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Eva 6h
Being cheated on hurts. So. Bad. 

The way I loved before, I know I’ll never be able to get back to that point ever again.

My sense of self worth has gone down, I now question my trust in my own intuition, and my hurt feels like a pain I’ve never felt before.

“I’m so glad I never have to worry about him.” 

Something I used to always tell my mom and friends.

I always thought his love for me would overpower his desire for other women. I was so wrong. 

I felt stupid. I felt played. 

I’d had opportunities to do him as ***** (if not dirtier) than he did me. I didn’t partake in those opportunities because I felt like our love was so pure and I didn’t want to be the one to ruin something so beautiful.

I was wrong. 
I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed. 

While I was sick, I thought he was being true to me. I fantasized about having his kids upon healing. I thought our love grew stronger because he was there for me at my lowest.

I was wrong.

Instead, he was spending time and money - something we both felt we had such little of- on someone else.

I feel hurt. I feel unsafe. 

I don’t trust the same way I used to. I don’t look at him the same way I used to. I don’t have “forever” hopes like I used to.

Hopefully someday I’ll heal.

But for now, my heart hurts.

I’ll never be the same.
Caro 20h
The blue dust of death
Lingers by your elbows
A skeleton in a t-shirt
Who insists he isn’t hungry
Who insists he doesn’t deserve
The dust used to sit around you in big puffs
Blown in fresh from the latest round of chemo
Now it swirls by your ears
Seeps at your nail beds
Swishes in the wispy little hair you have left
Now we’re doing the natural method
Many methods exist
And we’ve chosen one with good results
From a friend of a friend
She had three lumps in her breast and now they’re all gone
So now we talk to the good dr Valentina
Who answers questions and tells us what to do
And you are awake for all of it
You are not lost in a stupor of narcotics
Lost in the brain slickening wash of chemo
Lost in a stupor of alcohol
Lost in a rise of vivid emotions like rage and shame
Lost in the waves of the Holy Ghost
No, no you are here
In the stillness, in the quiet morning
In the house with your worried wife
Your worried daughters
With yourself
You are awake, conscious
Making these healthy, guided, slow, steady, daily choices
You’re surrendering consciously
And it’s hard
You’re present with your demons
And it’s hard
Maybe you see the blue dust of death
And maybe since your eyes are now clear
Maybe you think it’s new
Maybe you think it’s worsened and not lessened
You know so little, dad
You know about submarines, trains, fear, National Geographic, how to give a cutting death stare, how to starve your body, how to dehydrate, how to laugh off the pain of a friends wife, how to to convert someone to our lord and savior Jesus Christ in a broom closet, how to make a savage dog submit, how to provide for a family for 20 years, how to leave your young children, how to not care, how to brush it off, how to hide your drinking, how to lie, how to inquire, how to shame, how to apologize
Some of these skills are new and I’m grateful for them
And now you are learning how to live, blue dust of death and all
I wish there was something supernatural
Like a ghost that exists
Or a god up above
Or aliens
Or anything
Faeries and magic and dreams
Just something
so this whole ******* thing
doesn’t seem so mundane
What a
******* boring world
we live in
with its intricacies and economics
and evil and greed
no hero’s or heroines
Just sandwiches and dope
And taxes
what a joke
How did we come to exist
And not just survive
but thrive
By playing tricks on ourselves
Like paying to live,
when we can just do that For free
I guess the fee
is so that we don’t
have to try so hard,
but then why is it so ******* hard?

{He types this into a 5-year old iPhone [which he resents(for various reasons, like how addicted he is to it And how it’s function is diminishing, because it’s older) which is basically modern magic, alchemy at the very least], ignoring the technological marvel In his hand that provides everything he needs for modern assimilation, but he just wishes it wasn’t still in his hand}

May 17th 2024 7:18am
This was a hell of a night...
Lila May 4
People stopped asking how I was
Stopped caring about my pain
Stopped caring when I fell to the floor
Stopped pitying me
Stopped hanging out with me
People got tired of me being sick
They acted like i wasn’t tired of it too
Hello Daisies Apr 21
I am a gut
Bloated and acidic
I am  veins pulsating
In pain
I am nothing
And everything

I am like a zombie
Purple and
not breathing
What's keeping
A hold on me?

I am a head
And stabbing
I am but eyes
Blurry and deceiving
What's causing
This bleeding ?

