Interlude

“Do you think dogs get suicidally depressed?” She asked, rolling over against me. “I mean, do they ever feel so sad they don’t want to live any more?”

I adjusted so I could wrap her in my arms against my chest where I knew she liked to be. I kissed the top of her head. “What brought up that thought?”

“I was thinking about how bad I got after…well, you know.” She stroked my chest. “Then I wondered if everyone else feels like that when they lose someone they love. Which led me to thinking about how life companions grieve after their owners die. Remember that meme that showed the short video of the cat reacting to a video after his owner died? When he rubbed up against the phone?” She started sniffling.

“Yes. I remember that.” I softly responded, my thumb stroking her arm.

“Do you think they just will themselves to die? Just give up on ever finding love again? Lose all hope?” Her voice kept shrinking. It’s as if the thought she was manifesting with her questions got louder while her expressions got smaller.

“What do you think?”

“I think they do. I think that companion animals know things better than we do. They give love unconditionally like we should, but we always fall short. But they still wait long times for their owners to return only to be disappointed. Am I disappointing?” I could barely hear her.

I squeezed her against me as she began to sob, making my skin wet with her tears. With tenderness I kiss her forehead, letting her release the sads. She’s been like this since I met her, fragile but so strong for the burdens of the world. “No,” I whisper against her hair. “You just love which is not disappointing.”

She rolled away from me long enough to snuggle up into the little spoon.

Throne

My throne near the top of the willow tree

where I could oversee

my kingdom that resounded

with mournful train chords

and springtime robin red-breast

Thin the veil between worlds

Of retrospection cursed not blessed

It’s like a perpetual bloodstain

With solidly placed blame

Thats removed quietly with disdain

Where “It’s just how they are” to

Invisibility of me to an entire crew.

But I’ll not allow their foolishness

Not in my kingdom where I am best

Where I’m more than bone deep

Better than the company they sheep.

Not Old Enough

Turbulent Life

I won’t mourn you while you’re still here making choices;

choices of where you’ll breathe last when the time comes

decisions that are yours, and only yours, to make. Always.

I will, however, laugh with you until you can’t any more.

I will support your choices, defending your life at its last.

You’re not old enough to go, but I know that’s not up to us.

I won’t mourn you while you’re here, but I will love you,

my friend, brother to my sister-in-heart, brother of my brother.

TW: I never screamed

I never screamed

Not once

Because he said not to

And IF I did then horrible things would happen.

I couldn’t imagine anything worse

The white pain,

the daggers scorch,

the bloody days raw

But still to come?

No pun intended?

I just left, sometimes for days, before

Crawling down the walls on tippy tips before

She awakens.

MX (EM ex) Mare Martell

I’m no longer going to title myself with Mrs. or Miss or Ms. I’m not even going to impose myself on my brothers at arms standing tall in the Mister world. I’m claiming Mx. I’m setting my feet firmly on the label.

It’s the most commonly used gender neutral moniker used; where the x represents a wildcard. It’s the key to a freedom that I’ve desired since thinking about my gender in the sixth grade and feeling like I needed to be a boy, but not understanding the rejection I felt from the one person I trusted to tell at that age.

I’m not a man caught in a woman’s body. I thought of that for quite a while as well. I have several people that I love dearly who are transitioning between the worlds. It awakened a questioning that I didn’t even realize was there. It made me consider whether I was just a human without gender or am I something that I’ve dreamed about? Am I a Dude? (In the Big Lebowski way, YES I am, because this Dude Abides!) Would I feel more like me or less like me if I were to present as a more neutral gender or more masculine? What would my husband think? Despite those very difficult questions and hours more, I realized I’m a woman that rarely thinks of being one or anything really. I’m human and that’s good enough for me.

I saw this:

Mx. Mare Martell

I had just had the conversation with my husband about me wanting to use Mr. instead of Mrs. or Ms. or Miss. I explained that I’d seen a Twitter meme where it pointed out that where a man’s title doesn’t change, the woman’s titles are only pointing to how they are related to the closes man in her life. I didn’t like the taste of that bitterness in my conscience which is where the entire thought process began.

May I give a special acknowledgement to Terran Gray who’s gentle support while I struggled to decide where I stand roiled around inside me. They never once made me feel as if I were weird or out of place any more than usual ( 🙂 ) Their kindness and compassion even when I was asking some pretty deep questions were nothing short of a blessed boone. I wish them nothing but the very best in any endeavor they choose. Someone that beautiful in this world is a rarity and I am grateful.

This is where I am in my life. No excuses. No guts. All the glory!

Publicly Primal

A bonfire of hatred emblazoned within.

I want to violate you by releasing my raw primal rage

A bonfire of hatred emblazoned in my silent chest awaiting birth

The “Flesh your heart” punishment of original sin, raped

The mundane act of typing the violation of my rights

as a human. as a woman. as FIFTY ONE PERCENT of totality

while you prognosticate fodder for the war machine

I defiantly consider all acts of subjugation as Slavery of Women

When I’m no longer terrified of how I will sound unrestrained,

You will no longer exist other than in history as bad apples

bitter seeds of spill on the dirt floors of the prisons you built

for me

but will not hold this.

Blues for Children

I've heard their tired voices arguing about who's right or wrong.
Blue Table

I wear our Blues to the table that tucks my knees against the underside

Because I’ve witnessed what we’re leaving for them, legacies of lies.

I’ve sat at the table, the children’s table, minding them for far too long

I’ve heard their tired voices arguing about who’s right or wrong.

They are not my future, but they are yours without a doubt.

You should sit and listen to the children’s table, so change can come about

They see blue as hopeful, I think, but only as hopeful as the Blues

We have gone and lost them a costly sum of what it means to choose.