December 2015

This is me.

This is my year.

I know this.

Like I know the sun came up this morning. I watched it.

Like I know I am loved honored cherished.

42^nd run around the sun. The answer to life the universe and everything according to Douglas Adams.

I believe him.

The answer is, keep learning.

I need a bigger word for optimism. I require bigger words for most things these days.

New Year new me? Fuck that shit. I worked to get here. There is no starting from scratch this time.

Not new, MORE. More magic, more adventure, more sex, more love, more money, bigger better faster stronger.

I have got this.

My foundation is beautiful mutable and strong. It’s built on the bones of the girls I used to be. And I will whisper her a secret, she is unbreakable.

I told a story told to a younger version of me…

“You’re going to travel a dark road, and you will have to become dark for a while to survive it. The place you are going kills light. Your war is coming. If you want to live you will have to become war. Your light will dim, you will fight dirty, fall down and make mistakes. You have to be dark for a while.”

I’ve forgiven myself ever fumble and sin because they got me here.

The last 2 years have been a search for peace and I have found it. Trying to quell my rage and wrath but they have a place here. Sometimes there is war and I will fight. Without hesitation or reservation.

I forgive my nemeses past because, well, good try but you were weighed, measured and came up wanting.
I have no one to conquer but myself and my imagined limitations.

I have no enemies, only those I can help and those I cannot.

I have no limits. All of this ‘human’ stuff is exactly that. An invention, constructs to give structure and discipline. I cannot abide. Don’t need it nor want it. I control my thoughts and my body. And this is the year to let them do as they will. Fuck gravity. Fuck time. Fuck limits. Let’s see what we are capable of.

I conquered the place called ‘alone’ and found comfort there.

I am alright with my heart being broken with the things that break the heart of god, because unlike god, I can and will do something about it.
I heal what others break.

I know what to do with your pain because I learned what to do with my own.

The universe doesn’t see good or bad, it just sees energy. There are no limits or stipulations, I give and take like waves. I am a calm blue ocean others swim in, and I am a hurricane when destruction is necessary to rebuild.

I see so clearly why everything has gone the way it has.

I am blessed with second sight, hind sight, foresight.

This is my life and I will do with it as I see fit.

And what I see and what I want is more. More of everything.

This is a year of balance and power and exploring my potential.

I want to be seen and heard.

I am grateful for everything.

“Out there in the spotlight

You’re a million miles away

Every ounce of energy

You try to give away

As the sweat pours out your body

Like the music that you play

Later in the evening

As you lie awake in bed

With the echoes from the amplifiers

Ringin’ in your head

You smoke the day’s last cigarette

Remembering what she said.

Here I am…”

My soldier and I had a back and forth today. I spilled some things I cannot say here.

He wrote a note to 24 year old me. It was pretty amazing.

Told me I was going to go into the dark, but I would come out. Told me it was okay to make mistakes. Told me my light would make the sun look like a candle, that I would be heard around the world. Told me I was going to save him. 24 year old Me was a clumsy stripper with no self-esteem. I would have shied away from him, but been intrigued I believe.

I did everything wrong in the time called before.

I recalled a few times from before when I stepped in and saved people. I always was what I am, I just denied it. I denied everything.

I carried around a lot of shame about my job for pretty much the entire time I have been doing it. I lied about it a LOT. Ran from it and to it like a tennis match. I squandered my money when I had it and missed it when I didn’t. Allowed men to abuse me physically, emotionally and financially because there is NO way I was beating myself up enough for how much I liked doing something so dirty. I needed reinforcements. I found plenty men willing to treat me like shit and take my money. Yay?

“You pretend it doesn’t bother you

But you just want to explode”

Now I am 41, stripping again.

And for the first time in 17 years I feel like I am doing it right. My way. I am not looking to others for guidance or approval. I am just me.

I went home in July and when my sister asked what I was doing for work I said the words “I am back stripping, really enjoying it.” I had never said that out loud to my family. It just flew out of my mouth like it belonged out and I let it out and it was good amen.

The acceptance came slowly. Months earlier I told two boys I went to high school with what I was doing. They didn’t flinch. Didn’t get gross about it, just said ‘okay’.

It is okay isn’t it?

It is such a huge part of who I am. It’s me.

The shame is gone and the secret is out. I love being a stripper.

