Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

Yana collapsed on her bed, a weight free from her shoulders. She felt emptied. Voided. Didn’t want drink or drug now. The camper was so utterly quiet. She was sadder at all the hard work they had put into the sister act to get here, only to lose it all.  “But that’s life,” she heard Aunt Lala say. Work so hard only so lose it. That was the life they had chosen, anyway. In the empty trailer, she wished for arms to hold her. No men fucking her, no cold-ass Jorge. She wanted Lala or Uncle. Maybe Mom or Dad. She knew Mara was gone, and they would never hug or sleep close again. Yana wondered at the abyss that Mara might’ve seen in her last moments. Was she free? Was she sad? No way to know. Was it Godless? Did she see the Virgin’s face, maybe? Drained, Yana finally met the shore of dreams. ** It was 4am. Jorge stumbled, with a small flashlight, finally finding the small, raised mound. The moon was a sliver, and it was too dark to see whether there was any blood nearby. He hadn...

The Tree of Evil is the habit, the compulsion, the auto-default, that which we were born with. It is that which tells us to sin against our higher self and our betterment. At the heart of it we have failure and pain. This is the Tiphareth, spelled backwards. Are we on our heads here? And thus my baptism began, my light into the shadow. My head was submerged, and upon it I saw red snakes; petrified ribbons of victory. No drug strong enough for me. And then the priest stated: “Do you renounce your will and all that made sense to it?” And then he gave me a taste of the opium as communion, and it smelled like chemicals. It was the gateway to other lives, other things. But my habit was the compulsion I was born with, the chemicals throughout my meridians. My hands trembled and I felt nausea. It was so easy to be stuck but so difficult to say no. Time had stymied me into wanting the same thing, day in, day out. Somewhere I heard an echo of a suicidal man’s song. I was a victim and t...