Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

So I have spent all week fixated on the wrong kind of man. All that matters is that he is a type, I suppose. These failures are long and delicious. I am becoming a type too. That friend. Never go for the one who is available, for they might have an open heart and love you and actually want to be with you. We are so cruel to ourselves. Things have been stripped down, sold, removed removed removed and yet always somehow a mess seems to pop up in its place. A mass of a mess. Always different every week. I wait for the road to turn on its own, for a break to be cut, but it then appears that I am the one doing all the steering. I didn't want it to be that way, because then all the blame is on me. As it has always been in a system where we get to call the shots. I am wise and worse the wear. I just want a soft hand, to touch someone from behind the cellophane and to have my sounds heard, but it is nothing but muffled and I have been tricked into fear again. I hate that love is always a d...

I sit here in the time of breakage. It's called a breakup because it's broken. All you knew before is wonderfully, profoundly, sweetly broken. It's not going to revert back. You have punished the evildoers under your sword, you refuse to take prisoners and there are going to be more dead bodies. You are not on a fucking crusade for yourself. You are on a crusade for the womb within, that light of consciousness of others that wraps around our shoulders more and more as womanhood ripens on into the summer of things we never expected and into bodily metamorphoses they never warned us about. You are going to cry. You are going to laugh. You are going to sweat it out, bleed it out. There will be days when you can't contain it all. There will be brilliant lights and strikings to the ground and worldviews razed, over and over again. Oh love, these are the end times. You will have creative miscarriages. You will hemorrhage money. You will lose control of the car. You will get t...