“Here I am, on the road again

Here I am, upon the stage

Here I go, playin’ star again

Here I go, turn the page”

Christmas Eve I got in my first fight at work since the 90’s (if memory serves which sometimes it doesn’t). First rage since Tyson, that was her name, Tyson. She came at me and I launched her 10 feet.

I fucked her boyfriend later too. Apparently I was really mad. Kidding. I fucked her boyfriend because he was wonderful, one of my 4 horsemen, the Stripper Whisperer. Still love that man.

Where was I?

Oh ya. Fight at work. I touched on it the last two articles. Things I cannot abide. She did two outta 3.

I didn’t have a thesaurus to hit her with and planned on using my fist. She is a small word kinda girl anyways, 2 syllable max. Got interrupted. Actually escorted to the bar and given a free drink.

The strangest thing happened after. I couldn’t get out of the back room. I kept getting dressed getting 8 feet back onto the floor and someone would come get me, ask me for a dance and back I went. This went on for the rest of the night almost. Just like the good old days.

I got a sweet message from a man I play pool with at work the next morning. I have a small archipelago of men masquerading as islands. Places I swim to when I need a break but don’t want to be off the floor. He is one of them, he said I looked magnificent that night. I asked my soldier if that man had seen the fight, he said yes.

I am at my most powerful in those places, under black lights, music blaring out of speakers that have been around longer than I.

I joke that when men draw women superheroes, they put my boots on them. Super Stripper. Able to unclip her bra one-handed without losing a beat, able to disappear on stage completely. Walking around saving my tiny corner of the world. Naked and free. Conquering my own demons and slaying others as well.

I am the bouncer’s favorite for a few reasons. One of them being I can handle myself. Rather well.

I am a Geisha and conduct myself as such. Mostly with poise and grace and if I find myself on my back I can fight.

I have laid off the drinking to a degree. I find it more satisfying to maintain control than to block everything out. And I am necessary again. I have to be present.

I’m the size of a giant when I’m angry or happy. The stilettos don’t hurt.

A new year is upon us. 2 years ago I sat at the ocean and gave away all of the fucks I used to carry about other people’s opinions.

I am what I am. I am happy and strong.

I love my life and my job, suits me just fine. It is me and for the most part I love myself.

I don’t want to fight myself anymore, I’m hella strong and tend to wear myself out.

So why deny myself?

I’m not playing star, I just am.

(Bob Seeger Turn the Page lyrics)

I love words.

Louis CK does a bit about how we cheapen language. We truly do.

“How will you describe the birth of your child when you have already wasted the word awesome on a fucking sandwich?”

Truth.

Once upon a time I had a nemesis in the form of sister-wife.

I woke up laughing one morning and retracted her title.

She wasn’t worthy. She was a gnat flying by my ear. People only have as much power as we give them, I have all, she has none.

I wanted to call her a succubus, but that would insult my fellow succubae. We who eat sex and use it to heal ourselves and others.

Parasite. Aye, that. She has a mental illness that makes her unable to form any semblance of self. She was born without a soul. So she steals/cheats/lies her way into other people’s skin and lives. Feeding off the host until the host packs up and leaves.

I called her a leptictidium once. Latin for ‘delicate weasel’. Usurper too.

Apparently when I get mad, I bludgeon people with my thesaurus.

I love monsters.

I do.

One of them is misconstruing the moniker.

He calls me humminbird. He sees my wings.

He is my Keeper.

He has taken abuse meant for me.

A girl made the mistake of asking me if I had a problem with her when my rage building. I do. I did. It’s over now.

She has a small mind and a big mouth. She spits words she doesn’t understand and has no rights to. She was warned.

I can’t call it a fight any more than I could call sister-wife a nemesis with a straight face. It wasn’t a fight. No conflict worth having ends with someone whinging the words “Why are you talking to me like I am little?”

“Because you FUCKING ARE.”

Words are powerful things. Once upon a time a faggot was a bundle of sticks. Now it is a word that causes death. It is designed to cut and tear at someone for varying reasons, none of which have merit to me. I won’t call it a knife, I know my pen is mightier than my sword. Words cut and leave jagged wounds that won’t heal. Like that one, which when I struggle to describe it, is a dirty prison shank.

What rhymes with shank?

My Keeper and I had tried to reach in and help this girl. I use that word with remorse. She shames my gender and profession by existing. Skank, the answer is skank. That word always made me think of clearing your throat with the intention of spitting out the yuck you find there. She is the yuck.

There are those with soul and love and light, there are those that protect us from the others.

Low men and women. Labeled as monsters. Nay nay. These creatures that draw breath and commit atrocities are a different breed of thing. Meat puppets without a shred of humanity. The lord is their shepherd but these sheep have teeth and claws. No soul, no light and no mind.

Sometimes fire must be fought with fire.

Sometimes we need the good monsters to fight the bad. Cull the herd.

Take a life to save a thousand. Cut out cancer for the greater good, even if the cancer is a skinny blonde white girl.

“She’s gone from one to be protected to one to protect others from.”

Yes sweetheart.

She showed her yellow sash when she hit you to get to me. When she thought hurting those who had her best interests at heart was a thing she ought to be doing.

He got in between us, my monster did and took the force of the blow. Human shield, but more than human.

He had to, if she’d hit me…I cannot imagine what he would’ve done. I’ve seen what he does to those who put their hands on me with ill intent.

He would never hit a woman, this I know…but I’ll say it again, she was no woman at that point. Just a spastic, flailing skin sac full of drink and drugs, lashing out spewing poison from a mealy mouth. Drowning and ready to take us with her into the depths. Oh honey, I can fight underwater. I prefer it actually.

I call him my monster, but there is no leash here. He stands with me of his own free will. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip and its bliss. We recognized each other immediately. We both fight for light, just in different ways, he hurts when he has to so I can heal when I can.

We tried to pull this girl out a hell of her own making, she pulled the curtains and locked the door.

I tried to explain it to him like this. She is like a cat (a skinny, skanky, dirty, mean ol’ cat) that keeps running back into a burning building finding worse places to hide. Somehow avoiding the flames and making sure you get burned. Then I have to run into the flames to get him out. Stop now. I am out of balm.

Fucking little twatling.

The addition of ‘ling’ to any word denotes affection. I’ve none left for her, but it’s funnier this way. It also implies inconsequential and aye, that she is.

I say it the way southern women say “bless her heart”. A beautiful fuck you.

A Scorpio will ignore you so hard you will begin to question your own existence. I am not a Scorpio, I am not of their tribe, but I love them I am their ambassador and interpreter and they have shown me their secrets.

I realize by writing this I’m breathing life into these two low women. Whatever immortality I give them with my words will be squandered so I am not worried.

The worst thing you can do to someone you cared about is … nothing.

My ghosts taught me this. Thanks guys.

With this last tap of the keyboard. She’s on her own.

What is worse than rape?

Figure that out and you will have all the answers.

The General’s Daughter

There are rapes worse than mine. I know this. We tell ourselves in a twisted attempt to seek comfort, “it could have been worse”.

I have to argue that point. It was what it was and it was bad. Imagining scenarios where the horror was multiplied doesn’t really bring me any peace. Not living in the past brings me peace.

Fighting the good fight, speaking out loud so others feel less isolated. That is empowerment. Knowing I am whole and healed and not at all what happened to me.

Once upon a time I had nothing and no one.

My family life was in ruins because I ruined it. My friendships were fleeting things. I was as alone as I ever was.

I had been friends with a group of girls, who out of some misplaced jealousy, turned on me one night and held me down outside of a high school dance and kicked me in the head until I couldn’t see.

It could have been worse.

I had no other friends. I was really alone.

Eventually I met another girl. And I clung to her like a floating headboard after the sinking of the Titanic.

Here is where we run into issue with our obsession with comparisons.

I won’t lie and say I have never met anyone as fucked up as her, I have. For some reason I used to be a magnet to that type of inhuman human. But let the record show, she was/is really fucked up. Sadly however, compared to the girls who probably would have left me maimed if not dead had someone not come along and pulled them off me, she was a fucking angel.

She was my first really abusive relationship. She furthered my isolation from my family. Every day there was new drama, I didn’t rest for the years I was with her. Always on alert for the next thing that was coming to get her. She was a false martyr and a master manipulator. I had no sense of self and didn’t know any better. I do now.

A hit can feel like a kiss when the body is starved for attention (unknown)

Been thinking on her a lot lately. Remembering her patterns. Using them to prepare for war.

You see dear readers.

It’s happening again.

Well it was. I tend to write in retrospect.

When I was 17 years old, and thought the sun rose and set on this girl’s ass, that she could do no wrong…she did the penultimate wrong. And she wanted to take me along for the big long ride into Wrongland.

