From blood to blood

He calls me seldom. I call him dad. I'm blown away after I receive a missed phone call from my dad. Its not like him to call me for any reason. Being his child never seems good or warranted. So I stop expecting. And continue hurting. But quietly and to myself. I never say these things when in his presence. He's not made of steel to hear that his child, his daughter or whatever it is I am to him is in pain; inflicted by him. There are reasons people keep stuff to themselves. There are reasons children don't tell their parents everything. I know from this point of view as to why. What I don't get is why parents don't tell their children why their sibling is better than them, or why they are not their personal favorite but show this decision through actions instead. I never want to be a parent if these are the rules. I am made of raw flesh, red beating raw flesh. The kind that bruises easily if handled incorrectly. Dad never seems to pay attention to this bit of me. Instead he calls. And I choose not to pick up. Or return the favor as he kindly asked of me in his voice message. I think he mentioned something about checking in to see how I was doing. I'm not. Doing that is. So I don't tell him. And continue to fall apart from the bone. But quietly and to myself. He cares seldom. I call him nothing.

Glass

I feel as if my insides are being eaten alive. I had a dream of a time that was painful to me. I had no idea my mind could continue to go there...but it does. And the repercussions of what it does to my head are damaging. Glass is the only noun that freely floats through my haunted thoughts. I'm curious as to what the damage glass can do to one's soul. I cut off all communication from the outside world to reach that level of peace from the spiritual world. I must admit, I'm hearing nothing in return. Is it possible I have the volume turned to off? Rough nights make for sad days. Tainted history makes for alarming future. I can hear white noise all around me and it's annoying since it's loudly drowning out the sorrow I craved to hear instead. I am somber yes, and crazy, yes and loved, no. I cannot believe in the concept of love at this moment. It is lost on me and there feels like no finding in the end. I was unsure of this glass of wine for company. It is however, doing the job I purchased it to do so, I am grateful that worked. Can I be a writer with little words and tons of life experience stored in my vocabulary? I probably won't object to you, stranger stealing my words. Go ahead, people have been stealing shit from me my whole life. This blog does not matter, add it to the list of lost and found or stolen and never regained. Someone once taught me to never take my pen off the paper. I forget that lesson when yelling at you. I feel...nothing. Can I still go to heaven feeling empty inside? Or maybe that argument has been done to death, for fucks sake. You no longer read my thoughts and I am curious as to when I lost you as my number one fan. I'm imagining you've heard these words a time or two and are now passing on my depression. It was the charming and endearing quality I possessed. Damn! I don't know how to change it to win you back. Maybe it's better this way. You ignore me and I continue to fight for self-justification. Don't worry, I'm not offended just eternally suicidal. The most I will ever do is dream about glass. My eyes are exhausted from life pouring out of em all night long. My back is killing me from slipping on ice two weeks ago. My arms are pissed I make em reach out all day long to nothing in the sky. My face is frozen in twenty years from now. I just to be convinced that I would live to be an old lady. I now pray for my breath to hang on one day at a time. Old doesn't scare me. Tomorrow's arrival is what frightens the hell out of me. I wish to come back in my next life as her. She gets what she wants by opening her mouth and singing beautifully. People succumb to her and they always will. I am easily passed for a big fat nobody on the street. My exotic facial features once got me in the door. My crooked eyes see too much today. I feel blinded by your consumption. Why, I ask can something be your fault for once? I can't be me without making a fucking mistake in your stupid ass eyes. I was once perfect to him, he made me. And every day he breaks me. I'm sure if he could nail me to the cross along with him, he would. I'm sure I would faithfully follow. We are cut from the same cloth but with different skin. I'm waiting to feel nothing again but in it's highest form. Some would say, my wait is deafening. I'm most positive that no matter how loud I scream I will still be ignored. What's the point? you ask. Dunno. I guess I keep at it cause it's all I know how to do. That and think of glass.

Ya, take that New Year!

