the poet


March 26, 2016
my actual bed

my actual bed

“We must be willing to give up the life we planned for the one that is waiting for us.”
(Joseph Campbell)

I had plans. Big Bad Wolf plans.

Poet popped by again after yet another agonizing absence.

He said repeatedly during this latest apology “Don’t say anything.”

I is getting mighty tired of this irony.

I bit my tongue until it bled.

I sat quietly and listened as he said I made him feel like I was always in a rush to get off the phone, I wasn’t attentive enough. Jesus wept boy, I sat on my porch in -20 February weather because that is where I get the best phone reception, we talked for 40 minutes until my hands were frozen arthritic claws and my battery died.

I’d sent a story and a message … nothing. Not even dancing dots.

For 6 weeks this time.

Came back and asked me why I disappear? (Eyeroll)

He stayed a whole week almost. Filled in the absence of the Giant quite nicely. Had me thinking ‘alright, things make sense again’.

I wanted to go to California. I wanted to be with him. I had nothing holding me here. I was waiting for him to call me home.

Instead he called me a conundrum, “Sarah you are Everything I have ever wanted and everything I have ever run from.”

These are all the things I wasn’t allowed to say during his apology/mansplaining.

He doesn’t like me dancing, I don’t either and I can provide written testimonial from dozens of dancers that prove I am not a typical stripper. But what is the point? He wouldn’t believe them anyways.

Good god I look bad on paper.

Chain smoking, whiskey drinking, single mom, stripper. With a bad habit of sitting in the same sweats for days on end writing feverishly, forgetting to eat and shower and function beyond getting the words out. Then stilettos and thigh highs, painted up like a geisha. Crippling self-doubt monthly and sometimes I am the queen of the world, usually on Wednesdays. Consistently inconsistent. Yuck.

He says I say ‘fuck’ too much, and that I am not used to anyone listening to me so I’m too loud. He isn’t wrong.

I love loud too. I have a handful of people I would take a bullet for. If I ever loved you I still do but I spent a few decades not knowing what love was. I am getting there, still clumsy and learning to walk.

When I was 5 months pregnant I got into a relationship thinking that is what I should be doing. Monkey-barred through 18 years and 5 more failed relationships. So many years being someone’s mom, daughter, sister, wife I never had time to figure out who I was.

Been working on myself for the last 3 years and I know I look a mess. Pulling everything apart, trying to find the ‘why’. Under constant renovations but my foundation stands.

I have lavished love on the wrong people, those who take without giving, expect acceptance but only give attention conditionally.
Ownership is not love, it is belonging with someone and giving yourself freely.

I am more terrified of forgetting than I am of being forgotten. Social media is a touchstone for me, all these markers saying ‘you were here’. Good or bad, yes, there I was. On the bad days I can scroll back and remind myself, this too shall pass, in a while you will not feel like an unlovable monster. My phone is full of videos chronicling belly laughs with my girls. Selfies that trigger the feelings I was feeling that day. A virtual diary full of words and 3×5’s.

Again, I look a mess.

Because I am a mess, and I know it. I try to tidy up the edges, tuck my crazy and my heart back in, but they escape.

Poet said he didn’t know who I was.  I was allowed an explanation for that…neither do I.

He took it upon himself to read parts of the blog and scrolled through my Facebook looking for clues.
I let him in, I let everyone in.

I am left wondering if he managed to find all the posts that were about him, and there are many.

Shame is a Prison
Condolences and Gratitude
The Little Known Plague of Male Poets
Building an Empire
Whores, Housewives and Paper Handcuffs
Because of You
The Other Kind of Apocalypse 
Five Guys
Honorable mention in Bridges and Tightropes, not to mention volumes of explicit porn written just for him and sent directly to his inbox.

I think I have written more for and about him than anyone else.

And it’s still not enough or too much.

Left a post on my wall saying ‘remember darling, it’s a status update, not a diary’. It’s both honey.

He called me and rambled on about how freaked out he was. How he didn’t understand how I could be so open. When I write for him I have structure and discipline. He didn’t understand my mess. Easy enough to explain, I am both of those things.

He said he would call me after he had more coffee and could articulate. Then bolted in the night, again.

There is the irony folks, he ran from my open, which was the quality that he claimed to love the most about me.

I do.

He thinks I do these things for attention.

I don’t.

I AM happy when someone comes forward and says I helped them in some way. But numbers mean nothing to me.

I am doing this for me. As far as I know I have this one life and I want to experience it and remember it in all of its messed up glory. Whether it be the continuing saga of Young Un, or how I loved the Hulk or that time I was laughing so hard on the change room floor I couldn’t stand up much less dress myself.


Poet says he hates bloggers for how they have to document every time they stub a toe.
Broke my toe two weeks ago, been dancing with my toes taped together, like lotus foot-binding, agony in every step, didn’t mention it until now.
But every time he has broken my heart open, I have to put myself back together, I archive it here.

Ex-hubby told me, after he read the blog and realized I wasn’t the thing he had built me up to be in his mind, that I would die alone with nothing but memories.

Aye, I have those. In written words and photographs.

I have asked repeatedly ‘who is going to love me with my guts splattered all over the internet.’
Not the Poet apparently.

I had a little tantrum upon the Facebook. Answered by the usual rousing chorus of “fuck that guy, you are amazing and we all love you as is” with a ‘nice ass’ thrown in for good measure and comic relief.

This has happened so many times, I have become comfortably numb. (Pink Floyd)

What hurts me now is watching him sabotage his own happiness.
But I think it’s his way, creating pain out of nothing.

I was as wide open with him as I ever have been. I wouldn’t change a fucking thing.



















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  • Matthew Eayre March 27, 2016 at 10:09 pm

    “How do you expect someone else to love you, when you don’t love yourself?”

    I’ve spent decades trying to find the answer to that question and failing miserably. How can I see myself and love what I see, and is that all it takes to be truly loved? Fuck… I don’t even like myself most of the time. My answer came to me in a simple way, and I know I’m too lucky for words when I say…
    She loved me, and I couldn’t call her a liar. She said I was beautiful for my darkness, loving in my ferocity, tender in my violence. She took my rage and absorbed it like a sponge, then let it evaporate without ever giving it back. She has not lied to me about anything important, she never lets me hurt for too long without comforting me, and I want it to be true. I want it to be true, the way she sees me… I want to be beautiful and worthy of the love she smothers me with.
    So… I love myself. Because she does.
    How could I ever love myself if nobody else does?
    All of this is feeling non-sequiter as a response to your words. To me it makes sense… Who will love you with your guts splattered all over the internet? Who will ever give you what you need, when your life is such a public mess?
    The one that looks closer and sees your wings underneath that cape… The one that sees the hope beneath your self-deprecating humor. The one that will not allow you to hurt, for too long.
    It ain’t the Poet, and you knew that. Maybe you haven’t met him yet. Maybe you know him and you are unwilling to give it a chance.
    Maybe I’m a part of your imagined world, or maybe you are a part of mine.

    I know that not everyone gets to keep their favorite love. That’s the kind of shit that makes me weep for the inequity of life.

    I don’t have the answer, and you didn’t ask.
    I love you, and I know that’s not good enough. I love you, and you know I’m just a word on a screen, …
    I don’t know.
    Your tat looks amazing.

    • sexloveandgrace March 28, 2016 at 9:44 am

      i love you too.
      of course i wanted it to be him, but all he does is look for reasons to run away from me.
      it’s beyond my control.
      i am not even hurt, just sad for him.
      this is my life, my process and i love it, i won’t take it back.
      thank you for this.

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