe I dreamed that - I dream about him, sometimes. shrug
I think the helpless, astringent, professional intimacy fires me.
I want him to ask me about my jerkwater *** life, he has a concomitant
passport, but he never does. Isn’t that important - what about Freud?
What do you think you inherited from your parents? He asked.
“What a question!” I observed, “You mean genetically?”
“Come on,” he prompted, and I thought for a long minute.
“I have my mother’s impatience, her drive to succeed
and her thick blonde hair that seems to dry instantly.”
He nodded, indicating he liked where I was going.
“I have my father’s eyes, his flashing temper and flat chest.”
He chuckled, but I could tell he wanted me to stay serious.
“Then there’s my Stepfather (Step), he taught me humor,
patience and self-control - oh, and how to drive.”
He ****** on his pencil eraser and nodded.
He always blurs the line between performance and approval.
.
.
Songs for this:
Secrets (Your Fire) by Magdalena Bay
The Spot by Your Smith

I let go of control.

On one side are past traumas
The other side the audience
There's a mountain to explain, and attention spans are razor thin
So to cut the message across, brevity I'm told is key
You hold on to the edges of your seat
And I'm hiding behind me
The 'Me' is just a shell, inside it stuffed with things
conformity, smiles, fear of being judged
There's ego, pride and shame, illusion of control
and so the story goes:
there was pain, there was hurt
there was heart, and there was love

What's control
If not a need for love to show
Bring it up, blow it up
Nothing's ever good enough

Look at me so I can be free
It's the only way I know how to be me
If there is no mirror,
How can I see clearer?

Hold me tight, save me from
my inner fight
On my own, I just drown
every night.

I curse and swear
Light candles and **** away
But it never goes my way
So I keep putting on a play.

and when he told me
he’d **** himself if i left,
a part of me believed him.
a small stupid part of me,
foolish, young and naive,
wanted to believe that i’d meant that much
that the lack of my presence
would make his blood run cold,
leaking into the creases of the bathroom tiles.
if i left,
and he killed himself.
his blood would be on my hands
but unlike my blood on his,
this time it would be metaphorical
but would feel so much worse.