I am...
good people
big heart, large breasts and huge love
more into you than you will ever be in me
a wine drinker
feisty as hell
sweet as pie

I want...
kisses; long, wet and hot
manicured nails with french tips
to know how to say 'thank you' in a total of 10 languages
my mind and heart to match emotions just once in a day
more sun less winter

I feel...
you sneaking up on me
love in tiny hands that hold mine
a chair dance springing in my legs when this song comes on
like a loner for life
like a drink of water every 15 minutes

I love...
Lady Gaga
my sisters in the order in which they were born
their children in the order in which they live
my parents for loving and torturing my actions as an adult
God when I'm not in doubt

I need...
more road trips
all night dancing dates
a fish on a bicycle
that occasional cigarette
a savior for my soul

Thank you for...
listening with one ear, half a blink and a dozen head nods
silently judging me while I loudly contradict you
answering the phone
giving me a headache
being you and allowing me to that girl

Thanksgiving Day 09

"You are fucked up!" Were the words that taunted me as I slowly and silently tried to keep myself together. I'm sitting on the bus waiting for my stop and the tears won't go away. I'm a public mess with tainted history pouring down my cheeks. All I can do is sniffle and occasionally wipe a tear or two before the woman in front of me turns around to ask, "Honey, are you okay?" In which I reply, "Yes, holiday crap. Thank you for asking." Lie. Kinda.

My scarf is wrapped too tight and it doesn't help that my bag strap is confirming it's grip around my scarf. I thank God that I'm one of those people who NEVER goes out in public without sunglasses, even in the dead of dark winter. I have this fear of confronting strangers eye to eye, what if they see my truth and then I'm left in abandonment. It's one thing to break down on a bus quietly crying but it's another to be found of all the horrible things you may have done in your life by your eyes giving you away. I can't go eye to eye with people on that level. Weak. Sorta.

I hate this time of year. I know we all say it, "No one celebrates the holiday for it's true meaning; love and Jesus. Instead it's commercial and I hate it!" Maybe that's what you say but not me. I am beyond hating commercialism and longing for true meaning. I honest to Jesus and all that lives above hate holidays. I for one, feel contempt for turkey, ornaments, and trees. I don't as much hand out a Christmas card or a Happy Holiday comment unless I'm sedated in the form of drunk and forget the pain I'm masking. I live every day like this, I forget is this what fucked up is? Yes. No.

If the comment in my head wasn't trying like hell to convince me I am fucked up and the public burst of crying wasn't taking over my face and my childhood was less dysfunctional and abusive, I may have just thought that the guy who got off at his stop was gorgeous. He sat near the bus driver and wore a black jacket with ipod earphones and not once did he notice I was alive. I am sickly attracted to those who don't give a rat's ass about me. And I scare off the man who is clingy and needy of my love and affection. I'm afraid my past experiences know no middle ground. In between my bouts of depression, I will think about him all day long and I will name him Jon. Crazy. Love.

Tomorrow I will be separated from my family. They don't like me. And have chosen to celebrate in my absence. This stings like those many slaps I endured as a girl. Another holiday meal will be baked with resentment and served with hostility. But I won't be present or invited to accept the gifts of hate we hand out to one another like a good fucked up family does year after year and year after that year. I don't speak to them nor them to I. We go about our daily chores forgetting the other exists. I came from her loins yet, I am invisible to her reality. My heart will not allow forgiveness and therefore she dies before my eyes and drowns in my dreams. We celebrate as if nothing ever happened. Only I was there, I know. Truth. Hurts.

"You are fucked up, deal with it!" I'm being told. Turkey is a cold meat sandwich. Mashed potatoes are a bag of chips. Pumpkin pie is a chocolate chip cookie. Holidays are a death threat. Silence is justification. Jesus was my savior. My thanks for tomorrow is nil. I give back what the universe shoved in my face. Here, take that...I am dead inside. But don't worry, I can still cry in public on a bus filled with no one. Fucked. Up.

He invited me to HIM

His face remained the same; blue eyes, pink lips, blond eyelashes and a killer smile that melted my every desire of lust together with heavy longing for another spot in this lifetime. He is burned on my brain. I however, look nothing the same for him as he remained for me. I make no apologies but I'm sure the 18 year old heart throb in him is slightly disappointed that the little feisty Mexican girl with the banging body and sweaty kisses is now the all grown up 30 something with false hope and dry kisses. I know I am. Que sera sera!