She cheated on her man. No great sin in and of itself. People cheat, it’s a thing.

But to cover her tracks, she said he raped her.

I think I just figured out what is worse than rape.

I hadn’t been on the planet all that long. I had no first second or third hand knowledge of what that word actually meant. But somehow I knew she was wrong.

She said the words out loud and the villagers picked up pitchforks and torches and set about lynching this guy. This man who had committed only one crime, sleeping with crazy.

She backpedaled her way out of it. Said she was drunk when it happened, that she had night terrors from past experiences and got confused. The mob settled down.

I didn’t know the man she accused.

She was my only friend in the world.

But I wouldn’t lie for her.

There are things men can do to women that are unforgivable abominations against the Lord. Rape is exactly that. Taking something and leaving you alive to remember being violated.

There are things only women can do to men that fuck them up on the same level. Lying about being pregnant, which I am ashamed to admit I have done. And so very much worse…false accusations of the supreme violation that is rape.

Three times in this calendar year, men I care about have been falsely accused of rape.

Although I have proof, undeniable proof, that these 3 men did not commit the act they were accused of. I believed them when they told me. I know what lies taste like and they are telling the truth.

I have said, and continue to say, to all women. If a man hurts you in any way and you tell me, I will believe you without question. I stand with the victims. I have been through this process and came out stronger on the other side. I am here for you.

But these men. These good men, who would rather wear a label calling them murderer, looking at me with insurmountable pain in their eyes pleading for help, deserve my protection as well. Without question.

Here is the thing. I had to defend myself for 13 hours on the stand during my rapist’s trial. He almost got away with what he did, he got a reduced sentence…why? Because of women who cry wolf.

I hate using that phrase. Wolves don’t do this. Rapists are low men, and false accusers are low women. There is no comparison here.

Rape is an abomination of something I hold sacred. And to lie about it, makes you equally low in my eyes.

This last girl to spew this poisoned shit was someone I called friend. No more. She no longer exists.

When a woman cries rape she cheapens what I went through. She makes it harder for those who have to live through it. And the pain caused to the falsely accused is something I don’t think I could bear.

I am the sister to all women and good men. I cannot abide.

I wish I could say that when I was 17 and I watched all of this happen that I walked away from that girl and her toxic circus. I didn’t. She used and abused me for years after. I wasn’t strong enough.

I am now.

I say with alarming regularity that I don’t like Christmas, never did.

Lie detector determines that is a lie.

I loved Christmas as a child.

Trees, gifts, family, food, magic, love.

I don’t remember when I stopped believing in Santa Claus, but I had 2 younger sisters so I kept the secret, in cahoots with the adults, feeling very grown up.

When I was 13 my dad’s family came for Christmas at our house. There is video proof of what a little shit I was. It’s embarrassing to watch. But the rest of the video is filled with smiles and dancing and my Nana and Papa singing. So I just skip over the bits with me in it.

My Nana died when I was 15 and that is when a lot of light left my life, not ‘all’, but most.

That was when I started disliking Christmas.

Even the birth of my son 6 years later couldn’t bring it back. So I faked it. And in the way of my child, he knew.

He is with me now, the same age I was when I had him and we are gearing up for a pilgrimage to ocean.

We did this 2 years ago too.

There was an ice storm Christmas Eve. I rolled in from work 5 minutes after the power went out and my partner at the time (Budget George) was decidedly unprepared.

I found myself filling tubs, trimming wicks, making snow blocks for the freezer and barking instructions.

We made it 4 days, well fed with no great losses.

Then I went to the ocean with my boy. First Christmas it was ever just us and it was bliss.

Mostly.

Budget George had a choke chain around my neck and yanked it often.

I walked in the door upon my return and said enough. Who knew I could break chains?

2 years prior I had hit my most southernly bottom point in the pit of hell that was my life.

I was trying to reconcile with St. Anthony, which consisted of sneaking off to hotel rooms to fuck before he went back to MY farm and sisterwife. Christmas was coming and I wanted to go home. He said I could. Shock of all shocks, he fucking lied.

I spent that Christmas alone. Locked in my girlfriend’s cold, dirty apartment with her cats. Sick as fuck. Watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer crying so hard I burst a blood vessel in my eye and tore my esophagus.

I lied to my mother, pretended I was fine. Pretended Anna was home. Told her we had Chinese food and movie marathons. Truth was I did eat Chinese, but I wretched it up, violently. 5 days of crying and puking and crying some more.

