The couch. I bought the big leather couch, chair, and ottoman back in 1999 or 2000 I think. I was working on the boats at the time. Had a few boatguy friends that would come right before or right after season to hang out… some pretty big guys. I bought the big furniture in a time when you could get that set for $1500 I think. And it was built to last. I still can’t believe how well it was made compared to what you get now for the same price.

A crush and my brother helped me get it into the house..and it wasn’t easy.
When my ex and I bought this house it wasn’t any easier getting it in here.

Last Spring I tried to get it out of here by myself and quickly realized I might die trying. While it was still standing on end from my attempt at finagling it out the door, I cut out the material on the bottom and saw the bones of it… it was beautiful.. real wood, lots of it… straps were as high quality as the best ratchet straps of today. The springs across the bottom were thick and solid. I cut open the one cushion that had finally broke down, and those springs too, were heavy duty. I ordered a replacement spring pack, which was much lighter built than the original I found, not the old, solid, barely squash support of 25 years ago. I took an awl and sewed the leather back together. I bought a slip cover (pretty nice one) thinking, I could rescue this couch, build it back better and not just toss it away.

As time went by, I just couldn’t sit on it. It sat empty. It looked better on the outside, but it sat like a big ass sad emblem of itself. And it had been ruined from the inside, of another who defiled it.

Gone were the multiple big asses that sat on it, at times slept on it. Gone were the dogs that had curled up on it, scratching it ever so slightly with their paws. Gone were the times I could curl my feet under me, or lay across it with my head in another’s lap watching yet another hunting show…or even better, Walking Dead.

I had hinted to others that I wanted it out, for the past 9 or so months. No one took the hint. I think some things are just meant to be done on your own. So the other night….

I cut it’s coverings off… razor to leather… the leather on couches from back then was much better, thicker, more like hide. Cut out enough foam to get to those nice big chunks of wood that were it’s frame with the skillsaw. Cut it into two manageable pieces… scooted it out the door (still had to get the right angle to make it happen).. pushed it down the stairs, and dragged it to the the far end of the yard.

As I poured some expired peanut oil on it, and put a couple of dry pieces of wood in a cardboard box in the middle of it to get it started…. a sadness engulfed me… as the fire would soon engulf the couch. I had started this with anger, but it ended with grief. Like for real grief.

As I watched that fire (I couldnt believe how fast it went up), the last 24 years of time with this couch went through me.. along with the 21 years with him….it still took a couple of hours to realize that it was just time for it to go, and for me to let go of the idea that I had made it better, built it back better, and to let go of the idea that I could ever sit on it in comfort again.

It was grief.

Then, today someone mentioned to me that I had burnt a couch on the evening of the Super Moon. So there’s that.

As I lay to sleep crowded of fear.
Full of sadness.
Jammed with uncertainty.
I wake loaded with courage.
Bursting of bravery.
Packed with vulnerability.

i lie on my back staring at the ceiling,
waiting for the numbness to crawl in,
but the world fades instead,
the air thins, and i hear it breathing.

from the corner she unfurls,
a shadow too wide for the room,
her hollow face sinks beside me,
her gaze pins me to the mattress.
i do not move.

the walls buckle as he arrives,
his limbs bending to fit,
grinning like he knows how small i am here.

his fingers scrape down the plaster,
the sound breaks into me,
a weight settles in my ribs.
every inhale feels stolen,
the room shrinks and i cannot scream.

i escape to reality,
my gaze jolts from corner to corner,
there’s nothing left and no one here,
yet my skin stills stings from the burn of eyesight; i will not be sleeping tonight.

We dance in joyful essence as a group
We gather in robust laughter as a family
We shoulder the duties of work diligently as partners
We cook in companionable camaraderie
But why do we cry alone

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
The more I step out of that silent box, the more my inner critic tries to peek through.
The more I raise my voice for my truth, that burden of “silence protects” tries to scream louder than before.
I’ve held my breath for far too long.
Bit my tongue more times than I should “to keep the peace.”
I’ve stood frozen in spots I should have walked away from.
Acknowledging what was is not what is has been a work in progress.
These mini steps that have turned into big steps have been exhausting yet fulfilling.