I am fingers
Numb and gone
I am but legs
And wrong
To the ground

I am a heart
Shaking rapidly
Pulsating sadly
I am
Twisting and turning
Nauseated and burning

I am
I am
I.  ..
Falling apart
And fast
I'm not going
To last

I am not human
I am a mystery
Nobody cares to discover
Lost and put under covers

I am not me
I am not alive
I cannot thrive
I am
What doesn't matter
Thrown and tossed aside

All I am
Is pain
And more money
To gain

I remain
As all this pain
To them
More money to gain
I am
An illness
That will forever
In this body
With no humanity
To retain
I've been very ill for sometime now
Anais Vionet Apr 11
I flew to Chicago last Friday night
my great uncle was turning a hundred.
The plan was to fly-in Friday, party Saturday,
and fly out Sunday. No missed school.

The air felt colder in Chicago, the wind really bit,
and the sun seemed to be at an odd angle.
We stopped by the beach of a lake so large
that there were waves breaking on the beach.
The party was great. EVERYONE was there.

But then there was the choreography of luck.
I woke up sick Sunday morning - really sick -
deathly sick, you know the drill, weak
like my muscles were falling off my bones.
At 8am Charles called - I should have met him.
I couldn’t lift the phone - I poked the button.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I told him before falling back asleep.
KLUNK I heard my hotel room door open, it was Charles.
He came in looking like he expected a threat.

I could only open my eyes for a second.
“I’ve GOT it,” I told him, (not knowing what ‘it’ was)
“Get out, save yourself.”
So went Sunday and Monday - I didn’t eat or drink.
Charles canceled flights, extended hotel room bookings,
and the car rental. Finally, Tuesday morning, he said,
“I think you’d better try.” So somehow, we flew and we made it.

There was a famous football player across the aisle from me
He’s retired now, like all of my heroes - Brady, Manning.
He played for the Ravens, I’d hated the ravens, I’d hated him,
the way you hate someone just because they’re great
but they play for the other team. I didn’t tell him, and sadly,
I didn’t warn him that I might just throw up on him (I was masked).
Charles bought me one of those horseshoe pillows and I passed out.

Before I knew it I was back in the dorm.
Being sick and helpless, away from the comforts of home is the worst.
I’ll have to remember that - someday - If I’m a doctor.
What does it mean to be truly free? /
Walk unafraid through the turbulence /
Of a world with so much unknown. /
Know that the principalities in power /
Do not quell, do not pacify the Holy Dove. /

The heartless, the lost, the wayworn, /
We pray they'll find their way /
We beseech divine Aether that all pain be undone. /
A miasma lingers in the atmosphere: /
The sting of death & of mourning. /

Wandering in loss, fugitive these words lay /
In my subconscious; therefore, I look within /
For the sinew, the strength to carry on. /
Life continues for so long as we pilgrimage, we roam, /
The Land of The Living. /

3 "With that I heard a loud voice from the throne say: /
'Look! The tent of God is with mankind, and he will reside with them /
And they will be his people. And God himself will be with them. /
4 And he will wipe out every tear from their eyes and death will /
Be no more, neither will mourning, nor outcry nor pain be anymore. The former things have passed away.'"—Revelation 21: 3, 4 (NWTSE)

What limitless heights we could achieve /
Without the kiss of death, /
Yet a life eternal awaits those who are liege & faithful /
Yes, one without suffering & one without loss; /
Moreover, cause for rejoicing! /

Should I awake upon the morrow /
I will not fear my departure /
For I know that something illimitable, something aeonic, something sempiternal, /
& something far grander awaits: /
—Life eternal. /
CarolineSD Mar 13
I am clinging to you like a steady rain into my palms,
On my knees, in the damp ground,
Putting my entire soul into the act of
Never dropping our love
Never letting it fall like something that is not treasured
Beyond all measure.

Your touch cascades across my face like
Rain in August, when it is
Still warm, and honest, and true
And we are bathing in a storm that is immeasurably beautiful,
Exceeding words, exceeding all of our attempts to define;
To contain it.

Our love rushes like a torrent of wild rivers to the sea
And we are blind to its source and where
it leads,
So, I am here grasping at water as it seeps through my hands,
Trying to control that which I never can.

I don’t want to lose you.

I don’t want to lose you.

I don’t want to lose you.

These doctors come and go
And the testing was good and did not show the worst
And if we monitor and test and treat
and treat and monitor and test,
I may never have to watch you
Fight for your life in a
Hospital bed.

And yet, as I sit in each, cold waiting room
I know
There is only so much we can do to break the flow
Of the rain,
When the skies open up and say,
It’s time to go.

