Welcome back?

Hello, Midwest.
And you are snowing.
Again.

Last week was unintentionally unplugged. No internet. No laptop. No work. And shitty cell reception somewhere between San Antonio and the bay.

I may not know where home is, but I will always feel grounded by a warm breeze, the scent of a saddle shop, apple moonshine and two-stepping down the sidewalk.

I miss Texas. 
I don't belong here.

Body Cumbersome

My legs wet sandbags.

My eyelids leaded curtains.

My bones rusted gears. 

This hour of the morning doesn't come easy, but it does come fast.

My calves are aching from leading four hours of lecture in four inch heels. Why did I do that? 

Eavesdropping on the students one day, Nina overheard them list my name in the "Top Three Hottest Teachers" category. I laughed out loud. 

How easily these corn-fed boys are trapped into ranking beauty by blonde highlights and knee high boots. Would they think so highly of me if they heard my dirty mouth? If they knew my secrets? If they saw my body covered in ink? Certainly not if they heard me sing the words to Razorblade like I mean it.  

Those boys have no idea how truly fucking beautiful I am. 

And yet, I wake up early to scrape away the sand, peel off the lead and paint over the rust. I apply a new face and dress up as if my mother had ever taught me how to be pretty. 

Reverberation

First a hum, and then a whir, and then the ringing. The commotion of daylight will drown it out, but that tinny reverberation worst offends a battered heart sleeping alone.  

In silent penumbra

she whispers across the barren. 

What do you do if the ink blot doesn't turn into a puddle, and then a lake, and then an ocean? What do you do then? 

I can tell she already knows the answer. 

You find relief in knowing you will not drown today.

Inkblot

Not another word had been spoken. Yet, there it was.

That belt -

Nonchalantly hanging there. How long had it been hiding among the others?

Here is simple notion laden with mixed messages. Swirling in my muddled head, I can get lost. Misreading silent intentions, I am often wrong.

But he is a simple man.
Reel it in.

What was that?
Take each day as it comes.

And so the responsibility to trust in myself is on the agenda for today.


A pinpoint of love spreads slowly into an inkblot.

Deconstructed

I unravel.

Parts once pressured under (or polished over) now boil to the surface. Not a foundation nor a filling fit for public consumption, but now they are steaming up the mirror. I cannot see through the fog. I no longer recognize the inside out girl in front of me.

The damage. The determination. The humor and the tears. The successes and the shortcomings. The memories. The reality. The imperfections and the honesty. The realization, gratefulness and anger. The incongruity and the lessons.

I am stumbling through this flea market where mine are not the only blemished goods for sale. It is a private gallery of low budget restorations. I pick the pieces up, and hold them to my body. I try them on for size. Why doesn't anything fit together anymore?