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
It does not define me, nor will ever define my character. I will not allow such. This voice will now be told across all the noise.
My truth will inspire.
I will gracefully inhale and exhale this breath of mine.
My tongue will no longer hold scars.
I will no longer stand frozen, for I’ve defrosted a long time ago.
What was is just that, was. What is, is just that, is.
These big steps I’ve created have gotten me so far. To this moment.
Bigger steps are being made.

Imposter Syndrome, it is real.
But, it is not me!

I can remember the feeling clearly. I can still taste it, I can still feel the weight of it dragging on my heels, filling my lungs, and chilling my bones.
I am grateful I made it out alive, because looking back I can see that I needed serious help, but help was not coming for me.
I lived with severe depression, suicide ideation, low self esteem, and a handful of other BPD/BP symptoms that went undiagnosed for years.
I was never introduced to the idea of coping skills, boundaries, self care, and I had never heard of things like self fulfilling prophecies, victim mindsets, and justification/avoidance/etc. I wish someone would have brought these things to life, because I think I may have realized sooner that I wasn’t alone or the one to blame for the awful sadness that clawed at my chest like some tortured animal.
I began self-harming as a form of punishing myself. I believed that I was selfish for even breathing. I hated myself so much that I truly, truly believed that I deserved to get hurt and I should feel guilty because if I loved my family then I wouldn’t poison their life by being present in it.
Often I would fall asleep in tears, praying to wake up as someone else or to not wake up at all.
It breaks my heart sometimes when I look back. As a child, I just wanted to be loved and important, and as a teen, I just wanted to be loved and beautiful.
I wanted to be beautiful more than anything.
To me, beauty was something unattainable and far away.
I really was an ugly duckling , so to speak. I don’t believe there are more than 3 photos of me from the time I was in 2nd grade to about 5th.
The summer before 2nd grade my babysitter decided to shave my hair off. On top of being malnourished and having extreme dental issues, having no hair was enough to push me to become a social outcast.
Those little kids treated me like I wasn’t even human.
But every day I woke up just hoping to have a good day. I could forgive my worst enemies without blinking. Every day I just wanted to have a good day.
But I started fighting a lot, partly because the other kids thought I was a boy and partly because I wouldn’t tolerate being bullied any longer. After some months went by, even the adults at school and around public spaces were confused about my gender, and a few had even asked me to stop saying I was a girl.
I felt betrayed and confused. I learned during that time that I could hurt people back if they insulted me, and that love is conditional to beauty.
I moved away after 7th grade for 2 years but was forced to move right back.
They acted like I was a completely different person.
Now people suddenly expected me to be female?
I couldn’t hang out with the guys anymore, and if I did they were trying to throw game at me? I couldn’t wear whatever I wanted anymore because people couldn’t control themselves? I’m supposed to do my hair and makeup and wear dresses and walk in heels now?
Deep down I yearned to be in touch with that femininity that had been denied to be so long ago, but it was hard.
I tried to be grateful, because I knew some people’s journey required surgery and years of hormone therapy. To be told your something that you know your not and trying to play pretend as something else causes a pain I can’t describe, so even though I was secretly relieved I wasn’t sure how to just “be a girl.”
I obsessed over my appearance, I would often stare at my reflection until tears welled in my eyes and whisper to myself these horrible things like, “you’re so freakin ugly. No wonder your mother drinks all the time. No wonder everyone hates you. Your so freaking stupid look at you. I wish so much that I could just beat you up, I hate you so much.”
… It was just one vicious cycle after another.