It was my lowest point.

Lied to, lying, abandoned by everyone.

I climbed out of that hole into another, this time with Budget George for company.

It wasn’t the best of times nor the worst, but when you are that low, even an inch up seems like a mile.

2 years later I dumped him and started to really live.

The winds of change are blowing today literally and figuratively.

It is the warmest December on record. Also literally and figuratively. I am surrounded by people who keep me safe and warm and loved.

My bed now looks like the inside of a gypsy caravan (I just laid out my summer clothes)

Last year around now I was neck deep in fighting a long overdue court case.
I was home alone in Narnia. And I was brave and strong and tough.
I was as proud of myself as I have ever been.
I won and she never did pay me.
I fought the good fight, the defendant’s rather famous lawyer said so.

I am not thinking on last Christmas, I am thinking on the one before.

2 years ago was the ice storm. I kept 4 people safe warm and fed without power for 4 days before I went away.

Came home and changed my life.

Shed 200 pounds of deadweight and decided to see what alone felt like.

Feels like bliss and magic. Young Un’s and freedom. Sunshine and manic fits of writing.

I opened my mouth and spilled my guts onto the interwebz. Found purpose.

I’ve had a decidedly fucked up and magical 2 years.

I’m going back to the ocean to power-up and give thanks.

In 7 days begins my 42nd turn around the sun and I already know this next year coming is going to be the most amazing thing I have ever experienced. I feel it in my bones.

Sometimes we have to hit rock bottom because that’s where the fertile soil is.

Happiest of holidays everyone.

It’s my anniversary today.

A year and a day ago I started this website.

This is my 151^st post. And I am still rambling about nothing/everything.

Conversations with the soldier yesterday, I said it was okay that I got raped.

He got his back waaaaaaaaaay up and his arms around me in a perfect circle.
“No it isn’t” he whispered. Who knew a whisper could sound so strong?

“Aye, tis. And I will tell you why. I was raped so I could learn how to conquer and get past it. So I could say those words out loud and help other people survive it.”

Everything I ever did got me here. I regret nothing.

It’s funny to have Facebook and now this discombobulated diary out floating in the vast ocean of the internet.

Karma markers everywhere.

Facebook means well with the ‘hey do you want to see your memories?’
I want them all.

7 years ago I was ruined.

6 years ago my body was tossed around the inside of my jeep and my bones matched my mind. Broken.

5 years ago I saw a light and had no idea what to do with it.

3 years ago my witchy mama came to rescue me.

2 years ago I went to the ocean and decided to change my life.

Last year I let my heart live on my sleeve and there she sits. Safe as houses.

Fairy tales and parables about the monsters I let into my bed.

So many monsters come and gone teaching me things, being taught by me.

And my one worry was ‘who in god’s green anywhere is going to love me like this?’

Messy guts spilled like an oil slick on the ocean of the internet.

The answer is 2. Maybe more.

12.13.14 I let go of the boy I loved my whole life. He messaged me today, “I cannot quit you” he says, so let’s make that 3.

The more me I become me the more I am astounded by the ‘shit guys say to me’.
(Not just men, women too.)

I started a biweekly posting to Facebook.

Sometimes it’s bad, I do work in a strip club after all.

But sometimes it is better than I could ever imagine.

I told soldier my dirtiest secret yesterday (one I hadn’t even told The Poet and he knew errrrting) and he didn’t flinch. He just said its part of who and what you are. Said he would love me forever and would never want me to change.

Another one who adores me from afar somehow conjured everything I ever wanted to hear into a message and I just stared at my laptop in awe. He spelled out a life based around a profound understanding of who I am and what I need. Including the words “go tend to your soldier, I am not going anywhere.” This is what bliss feels like.

They have both read everything I have written to date and learned me. I cannot describe how amazing this feels. To be really seen and adored for it.

Not just by them, by so many people. I really did find my tribe and the language they speak is like music to me.

I have come home to myself in this tiny house.

I have a renewed idea of what sanctuary means…what an honor it is that someone else sees me that way.
Mind you, I am Gypsy and will always wander.
I will never be done soul searching.

I hid from the world and myself for so long. I buried all the things out of misplaced shame…and when I finally dug them up I realized they were diamonds.

Dear Girls,

I wish I could call you women, but as it stands, at this very moment we are fluctuating between High School and Preschool.