I cried when I saw his manly face staring back at me with hope and excitement and anticipation from another time but translated into this time. I held out my arms so that he could catch me because I was barely hanging on. He reciprocates this well. He is old enough today to pay attention to the silent actions of a woman. I am digging this bit about him and soon I will direct him to my love. But for now, he is standing with open arms for me only me and me alone. I run into him like a clumsy girl tripping over the carpet at a whorehouse. He doesn't notice that the innocence is lost on me. He only sees me and my chest heaving for him and my white perfect teeth hungry for him and soon he will give it to my temptations. Until that moment, I will hug him for dear life while I thank the Lord above for placing my naked body underneath his when we were teenagers and calling that a 'first time'. He digs into my back as if he is afraid to let go of me for the fear of falling into cold ocean water and losing me forever will kill his fragile heart. I don't object. I am good to get lost in this moment. Between the seventeen years from ago and now, this moment is all I have of him. I will refuse to give it to anyone else other than him and I. Somehow I forget that we are not alone and a crowd of familiar faces are watching me as I gently smell his shirt in between sighs of relief for coming this far successfully. With every inhale I am slowly reminded of who he is, mine. I can feel the buzz slowly rush out of me and I must stand up tall like a good and honest woman, step away from him and attend to the needs of those I dragged with me to visit him in the jungle. They are staring at me like I have behaved inappropriately. I don't care for judgement however, I am their Cruise Director. My responsibilities extend beyond HIM.

It's now time for walking through the ocean water with our shorts rolled up and our hearts on our sleeves. Finally, I have one-on-one time with him. The rest of the group has swam away hopefully to drown quietly while I walk barefoot in 2 feet deep water staring at his face, his hair, his smile, his backside, his curiosity of who I have become and who I am now standing before his piercing eyes. The buzz is definitely wearing off. But the adrenaline is strong and high, I inhale one more puff before I say to him, "Are you happy?" He has once again placed his eyes back on me and I can feel his heart throbbing from here, 2 steps away from him. He smiles at me like I am the one who makes him happy but...I'm not. She does and if he mentions her in his answer I will swim into the ocean to never return. I am incapable of rejection at this fine moment. Instead he opens his pink mouth to say to me, "Happy is an illusion and I am fine with living in deception. Do you hear that? Those are howler monkeys...they know you are here." I can't stand still not because I am elated with his scent all over me but because I am drunk. This is not how I wished to meet him for the first time with our clothes on but one drink of liquid courage turned into several and then the ferry boat swept me away. I am drunk but perfect to remember this walk, this conversation forever. "I appreciate that. Personally, I much prefer to live in world of fallacy myself. I do hear the monkeys, they don't bite do they?" He laughs at me, his 18 year old self is laughing at me. I miss him. "Tu shay! Mi Carin, Tu shay!" If I place my hand out to him for holding I will no longer be in control but on his level instead. My hands are trembling.

Dinner has come and gone flawlessly. Everyone returned to their roles and are seated at the table for more drinks and more meaningless conversation. I am here for one thing: Him. I can't stare hard enough because his facial expressions are lost on me. He opens up his mouth and all I hear are these words, "Will you please? Take it from me? I trust no one to have this part of me...will ya?" I blink from seventeen years ago and continue to pretend to care about the last seventeen seconds ago. I can't promise him, or me or her that I can keep up with the charade but I will try my best. My eyes are glazing over the table all I can see are fingers on beer bottles, forks on empty plates, candles lit, uneaten food pushed to one side and bowls with nothing in them but salad dressing residue. He is seated across from me. No one including God and Mother Nature will allow he and I to be seated next to one another. This kind of force makes me want to stand up and yell, "You can't keep us a part. He was inside me for crying out loud! Move over dammit! I must resume the position!" Instead I say this, "I should go to bed. I am...tired?" Being something else for someone is exhausting and I have many more days to continue doing so. He isn't the only one I am here for, there are many others who need my delusion in order to survive this trip. I'm told that it's only 6:00 pm. Could I try to hang for say, another 45 minutes or so? I can I agree. First, I will need another drink to hold me up. Words of all kinds are being tossed in the air, everyone but me is talking and laughing and sipping and singing the praises of life. I am stuck on him but not once do I dare sneak a peek. She has joined us and I now must become her, that woman seperate from the 18 yr old girl. I keep to myself. I am seated in that white plastic chair, there were green ones but I broke one with my childish behavior and fat ass earlier, I am not sitting in white only. I am seated with my hands grapsed around my beer bottle, my hair swaying in the air with the wind, my feet bare of shoes, my dress white of summer, and my thoughts retrieving from that night in the woods long ago. Twice, I believe we did it twice. However, I can't for the life of me remember what his skin smelled like or what his kisses tasted like or even better what promises his penis made to my vagina as it sweet talked it's way in. I miss him then and there is nothing to blame. As my mind walks away from this memory I manage to look up and find his blue eyes staring at my dark, dark brown ones. We have made contact, he and I. He is seated back with his hands above his head folded behind him, red is the color of his shirt and he is staring at me with the same curiosity I have been avoiding staring at him with. I may be drunk but I know my heart and it tells me this, "You both are thinking the same nasty, dirty thought from that evening in the woods at the very same time. It's a sign, not a good one but a sign nonetheless." My body is trembling with dissatisfaction. Why do I have to be her wanting one more brief naked hungry passionate moment with him! My gut hurts. I am breathing heavy and some of the people from the group are looking oddly at me. Dissapproving and judging looks are being thrown my way again. I swallow hard and consistently so not to give myself away all at once. I want what I can't have but already had...HIM. My beer bottle is empty, his smile has faded, her observation is dumbfounded, everyone is speaking loudly to drown out the obvious for my sake and I am..."Yes, tired is what I am. Good night everyone and thank you, for inviting me." He doesn't move as I walk past him but he nods approvingly instead. We are done with this conversation.

