I loved a woman once…

Audio Prose

Odilon Redon|Angelica on the Rock–1904

And, I thought that perhaps, she loved me too. We find out the strangest things when we confess–when we reveal our feelings to others. What seemed to be a connection built from words and learning the backgrounds of our lives’ pasts was just… two people sharing a oneness and the similarities that surrounded us were not meant to be taken and held up to a promising light. There would be no romance, no spinning of the times, no eruptions of heart-throbbing, pulsing love-making, and nothing else that would classify in the realm of labels, a relationship.

Communication, I was always told, is key and when I communicated to her my feelings, that proved to be my doom. It was not the only time, for I am a knower of rejection. It has laid up with me, it sometimes has a home when I do not seek its company. Yes, it was not the only time, but it was the last and it hurt like hell. I still see her in my dreams, hear her voice, know her words. When you love a Writer, you know that they have the power to build you up or tear you down, and they do not do it as a courtesy to you, in your face, it comes in their work. And you, being a Writer yourself, you do it too.

I loved a woman once…

And, she taught me that it is not always best to share one’s feelings, that the tides have various shifts and changes and if you are not careful, you will be swept up with the seashells and gritty sand. I do not know what it is like to turn off my heart. I wish I did. There are days where I wish I did not know her voice, did not know how common words such as “caress” and “safety” sounded as they rolled away from her tongue. We take things along with us from the hurt places. Unknowingly, sometimes we keep them and when they see fit, they raise up at the wrong moment, reminding you of just how sharp that pain was.

I loved a woman once…

And I have written fifteen poems about her, only sharing two of them when asked, and reminded of just how close I am to dying an early death in the game of love. She would have no remorse, and why should she? The line had been drawn and I watch where it lies, mindful not to cross it. What have I learned? That the heart wants what it wants yet the mind has to remind it that sometimes, it cannot have what it wants… And sometimes, without its knowledge, it is for the best.

I loved a woman once…

And she loved me enough to not love me back.

Making Moves While Moving Minds While Striving To Stay Alive

Say boy, we make the decisions. I need all hands in the air. Tired and shaking. Shaking and tired. DO NOT SPEAK! Orders are shouted at us before we can talk some sense into our hearts…

Keep them from beating too fast. 

Before dawn, four of us lay sprawled out on a cold ground. Blood spilling from our heads. Mothers of boys cough on constant tears, voices held hostage. When can they speak?  Make room for empty promises and ignoramuses stepping on pointed toes. 

Give them an inch and they take ten miles, none of them green. 

I got 5 on the next incident that’s an accident that’s not really an accident, but they’re logging it as such as we count the bodies piling up. Killing us softly with more than songs. Your word is as good as your false teeth. Who amongst you will fight for an honor that is batted down at every turn?

Don’t you all speak at once. We can only swallow a few lies at a time. 

Make way for hardened hearts and stealthy forces. An untimely exodus is long overdue. 

Servicemen

 

servicemen
Courtesy of Frederick Hart/Vietnam Veterans Memorial

They come for them while they are still growing into skin. Their flesh stretching, becoming something new. Little pieces of heartache dipped in twisted lips and contorted positions. They launch rockets, send baby men to the angry sea.

Its mouth willing to swallow them whole.

They knock on your door with pocketed folded flags, prepared to tell you about his “job well done” and you stand on shaky feet knowing but not wanting to know. Your heart is liquid. It slides down your legs and forms a puddle before them.

The flag is given to you with a smile and a practiced speech—prompted condolences. You want to say, “Thank you for your service,” but you have forgotten how to do it without turning into a human being stripped of everything that matters.

They salute you. You are the receiver of his praise, for dying for a country that stopped caring for his life the moment he stepped on the front lines. But, you have been serviced. You have your perfectly folded flag as a reminder and the prompted condolences too.

There’s just one thing missing, though.
And he’s not coming back.


Originally published on Medium.

Covered

 

Courtesy of Vincent Van Gogh

When you are a young “Child of God,” in a family of his older children, no one tells you that being different is wrong. No one has to. You know it without words slithering into form or braving the wild storms that swirl in your head.

You shelter yourself. You hide behind notebooks, play sports, befriend a flute, or mother children that come long after you. But you don’t say who you are. You don’t show it, either.

Everyone has their opinion of what and who you will become. They design a life for you that encompasses change, but includes their beliefs and straying away from those would further alienate you from the flock.

Where does a sheep go when it’s afraid of losing its home?

Labels… You run away from them. It is easy to pass the ball or alley-oop it off to someone else and watch them dunk what you cannot. They land on their feet, relieved of the weight. You stand by witnessing what could be you, but fear of isolation is bigger than the removal of burdens.

So you cover yourself with words and lose yourself in their embrace. Layers of your past flood the pages. But you still haven’t said what needs to be said. Life is waiting for you to back it up.

Where does a sheep go when it’s afraid of losing its home?

Nowhere
.