There are a lot of factors that led to my escape from the prison of that perspective.
But the main one I want to share happened on my own.
Its strange, because now I am considered “hot.” Sometimes I even feel beautiful, but not a whole lot. That’s okay with me, though. I wish that the younger me could feel even the small approvals I give myself, even the smallest kindnesses… But it wasnt until the day I came to this conclusion that any of my self esteem started to change.
I realized… There are worse things to be than ugly.
It may sound ridiculous or even obnoxiously obvious… But this thought had never actually occured to me before.b
There are better things to be than pretty. There are worse things to be than ugly.
I mean, id been through some of them. Being lost in the woods, feeling heartbroken, searching for a missing person that you care deeply about, losing a parent to prison, and being miserable were just a few of the things that I went through personally that I decided in that moment were much worse than being ugly.
This was a breakthrough.
I don’t NEED to be pretty. Sure I want to but do I NEED to be?
Hell no.
I was tired of chasing people’s love, tired of wasting so much energy on their approval. I was just plain tired.
I realized that people couldn’t see right through me. They couldn’t see the damage beneath the surface.
The day I stopped caring if I was ugly or beautiful changed my life. Because that’s the day I started caring about if my life was beautiful or not. I started caring about what I was doing and not about if others cared.
This led me to getting some painful dental surgeries that ended with dentures and a normal smile, some crazy tattoos, and a few hair color choices I could have left in the bottle but mostly it led me to freedom.
I don’t know if my story is unique or if anyone else out there is trapped by the beauty myth… But just in case I’ll say it again:
Beauty does not define value.
Others do not define your beauty.
Your value is yours to see and appreciate. You set the bar for how you will be treated and respected.
Beauty does not define importance, power, or entitlement.
Beauty is not just appearance.
Love yourself, you will see the change in your reflection yourself.
You are beautiful, you are worthy, and you are human.
There are so many worse things to be than ugly.
-a horrible person
-attacked by wolves
-evil and cruel
-dying
-mean
-lost
-sad
-going through the motions
-uncaring, inconsiderate
-starving
Etc. Etc. etc.

I was strong… Loneliness so deep, like the sea.
I was strong—I didn’t need nobody.
I was so strong, I needed everybody.
I was strong enough to pass as Happy-Go-Lucky,
Even when the cracks showed under the weight.

But strength, they say, isn’t always a gift.
Being “The Strong Black Woman”—what a cruel myth.
A title dressed in resilience but laced with chains,
Hiding the truth of my heart’s quiet pains.

I was strong, even when they looked past me,
Strong, even when disregard was all they’d see.
Strong enough to hold the world,
Yet too strong to be held myself.

They called me strong like it was praise,
But strength became my cage in so many ways.
No room for tears, no space for need,
Just a shell of power, a soul to bleed.

But what of my vulnerability?
Why is softness seen as fragility?
I’ve learned that strength isn’t just standing tall,
It’s also knowing when to let yourself fall.

I am both—strong and tender, bold and unsure,
A mixture of fire and water, pain and cure.
I am whole, not in spite of my duality,
But because I embrace all that makes me me.

So don’t call me strong if it means I must break.
See me as human, for my own sake.
Strength isn’t a shield; it’s a choice to be free,
To honor both the strength and softness in me.

The ghost of “us” still lingers, a haunting refrain,
A melody of memories, a bittersweet pain.
I grieved for the future we’d never attain,
Two souls entwined, then severed in twain.

We’re like two planes in the sky, headed in two different directions,
A near hit or miss, a fleeting connection.
I gave it all I had before I ever decided to quit.
Deep within the depths of my heart, you’re someone I’ll always miss.

But the weight of “what ifs” began to erode,
A heavy cloak of sorrow, a lonely road.
I knew I deserved better, a love that would unfold,
A story where my spirit wouldn’t grow cold.

So I broke the chains, shattered the illusion,
Found the strength within, a silent revolution.
Each step forward, a victory, a new constitution,
Rebuilding myself, a slow, steady evolution.

The sting of regret still lingers, a phantom limb,
But I’m learning to breathe, to finally swim.
In the ocean of life, I’m no longer adrift,
I’ve found the courage to rise, to finally shift.

Truth be told, we’re better off apart,
But our connection is one that genuinely touched my heart.

Hey you ;
Thank you ;
Thank you for being here ;
Thank you for creating Truth that keeps the noose loose as you choose to continue through the fears ;
Thank you for trying your best even when it seems like every seam that holds yourself together has been Severed and ripped to shreds ;
Thank you for trying your best even when it seems like everything you’re thinking is like a hoarders dream, thoughts of a convoluted mess ;
Thank you for trying your best even when things that are in and out of your control seem to spin out of control, and you try to hold on to the right when it seems like there’s nothing left ;
Thank you for staying alive, even though every day seems like a daily struggle just to survive ;
Thank you for choosing to resume these pages of life, even when you’re burnt up and exhausted and no longer want to write ;
Thank you for being here ;
Thank you for being you ;
Sincerely true ;
From me to you ;
Thank you ;
;

Spring, not sprung.