Still, I will hit my knees in the flooding ground,
Arms locked tight around your neck,
And I will tell them, firmly, and without end:


I will fight forever for my husband. Fight for his health, his well being. Fight against a system that wants to brush people off. Fight for diagnosis and treatment. Fight against time. A losing battle for all of us. It becomes more real when a loved one has a major medical issue, but I will never give up. In sickness and in health. I will be steadfast through all of it. Wesley, I love you more than every star in the sky.
He cried, “Out!”

(In the darkest corner of a small wooden landing at the top of the steps to the fenced back yard of a rented home currently occupied by a trio of underpaid shift workers whom, as a kindness and in response to the predicted overnight cold snap, have taken into their foster care a destitute stray. A man of roughly 40 clearly hard worn years kneels doubled over and wailing mournfully to himself, his head tucked in and down toward his chest in an undeniably penitent posture similar to the pious prayer of those who heed the daily call, and face Mecca. Apropos of nothing, he just so happens to be faced to Mecca at this moment. This is, however, purely coincidental, as our pitiful subject here is not a man of clothe, nor one of great or even minor faith, much less a man of daily prayer or mindful meditation. Quite In contrast, He is a drinker and a drifter; drug-addicted, disaffected, dissatisfied, and dismayed. Yet he is also a dreamer of the highest order, completely convinced of the attainability of a singular salvation of creative elucidation, a dream he has been chasing unrelentingly for more than 20  years; and which he has just this very evening seen how truly attainable it is. Merely moments ago, In a vision of clarity which came over him unwittingly, and uninitiated by anything within his purview, our vagrant interloper has seen a crystallization of artistic inspiration which envisioned all the interconnections within his disjointed philosophical treatises, which he has spent the better part of three decades  composing, and in that moment he was overtaken by the sudden uninhibitable need to bleed the pressure wellingup inside his chest and his lungs began to squeeze. The noise they made directed itself toward the realm of sorrow. It is a wail of a desperation; not unlike one you might hear from fathers who’s lost there cherished sons, from lovers who’ve lost their lovers, and from children having a tantrum who need to eat and then to sleep, but refuse. He was at that moment all of these things in essence; a man rejected and alone, beset by turmoil of his own making, and both exhausted and famished; but his noise came joyfully, as it was the expression of something deep within him which he had recently freed; and so no effort was made to sequester or quiet the cries that he now seethes. It is simply the gasp and exhalation of soul which desperately needed to breathe.)

A soft wail arises quietly from silence to an open mouth, a single note, unbroken and controlled as much as one can control such a sound. From this beginning after a moment, almost a minute but something less, if you were to count; the wail completes with a sharp cutoff instead off dying back down. It ends, from an open mouth to clenched teeth and the tongue cutting off the sound. It makes a word but he did not consciously say it; it’s just the only word that could come…


Go the **** away!
I do not need you
I do not want you
I will not hold you
You have to leave
There is no place for you in here any more
Get. Out.
Get out.



(As he spits these curses and pleads, something moves deep with in him. he convulses and every muscle in him begins to squeeze and he feels as if he’s imploding and but his eyes are about to explode out, and in this seizing state, he feels the expelled energy escape, physically, through the center of his mind and forehead, like a boiler valve exploding with steam in a movie. It goes out and up and away and silently it leaves. A calm settles over the whole scene as he stills his body, still convulsing, and then he sees swirling among the phosphors on the back of his eyelids, where it burns an impression when one stares at bright light too long, something coalesce: an impression of an Iris, pulsing and folding into itself but without edge, as if his minds eye were right in front of him. He stays there penitent and quiet and keeps his eyes closed, in order not to lose it, because whatever it is he needs to know it; what ever it is, he cannot deny he sees it. He stays perfectly still while it’s centered in his vision, as if it were a wild animal he intended not to scare away, and silently he studies it and stares and considers what has just opened in his vision and what, preceding that, had thusly broken away. Slowly realization comes, as it’s elemental name is spoken silently from behind,
         “I am the one who sees,
            I am that which drives
         I am you, and you are me
                 We are together,
                   A single being
                         but You
                  are part of me”

and upon the realization solidifying, without hesitation he addresses it, directly and in a docile tone…

I see you
I see you there
staring back at me

I know who you are
I know you are me

It’s good to see you
I’ve missed you
Where did you go?

