And then she read to me…

I haven’t published in a while. I have shed my weight in ink later dried to pages that I may never show anyone. I considered harvesting these words here, and throwing the site into the abyss. What purpose does it serve now when I feel dry and brittle?

And then she read to me…

Let me be clear. This is not about sex, but I was given what I needed in a moment without having to ask. There is very little on this Earth more intimate than that gift.

“How much do you trust me…” she beckoned knowing the answer. How does she fucking know those answers?

“Completely…oddly.” And I gave her my phone number.

______

My heart is ruptured and beating with the blood pooling under a thin, transparent skin that has just recently grown closed. When my heart races, I leak. When I look at it with the vaguest of judgment for its lack of hasty regenerative spirit, it oozes more than just a little. The slightest bump, and I may as well have slit it with rusty straight razor not fit for my lover’s beautiful collections.

We shared labels, and the disdain for their inaccuracy. We shared histories of transitions, and the litany of current circumstances that would break any mortal. She is funny, and dry while being caring and subtle. She gives me hope that my current jaded exterior can be something smoothed over by that current of energy she and I both master.

I told her about the stacks of men that have broken something while tromping around inside of me. They don’t mean to be bulls, so I do forgive them their damage. I know I have broken my share of shit in any proverbial china shoppe. I was tired and had cried so much that day. My spouse and my son had a conversation in which they brainstormed how to help me manage my current state of emotional dissonance despite my sitting there cutting my steak all by my own self. My love – who is far and no longer mine as such – is kicking my ass in online scrabble instead of telling me that he can’t wait for the day that I am in his arms forever. My love – who is my rock – is drinking to avoid the really real realities. I am stuffing my writing because I am scared to air it for the first time since identifying as a writer. I cry a lot.

I told her all of this, even though I don’t know her – and yet I do.

And then she read to me…

Now I can allow people to read my writing again.

2 thoughts on “And then she read to me…”

  1. Thank God. I missed you.

    I know when I write, I don’t always want to press “publish.” It’s a risk. I’ll be exposed. Haters and trolls want to take me down all too often.

    But I write for me. For my truth on the proverbial page. That part of me that doesn’t fit in anywhere.

    Thank you for sharing.

    MonalisaSmiled

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Truths are stupid hard to manage. I used to tell my love repeatedly when he read my work that my writing was incomplete. The readers see what I allow to some extent. There are so many pages I wrote just for me, so many I wrote just for him, and so many that I didn’t (or haven’t yet) had the heart to write.

      We are incomplete souls in so many ways.

      As always, @monalisasmiles….thanks for hearing me.

      Liked by 1 person

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