People can look like they’re fine, but inside they’re crying.
Many are trying, too many dying, I’m flying on some parachute of prayers.
To the God’s who will listen. To the points of the cardinal directions.
I look up and no longer see Orion who has always been my protector.

My hands fall short of magic. My generosity exceeds in deeds, grateful to bless, but somehow not enough to me. I know life is unalome, never even keel- my path made me stronger, wounds have healed.
Although the deeper I dive, the pain becomes real. I deal. I’ve observed on every level, inhaled, exhaled and weighed it on the scales. It tips. Balance is off-
When the whole world is upside down and right side up, I still live in my bubble. When I’m lost, I retreat. No white flag, no olive branch, no phone calls, just me- in the corner with a pen and paper, crying. For everyone I’ve lost, for everyone I’ve ever loved and had to walk away from, for everyone who bears the weight on their shoulders but wakes up and smiles at the world, I am you.

Spring, but not sprung.

Let me feel the rain on my face as I know it waters the flowers that blossom in the spring.

I miss my family and friends who are in another realm. Let their energy protect mine. Allow me to shine like gold in a river on sunny day.

I need my magic or I am useless.

To the God’s~ Please protect us.

the clockmaker’s bride

they can’t go where i go,
they can’t see what i see,
they don’t know what i know,
that can’t be what i be//i believe i’ve been living for myself- i have been living for life.

knowledge that belongs to you will find you.
what’s yours will come to you.
the focus on the future blinds you from the opportunities you are surrounded with today.
you would not be in this space if you weren’t wanted.

so why do i feel like you’re trying to prove yourself? your worth?
what is there to earn//i have nothing to give
are you entitled to the approval of others//are you too ashamed of your experiences to approve of yourself?

is it your experiences that make you, you?
is it your beliefs that makes you, you?
is it your actions that makes you, you?
what is there in the world that you claim as the creation of others//i claim that which i create
i don’t know.
i have no clue to be entirely honest.
consider this: am i what you decide to call me, or am i what i say i am because i’ve decided to be?

in one way or another, existence supposes definition,
you are something to someone, even if that someone is the ground you walk on. the plant life you trample over with the careless entitlement to destroy.
are you going to allow yourself to be defined?

frankenstein’s monster. he does not have a name because his creator never gave him one. although he could decide to name himself and shape his own identity, he could never cut the ties that bind to his father. the bond is why you seek approval. the bond is why apathy is worse than disapproval; those who are not acknowledged are the ones that destroy. you need to be responsible for everything you create, whether it be art, technology, literature, or life.

never give your creations to the world to be defined by the world,
they will never deserve what you are.
in approval or disapproval, acknowledge what you’ve done.
thank accountability for it,
take ownership of it,
the way every influence in your life have taken ownership of you,
how they’ve taken care of you,
how they’ve hurt you,
remember how you felt,
remember the feeling,
some people have nothing to feel,
i implore you to be intentional in your interactions with others//be intentional about how you make them feel,
how you make yourself feel.
you may be the reason someone in this world is lonely,
remember how you’ve felt in the deepest chasm of your limitless,
to whom/what you wanted to take ownership of it,
your friends, your parents, your lover, yourself, your gods?
now think of who you are to others, a friend known for being reliable, a child known for being grateful, a lover known for making someone feel whole, a creation grateful for who’s grateful for being created?
privileged.
who are you to abandon what you’ve created.

“i know all about the pain that you go through” – Gustav Ahr

Dear me,

You may be younger and think you are wiser but think again. Life will humble you quicker than quick sand. You are not mature or grown and life didn’t make you have thick skin, but rather it made you dull and hide pieces of yourself. It made it harder to try in finding who you were but deep down you already knew. You are young, vibrant, funny and full of life. You care too much and that is okay. You knew who you were and others hated seeing you shine. As you grew, your star got duller and duller but when it was the darkest, it still managed to brighten everything and everyone around them. When you were at your lowest the tides grew high but you always managed to swim to shore. You may be young now but you are brave. Don’t loose sight and always keep shinning because you are my north star. Love you deeply, always your older self.