There are not enough mamas for the whole drunkenmonkeymentalmidgetcircus happening nightly.

And dad has been drinking again.

Stop.

Stop now.

Please.

I love all of you.

Almost.

She who never socially progressed past 4 years old, who throws shoes and tantrums like confetti at your own pity party, please know I tried. But being near you was my soul equivalent of chewing on tin foil.

I couldn’t, I can’t, I won’t with you. You are all sharp angels and teeth and you bite every hand that gets near you.

I tried to save you, guide you and you would run the other way, arms and mouth flailing not caring who you hit. I’m done.

You were never drowning, you just had to stand up.

Everyone else. I need you to listen.

Ours is the last clean club for a thousand miles in every direction. I know because I have been out there. Keep this up and we will be scattered to the winds of the Prairies or taking orders at coffee shops. Which is a better fate than those clubs by the airport, they’re hell and purgatory combined.

I started dancing in the 90’s after the Supreme Court ruling against any contact came down. It was all air dances for half a decade, then a slow decline back into grabbing and grinding. I do not work other clubs because they are brothels and sex is sacred to me. I am protective over my vagina and yours.

Maybe we should get on a bus and go to the cities where every girl has a set price list and the floors are littered with condoms when the lights come on. Take a little field trip and you can see why what we have is worth saving. Maybe then you would see that we work in paradise. Safe.

I need you to appreciate what we have and work with me to preserve it. I am almost alone and I am tired. Sofa king tired.

Listen to me…

If the boss gives you a drink limit it’s because you need one. The club makes all of its money selling booze. Do not bring booze into the bar. If you get caught by them you get sent home. If you get caught by the police or a liquor inspector we all get sent home. For good.

So…

No, you can’t have that vodka back and when you sober up I will explain why, again, for the 10^th time.

I will keep taking your booze and hiding it because I love my job.

I will keep explaining things until you hear me because I love you.

But if I hear you use that word in anger one more time my hand will fly on its own.

There are 2 words straight whites girls do not get to use. Faggot is one. Especially not spat out of a drunken mush mouth full of hate and anger. And especially not aimed at Him. I will cut you off with the same sword I defend you with. I cannot abide.

You have no idea what you have done. Not every kindness comes with a price. Sometimes people are just kind. He is.

So yes…I will keep taking your booze if only to stop your poison tongue.

Which brings us to the 3^rd word no stripper should ever use. Whore.

I am dog tired and bone weary.

I keep hearing hoes calling each other hoes. STOP!!!!!!! THAT IS YOUR FAMILY.
The world hates us enough without us hating each other.
For better or for worse these are your fucking sisters.

Just like any family there are the alcoholics among us, sibling squabbles and tantrums. We won’t always get along. I need you all to see that it is us against the world.

I have worked in some weird places and my favorites were the ones where the girls showed some camaraderie. The 50/50 clubs where half the girls did extras and the other half didn’t. We found our counterpart and gave her what we didn’t want. My ‘blowjob girl’ always tipped me out at the end of the night, of course she made more money than me and of course she knew I helped. This is how it should be, always.

I make more than enough money to get by, I stand back so other girls can too.

This is my way. I talk to men, walk away and get chased. I’ve been at this for 19 years, I know what I am doing.

This is my body and my hustle.
I respect your body and your hustle.
Respect mine.

Every man and every song in the club BELONGS TO THE CLUB NOT YOU.

You will never see me jumping on every dude that walks in the door.

I know how to share. Got a gold star in kindergarten.

Competition is pointless.

There’s enough to go around.

There will be more if we stop pouncing on every dude that walks in the door.

You don’t get it.

Do you know why strip clubs exist?

Men need a break from the world and there is nothing more soothing than tits.

Be soothing. Be soft. Be kind.

Except to that guy, that guy likes getting choked a bit, and that one slapped around.

Watch out for the ‘ear rapist’. That one pinches and bites.

Regardless whether I like you or not. You are my sister and I will not allow you to be misused, stolen from, treated badly. I’m always on your side. Always.

I will always have a baby wipe or a cookie sheet for you. I will always have a clean shirt and a couch to crash on.
I will hold your hair while you puke, I will dress you when you need it.

It’s my way.

The rest of you have lost yours.

Dear girls I work with,

Stop.

Please.

We are your sisters.

P.S. I love you

Psychopomp. A guider of souls.

I am that.

I am many things.

Psychic, witch, angel.

Conversations with the soldier, he says I protect people. We are the same in that way, I am not alone anymore. I have him fighting beside me.

He asked me why psychics never win the lottery. The answer is simple dearheart, I am unable to see anything about me. Good/bad/dangerous/safe. I can only see what is coming to those close to me.

Someone else read my future, I don’t get to stay. This I know.

I cannot protect myself either, I have an agreement with the universe, she sends me soldiers and lost boys, sometimes both in the same body, always bearing lessons.

I have to learn them, take all the pain so I know how to shield others from it. In return I get adventures without happily ever after. It’s alright.

I have things to teach and be.

The most relevant thing that I be at the moment is the Sister to All Women.

Some girl I have never met, I think her name is Christina, has been getting the weekend visits I was offered from the boy I wanted.

So now I don’t want him.

Well I kinda do, but my soul says no.

I have watched lesser women rip each other to pieces over lesser boys. I hate it when women compete. Stop honey, that is your sister and he is just a boy.

I’m trying to negotiate with the universe so she can keep him if she wants to. Having trouble establishing a timeline. I am hoping it was no more offside than … he saw me, I asked him out and he just had to try. I get that. I too, just have to try sometimes. Hail Mary passes et al.

I already know that isn’t true.

The lying? I cannot abide.

I should be fluent in Fuckboi by now. “I’m not coming home until after Christmas” loosely translates to “I’m 26 and don’t have the finesse to figure out how to keep 2 girls going just on weekends”.

His pedestal looks more like a footstool.

One date and one of the ugliest ‘poofs’ I have experienced as of late.
I put him in an article with Gelfling. The reigning Elven King of Cheesy Poofs. Now I know why.
They are the King and Prince of Neverwhere. They even look a bit alike.

At least I got a nice dinner out of it.

That is what I keep telling myself anyways.

Here is the thing. I had him in my house and I didn’t fuck him. I had to fight not to. I really him, from the second I saw him. Even more when he spoke. I liked the way he looked and the way he looked at me. I’ll tell you a secret, if he’d had me there wouldn’t be room for others.

When is a Fuckboi not a Fuckboi? Never, even when you don’t fuck them apparently.

Lesson learned.

During the collapse of the Dothraki Empire wherein I couldn’t figure out Drogo. There was nothing to figure out. Sicut.
I spoke to the Hulk. I wailed to my big green monster I said I felt disposable, only valued in absentia. He went through the list of things I ought not to do, fucking on the first date was on the list. It was the list.

The week before I was fussing at Young Un about the same damned thing. I said “I need to date a rock star or an athlete or something. Someone who has something more important than me so I can keep the things I love like my alone time and my crazed fits of writing.”
And copious amounts of sex, without rules, limitations and timelines. I fucked him before dinner and he is still around. Drogo too. It is part of who I am.

He said  the one I was seeing wasn’t good enough for me. That phrase is common amongst my friends, every time someone hurts me. I will concede to this way of thinking when someone conjures me a God, or an Angel.

I managed to manifest myself an athlete, who quickly became another pretty ghost with a pretty mouth. And I didn’t even get laid.

So I’m a necromancer as well, we have established that I only date the dead.
I don’t know if I would have the slightest clue what to do with a real boy.

I’m not exactly safe.

I am also Chaos. The thing all great changes are preceded by.

My work here is done. He doesn’t marry this one either. Sic erat scriptum.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

This is how you kill demons, you love them, hug them so hard they can’t breathe.
Rage feeds them, so I won’t, even when I want to.

It is my job not to flinch and just listen.

It’s not hard.

My heart breaks harder and louder.

So I stand.

The words coming, flowing freely is how the poison gets out.

I said once that ‘when the wars wage in heaven it’s my job to tend to the wounded.’

Aye, this.

“But there are wars down here Sarah. Do your job.”

My job, just like his, is to run into the fray with bullets and bandages. Sword and shield. This is what I am learning from him.

I ask my girls, the others that do what I do.

First thing that needs to be done is to wash the blood and grime and see how deep the cuts are. I already know the answer, down to the bone and into the marrow.

Nothing that can’t be mended.

By all rights I shouldn’t be here either.
I would never compare pain, but there are many times I hung onto the mortal coil by my fingernails.

“Empathic people are born with a gift and a curse.
Tormented by our pain and paralyzed by yours.
We are stabbed twice.”
Randy Mascorro

No.

Maybe before I remembered my wings, not now.

“When you begin to let that empathy guide you into being an agent of love in those situations (no matter how small the role of helper may be)….it stops hurting. Alchemy happens. The wound is the purpose.” Danielle Davis (yes, this)

I’m not afraid.

I used to be afraid. I once broke windows and people.

This strange thing happens when I am near him, I feel stronger, bigger, more like myself. My other half awaking.

I am dangerous.

Aye, I am.

“not all of us can control our powers.”
“then don’t…
this is war.”

X-Men, Apocalypse

I am exactly terrifying enough.

The bible speaks of the Nephilim, half angel/half human, the heroes in old stories. So tall they burned their necks on the sun.

Frida Kahlo said “take a lover who looks at you like you are magic.”

I do that.

They do that.

Right before they run.

I’m over asking what I’ve done.

I had one boy once look at me and say “You’re way too good for me and I don’t want to be there the morning you wake up, look at me and realize that, it might kill me.”

We hadn’t had a date yet.

That one came off like a band-aid, nice and quick. No stickiness or tearing. Amazing how palpable the worst things said can be when coated in kindness and self-preservation. His, not mine.

“It’s having a thing and losing it that’ll kill ya”. Cold Mountain.

I get no choice in the matter. Part of me dies every fucking time. I bleed too.

Hardly seems fair.

Life isn’t overly fair. It is beautiful and wonderful, exactly like these boys I meet. But fair? Rarely.

Frida also had instructions for what to do when they are gone.

Frida…I am sorry my love.

My lovers and my heart are wolves, can’t be trained/tamed.

My bathtub is full of saltwater, and sometimes blood or tears or cum.

I have whiskey in my teacup.

My doors do not lock.

Maybe I should marry a locksmith.

Unless something happens and the lines on my palms change, there is no marriage for me. I know this and accept it.
They call nuns the brides of Christ and witches the wives of Satan. It’s alright.

I check heartlines. If I see an M, I know. Not Mine.

Still cuts when they leave.

My friends rally when I bleed, “he isn’t good enough for you.”

They don’t see what I see. I see souls. When I see one that is beautiful I cannot help but gravitate to it. Drop a note on a napkin into his hand and hope.

Hope is a beggar (JC). I must remember this.

I do not beg, chase or hope.

“Here is yes”. (SK)

I let them talk.
They shock themselves with the truth that comes flying out.

They say “I have never told anyone that before”, or “I can’t believe I said that.”

Then they pull their own bridges down.

It’s exponentially easier when the last things said are ‘we should go for sushi one night’ as opposed to ‘I want to jump in your trailer, drive until we hit the ocean and spend the rest of my life tasting you, swimming and making art’. (Gelfling)

Like healing a papercut versus a bullet wound.

I’m still running out of bandages.

The one who said ‘sushi’, I saw his future. I know I am not in it.
I have my apartment just my size, and he finds his home elsewhere, with her.

These two share a timeline. 1260.9688 days before the things I’ve prophetized become truth.

I just went through 100 days thinking I wanted to belong to someone.
I am out now.
It was dark there, it had to be so I could see light.
I was subjected to illuminated views of what my girls endure for their relationships. Shown giant neon déjà vu reminders of my own past when I was on lockdown in low men’s beds like prisons, deserts, arid. 10 000 days without magic. Never again.

I once was a papier-mâché puppet.

No more. I’m flesh and blood and bone and longing. No longer tormented and tied by strings.

Heart the size of Arizona if Arizona was the name of a star so big they haven’t made a category for it yet.

My lovers look at me like I am magic because I am.

I call myself a witch because it’s easier. I heal everyone but me.
I see things and they come running out of my mouth like a river. Sometimes it’s too much, like a spring flood and no one is safe near the water.

Our Sara of Lords was consoling me last night. My women never leave me.

She said:

“…And Sarah?  We’re not witches love.  We’re The Fallen.

The Fallen attract the witches and blend in with them but we’re different.  And our wings don’t work here.  And it hurts.  It burns.  And all we can do is love the shit out of each other until we get to go home.”

This tastes like truth in my mouth.

Mind you, so did he. And him, and the others.

I’ll see her and him soon. Going home for a spell.

Pilgrimage to the ocean. I need it. I’ve been bleeding out as of late without transfusions.

When I get back there will be sushi.

And it will be good, for now, not forever amen.