Sleeping with eyes wide open

I'm sitting...in this chair...with no arm rests. My fingers are tired from translating thoughts in my heart into words that I share with you when you are asleep. My conversations are better received this way; I'm alive and wide awake, You are dead inside and snoring a loud. One can only hope our situation will change for the better. I'm clicking on a keyboard that holds my truth inside of it's letters. I pray that my fumbling comes out smelling like a story and tasting like cherry flavored hope. Some would say this is the part where I should cross my fingers and grab my balls as I throw myself against the world. I am okay to fall...freely. I came into this world in such a manner I intend to walk out of it the same. I'm lost somewhere in this Friday. The weather to me, looks like it's a Sunday winter afternoon. The sound of music blaring from the speaker to me, sounds like I am a fifteen year old in 1980 something. The taste of water to me, tastes like a lazy Tuesday on the beach of Coronado Island a few years back. I'm lost somewhere in this memory. Are you alright to not be carried today? Is the question I ask you as you roll from your right side onto your tummy dreaming of me in a white bikini...like I never existed today. I'm cool, I'm okay, I'm alright, I'm good. The kid is grown up and the girl is going to make something of it after all. Don't you wake up! I'm sitting...on top of the world...without a net below.

We are all dead

I can't for the moment stop crying for the loss of a man that was not so always nice to me but was human nonetheless. He was flawed but with good intentions, like me in my skin. And today will mark the 4th day in a row that he is no longer with us. I am lost for his children, lost for the words that will comfort their souls. I am lost for the hugs that will hold in their tears. I am lost for the forgiveness that they will regret holding onto the rest of their adult lives. No one should be in this moment without a backup plan. Yet, we are here. They stand on that side of the room and I stand in the middle and the man, the man that they are no longer related to stands nowhere. He is dead. I know that outsiders will think that we are lucky to be alive, to be healthy with our bodies functioning and our issues tangled up in dysfunction. We should be thankful that we are among the living, confused as you and hungry as the curious. Thankful is the word of the moment, regret is the motion of the hour and scorned is the taste of the air. Who are you to say that about us, the children without and me, a woman lost. A man is dead. We don't need to be thankful of our lives here on earth, not then not now. Gratitude comes in all colors and smells, we are not obligated to justify for you what appears sierra tan but smells like death. Although we walk among the full of life we too are lifeless inside. It's inevitable that we may just fall apart not for the moment but for eternity. I am unable to separate myself from his children, I am unable to detach their loss from my vision. I am unable to release their moment from me. I think we should all mourn and cry and yell and beg for him to come back to us...father or not, real or fake, alive or barely living, hopeful or diminished, angry or comatose. It doesn't matter at this point, we have made our choice and it's not pretty. Some of us will move slowly through this shitty world, some of us will stop and drop right where they stand, and I will remember that I can't for one goddamn moment quit the crying. Whose to say we are lucky for being the live ones.