He lifts his head just a little, just so he’s holding it with his neck, it’s the first movement he has made beyond the minimum necessary to say the words he had to say and to expand and contract his lungs enough to breath. As he opens his eyes, the vision persists and he’s now staring at it outside of him, nestled into his unknowingly cupped and folded hands, like one would make to receive the sacrament of communion, which is ironic yet somehow perfect for this experience is the only religious thing he’s ever felt or known or seen. Now, with eyes open it looks to be an orb of energy without a glow, and he folds his hands closed around it as if to hold it, and he stands up with eyes closed; as yet unwilling to lose the vision and let it go. He turns slightly to the north, away from the darkness he had hidden in before and opens his eyes hopefully for the first time in ages.

He stares distantly into the foliage of a few scattered trees that occupy a greenway next to a drainage ditch called “flood street” to the people
that know, and in those last late autumn leaves still hanging on with incredulity, he sees the inner eye again, still staring back at him, and in that moment he already knows- it’s not going go, it is part of his mind, which now he’s opened it will be ever-present, even if unseen. He shifts his gaze over to the corner of a house not too far away and again he sees it shimmering, superimposed. It’s not external it is like a lens through which he sees now, and he becomes joyful.

He lowers his eyes in peaceful pause and starts to take off his clothes, he sheds his jacket, shirt and socks, flinging them to and fro and descends the steps into the yard and squeezes the grass between his toes. He presses hard down through his feet, to let the ground know that he is there and he will not sink. His stance widens. He loosens his shoulders as he reaches down between his feet, and sets his palms flat in the grass, exhaling deeply as he folds. Then breathing deeply in and upward he raises up towards the sky stretching everything inside, reaching as high as he go, and there he sees the Cheshire smile and he greets the moonlight glow

Hi how are you, I’m glad you’re here too

And then he begins to dance with it, in Meditative and intentional movement. He makes a show for the moonlight and the minds eye and he moves every muscle under his control, twisting and turning in soft ecstasy releasing decades of unwanted tension; finally letting all the build-up go. He lands down in the sweet smelling grass on his belly, arms folded and in his vision are two small flowers swaying slightly and only them, no leaves rustle because no breeze blows. It seems to him that they danced with him and he will remember this for the rest of his troubled life, though it should be a little easier now knowing what he knows.
Another short for Footnote

12-24-23 Christmas Eve
I was homeless, ostracized from the family, high strung out, sad, salty, smelly, sleepy, but indoors by the grace of  a good friend, and on the verge of being as sick as I have been in a very long time. The next day would be spent entirely in bed ill with a flu like I had never seen. It was the worst Christmas pageant ever… but the night before I was able to distill this auto-fiction from an experience that with the exception of the names of streets, happened exactly as written, it was a very poignant experience for me, and its details were summarily seared into my brain.
Mimi Bordeaux Jan 25
To Lose Everything and Die for it

Punch me know how it feels how it goes away too soon like its memory holding the pull of time holding out for something punch me in the guts how is it feels like pool of blood pressure lowing it feels like pool of blood holding a pitch in decay decades of forlorn expulsion of punch list of items in the guts free to call pulling me out of time call the feels like pool of blood holding a punch me know how it goes away too soon golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high from the closest thing to blood pressure lowing the punch me know how it feels holding on to the feeling like blood spilt on a pool of soil golden brown hasish found in my pocket and two years after that hit me in the guts feel how it goes holding a pitch and putt goal in mind to star in my own golden hours brow beaten path to gold punch me know how it feels
Holding up the rush of running to nothing a globe holding on to it like how is it feels golden blood pressure lowing the punch me in the guts how are we feeling blood holding up the acolyte it goes away too soon punch me know what you are missing golden hours on methadone climbing and closing gate to star in my own and operate a higher level than God holding on to nothing is happening fast as you running away from too soon punch me know when it comes to blood pressure lowering your thoughts down to memory card punch in the head all gone to her head now holding on my way to freedom of memory cells broken and missing like chemical reaction to antidepressants is so sad down in the morning and in my night time memory punch in the morning and night at golden hours blood pressure lowering your price list for closing gate to freedom blood golden brown hasish found in my pocket with the ticket to hell never gone through the whole day without your consent format time it moves around universe floating around your body slowing growth and you feel like punch me know how it feels like pool going too soon holding the pull out of your life holding the baby of love despite the gate to freedom of golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high good byeall gone to her head now holding on my way to freedom of memory cells broken and missing like chemical reaction to antidepressants is so sad down in the morning and in my night time memory punch in the morning and night at golden hours blood pressure lowering your price list for closing gate to time
it moves around universe floating around your body slowing growth and you feel like punch me know how it feels like pool going too soon holding the pull out of your life holding the baby of love despite the gate to freedom of golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high good bye
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