Tag Archives: hurt


The distance you crossed with your pen,

word by word, line by line.

you only ever saw in me

a paper concubine


In despair you lifted me up,

healing words of solace

one moment you would comfort me

then you would just transgress


Ghost friend that never existed.

things felt strangely amiss.

actions don’t meet the words you said.

you blew a fatal kiss


Your prowess with the written word,

can’t match your cunning tongue

your nose pointed up in the air

you are a charlatan.


Flummery you speak to lost girls,

you saw me as a whore,

a dullard, just leagues beneath you

a girl you could abhor.


Mirrored flaws, becoming each one.

so I’d feel empathy,

then you’d slink into the shadows

used… vulnerability.


Gather your gold pieces in hand

pleasure reading my pain.

so unless I am mistaken

don’t, come back again.

On forgiveness


Something has been bothering me.  I had acquired this follower on Instagram which is linked to my blog.  I only have a handful of followers so when I get a new set of eyes, it’s like Christmas morning.  It’s a gift and I feel pretty excited about it.

I look at each follower’s photographs one by one.  Carefully.  If they have a blog or webpage, I will check that out too.  I believe in making connections with people.  Or at least trying.  I believe that we were put here to love one another.   Hard-wired for connectedness.

This particular follower was a Catholic deacon who was about to be ordained as a priest in a few weeks.   He liked several of my photos.   Then, without warning he unfollowed me.   I had almost forgotten that my Instagram account is linked to this blog.  I wondered why.  My intuition told me it had to do with my blog which link is displayed at the top of the Instagram page.

At any given time I write in my blog about an array of topics that are pertinent to me.    My recovery, something I find funny, poignant, or just something I want to share.  Things can run the gammit and some can be off-color.  Everything from the childhood sexual abuse I endured,  to BDSM which I found myself led into as an adult; groomed for by the complex childhood trauma itself.

At the time the deacon stopped following my Instagram account, my blog post at that time was about a sexual strap-on fantasy.  I realized in that moment, he probably judged me as a sinner and sexually immoral.

So I wrote him this message,

”Good evening Deacon, I see that you have stopped following me on Instagram. I’m assuming it’s because you visited my blog on WordPress, read one post and judged me. You will be entering the priesthood soon. May I suggest, not moving so quick to judgment, that is for God. Last I checked you are but a man. You would do well though to live by compassion, mercy, and kindness. Teach Christ’s love by example, yes? God bless you.” 

I felt really hurt because I felt judged and assumed he sort of shamed me Scarlet letter style.  I expected better from a potential man of the cloth.  Why couldn’t he he see all the suffering I had been through? Where was his compassion? As is sometines the case, I didn’t “sit” with my emotions and fired off the text to him.

A few weeks after I sent my text I feel ashamed.  Why was I so reactive? Why didn’t I just let it go? Why did I have to let him know that he was being judgmental? Will my words even even matter to him? I’ve been holding onto this wound, this resentment towards him.   I should have prayed for him and then let it go, but I didn’t.

Someone once told me that the one thing that separates man from the animals is the ability to pray.  That deeply resonated with me.

“To err is human to forgive, divine.”-Alexander Pope

Perhaps it is “I” who needs to start on working on forgiveness.   Focus less about calling him out on his shit and trying being “right.”






I hurt myself today- to see if I still feel- I focus on the pain- the only thing that’s real- the needle tears a hole- the old familiar sting- try to kill it all away- but I remember everything- what have I become? my sweetest friend- everyone I know goes away in the end- and you could have it all- my empire of dirt-
I will let you down I will make you hurt.

I wear this crown of thorns- upon my liar’s chair- full of broken thoughts- I cannot repair- beneath the stains of time- the feelings disappear- you are someone else- I am still right here-
what have I become? my sweetest friend- everyone I know goes away- in the end- and you could have it all- my empire of dirt
I will let you down- I will make you hurt
if I could start again- a million miles away- I would keep myself- I would find a way.

Johnny Cash- Hurt  

I hurt myself today.


not by the Man in Black’s needle.

a different means;

the pain is no different, no less destructive.

Everyone I care about seems to go away in the end.

I hurt myself, again……

Time For a Good Ole Book Burning on the Village Green

Shel Silverstein is hands down one of the best children’s authors ever.  I own just about everything he’s done in print; hard copy.   And I’m fairly certain that when my Zebra cake goggles wear off, the book will remain one of my favorites.

In light of the recent events of my train wreck love-life, I recently re-read “The Giving Tree.”



Can I just say that I HATE that tree.

“Take my apples.”

oh just plunder all my assets and leave me naked in the forest, boy.

“…you may cut off  my branches….”

Take a chain saw to my limbs and watch the sap run down as I bleed in agony….

“Cut down my trunk….”

Fuck me up the ass and leave me nothing but a stump for you to take a shit on…….

but I’ll still love you boy.



and then the tree waits and waits like a good empathic tree with no self-esteem does, and pretends to be happy being a used up stump.  and in the end ” the boy” comes back when he’s done using all the whores and he’s old and can’t fuck anymore and sits on the stump of a tree he’s used.   because she has no self-worth and wasted the best years of her life pining (no pun intended) for a boy who never loved her back.

The classic un-requited love story?

No, the classic romanticized portrayal of an EMPATH MARTYR-COMPLEX FUCKED UP WOMAN, POSING AS A TREE

I dunno, this post could be coming from a distorted perceptual lens  generated by marked glucose spikes from me consuming  a rather largish bag of M&M’s for lunch today and a couple of King-sized candy bars for dinner last night mixed with a Little Debbie Zebra cake.  It’s the Zebra Cake goggles isn’t it.  Or is it just another angry rant about getting conned by a sexual sadist narcissist with sociopathic tendencies.  Or do I just have an axe to grind with trees.

Someone either pass me the kerosene and a match or give me another fucking Zebra cake already.

%d bloggers like this: