For a Lost Boy

You were a puppy, dearest:
with eager smiles and a wagging tail
you nipped at my heart
with your earnest
affections. I knew you
would lose those needle-sharp
puppy teeth one day, when
you would grow capable
of the full savagery your
playful growls and yips promised.
But I hoped you would never lose
that softness in your eyes,
that adoring nuzzle, and
the shamelessness to ask
for a tummyrub.
                           Oh my dear,
you are not lost--you never
ran away from home; instead,
you stayed and it's the world
that ran away. And now I have
nothing to show of the puppy love
you gave without reservation
but the faint imprint of paws
on the ragged, chewed-up
edges of my soul.

Bereft

You called me your selkie
Who stayed of her own free will.
How bitterly ironic
That you were the one who left.

Musings under the full moon

When I was out of my mind (and
I admit I often was not myself
no matter how much I wanted
to be, and not matter how hard

I tried) you told me often that
my actions were what mattered—not
the sincere apologies I offered
when I came back to myself. Yet now

when I am faced with your actions,
you ask me to accept your
words. Ask me to understand
your suffering. Do I know how

much you wanted to call? How many
things you wanted to share? How can
you ask such things? Why
am I expected simply to accept

your words as truth and give
them credence when the message from
your own mouth was actions are what
matter, even when we were together

and when we were in love? Not being
in my right mind never once
changed my love; but not being myself
made me incapable of stopping myself

hurting the one I cherished more
than my own life. Let me pose
my own questions, if I may.
Do you know how hard I tried to be

worthy of your love? How hard
I tried to earn your trust back?
How desperately I tried to keep
that madness at bay? Do you

understand I still wake from
nightmares and reach for you
only to remember I am all
alone with my terror and guilt?

Do you know how often I see
things that make me cry because
they remind me of you—of
the life I wanted to build,

of the future I finally felt
safe enough to start planning?
Do you understand I lost
the person I trusted more than

any other—the one man who
made me feel safe, the man
to whom I confided my deepest
secrets and darkest fears?

My dreams have been snatched
from me, one by one. And then
to experience the galling,
humiliating shame of realising

it all means nothing, because
in fact, I am replaceable.
You do not need me. Maybe you
want me, but your actions

reveal a truth different than
your words. You left. You
moved on. You have someone
new in your life, in your

heart, in your bed. If I were
worth being loved, should I not
have been worth staying for,
worth fighting for, worth the vows

I thought we would say
to one another when
we were hand-fasted—vows I will never
now hear from the only man

I ever truly wanted, the only
one I ever thought found me
worthy of swearing to me:
even though I am flawed,

I am small and plain and broken
sometimes completely, that he
loved me enough to stand by me,
to lend me his strength

and his heart when my own
faltered. For better or for worse.
Because with you, I could have been
more better than worse.

But now, I cannot have
my heart's desire, and I do not want
the consolation prize. There is
nothing consoling about losing

my heart, my dignity, my world
and having to stomach seeing the one
who gets to have the only thing
I wanted, that I never thought

I could have, but for one brief
moment. It will not keep me
warm at night. It will not
keep the monsters at bay.

It will not help put back together
the shattered shards and dust
that was my heart of fire:
once, whole and beating.

Shattered

My heart broke once
and you were there
to hold me. You
took me by the hand
and told me I was
strong enough to
survive. But now
my heart broke twice
and you were the one
who broke it. This
time there was no
one to hold me
when I cried myself
to sleep at night.
How can I survive
when those who broke
my heart were the ones
who were supposed to
care for me when
my heart was broken?

Heart of Fire

Listen to the MUSTN'Ts, child, listen to the DON'Ts.
Listen to the SHOULDN'Ts, the IMPOSSIBLEs, the WON'Ts.
Listen to the NEVER HAVEs, then listen close to me:
ANYTHING can happen, child, ANYTHING can be.

The old woman sat in a chair with a blanket over her lap. She stared into the fire and did not move when the girl walked through the door, setting the bell tinkling. The girl approached the old woman, her footsteps muffled by the dusty carpet. She knelt beside the chair and clutched at the woman's thin arm. Her skin was papery and soft, and the girl could feel the warmth that emanated from the crone. She looked up at the wrinkled face, cast in inconstant shadows from the flickering light of the fire in the hearth. Saying nothing, the girl just waited for the old woman to acknowledge her. They sat in silence that stretched longer than the girl thought she could bear. A single tear ran its course down her pale cheek and dripped off her chin. The tiny droplet landed on the arm of the woman, between the girl's fingers. As if a spell were broken, the old woman turned sharply and looked down at the girl, her eyes flashing red in the firelight.

She stared at the girl, her red eyes boring into the green ones that looked up at her with such pleading, such pain. Then she lifted her other hand and traced the track the tear made on the pale skin. ‘So you have come,’ she said in a voice that sounded as dusty as her carpet, ‘At last, when there was nowhere else to go.’ She continued to penetrate the girl with her gaze, cutting through her defences as with a knife, and seeing into the heart of the matter. ‘It hurts, doesn't it?’ she whispered. The girl dipped her chin in mute assent, and the woman nodded as well, turning back to the fire.

‘It will lessen,’ the woman said, her eyes mirroring the dancing flames, ‘but it will not go away. You have a heart of fire, child, and that is a terrible burden and a great gift. Do not be discouraged, though. You must try a little harder than others, and it will take you longer to get there. That is part of the price of fire. We who are gifted with fire burn hotter than the rest, but it happens in its own time. The world will heave and turn, spinning on its axis, spinning through space, and the years will pass, but that means little to the Fire. The Fire comes when it will, as it will, and does not take notice of such trifles as time.’ The old woman closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could have been asleep, or dead, but for the warmth of her skin and the very slight sound of her breath. Then she continued.

‘Your heart is young, child, and it is still kindling. The pain you feel is it coming alive. Life is pain, child, and we come to this world in pain, and we live all our lives in pain, and someday we escape that pain, but only in death. Those with the gift of Fire feel more than any other. Pain is ours to bear, and ours to cherish. It is our life that we feel pulsing within us, and the way we know we are still moving forward. I will not lie, child, it is a terrible, wonderful thing to have a heart of fire. But you must accept that it is your lot in life. You must accept the gift.’ She paused as the girl gave a barely audible sniff. ‘But pain is not all we are gifted with, child.’ She lifted the girl's chin so she could look her in the eye. The old woman's gaze softened, and the light that gleamed in her eyes blazed forward with warmth and comfort. ‘Pain is what keeps us grounded, but that does not mean it is all we have. We also have greatness. You must seek out what your fire wants to give you, and you must pursue it with all your heart. You will be rewarded for that, and well. It is only when we understand great suffering that we can truly appreciate the world; it is only when we make great sacrifice that we can truly treasure that which is good. It is not an easy path, child, but it is yours to take. And if you do, I promise, it will be worth it in the end. I know you cannot see it now, you can feel nothing but the pain of the new fire inside you. But fire is cleansing. It is pure. And it will never lead you wrong.’ The old woman let go of the girl's chin and turned to the fire once more. When she spoke again, her voice was thin and distant, like it came from very far away.

‘If you accept your heart of fire, it will serve you well, child. But it must be accepted freely, without reservation. Otherwise the fire will die. The pain will leave, if that happens, but everything else will leave you as well. Your life will turn to embers and ashes as the fire in your heart dwindles, until one day it is snuffed out completely. Your body will still live, your mind will still function, blood will still pump through your veins and breath fill your lungs, but you will love none of it. You will feel none of it. So you must ask yourself if you can accept the gift and the burden that have been given to you. They are yours alone to bear, but if you accept them, you will not be alone. Fire gives life even as it consumes. If you accept your heart, you will find greatness. I cannot tell you more, for I do not know your path. But the reward always surpasses the sacrifice, and you, child, will burn brighter than any I have ever seen.’

The woman stopped speaking and grew very still. The girl stared at her, watching her pulse flutter in her throat. After what seemed an eternity, she rose from where she knelt by the chair. She stared into the fire and saw shapes appear in the flames, dancing and whirling. Pressing a hand to her chest, she felt the warmth radiating from her, calling to its own. She took one last deep breath, then turned and left the room. The door tinkled again as it swung open and she was blasted with a gust of cold air from the street. She squared her shoulders and pressed her hands together, as if in prayer. And in the moment of acceptance, she felt the warm glow in her chest spread throughout her entire body. She sighed, and began to walk down the street.

Listen to the Mustn'ts © Shel Silverstein

Better Stories

Her body tells many stories
To those with eyes to see

Every scar tells a story
This one of the time she fell

off her bike. That one of
a fence on a playground and a

gate not quite open. There are
other scars as well, stories

that go deeper than childhood
trifles. The thin line along

Her right wrist. The burn
between her toes. There are

stories that not all eyes
can see. How she turns her back

in a crowd, or how she freezes
just for an instant when

approached on her blind side
by an unfamiliar man. These stories

are told by scars. Scars she
can trace with her fingers.

Her being tells many stories
To those with hearts to know.

Not every story is told
by a scar. Not every story

catalogues a hurt done to her
or a wound that healed. There

are other stories told of
happiness, of closeness, of time

spent breathing in life. The beat
between words that lasts a fraction

of a second longer than it
used to last. The turn of phrase

said in a fit of laughter. Her secret
smile when someone touches her face.

These stories are wrapped up inside
her heart and her head, clasped

close to her, cherished. But only
seen by those who look for the signs

of being loved. Of loving
freely, openly. And truly.

Not every story is told
by a scar. Some are more

subtle. But she is made
of all of her stories.

And those who can see
beyond all her scars

will see that she loved once,
and well. And was loved in return.

Remember

Remember the night spent
Under the streetlight
Clinging to you
Like I was drowning
Touching your mouth
And your chest and your hands
My head filled with doubts
That made me reluctant
To want to go on
Because running is easier

I am not running now
Just walking, and slowly
My heart in my hands
And my chin to my chest
Wanting is not
Enough of a reason
To stay, or go back
When the world crashes down

Again I am drowning
But not with desire
Or fear of a monster
Lurking just out of sight
But with pain and regret
And a sense of foreboding
A wish I could change things
Go back to the start

I do not for a second
Apologise for
That moment our lips met
Under the street lights
Saying yes to my heart
Has never been easy
Taking what I want
Has never felt right
I did not fall
But rather I jumped
Into love with you
On that wonderful night

It is over for now
And I must continue
Forward despite wanting
What I can't have
My heart aches and my mind
Is weary with wishing
If only I could
Stop feeling so deep

The marks that our love left
Are still open wounds
But the scars that I sport
Show I am tough enough
To wait out the healing
Though it may feel like forever
What we started that night
Was the greatest adventure
I have ever been on
And I would not exchange
All the moments we shared
Just to end this pain.

Un-made

Today was meant to be
An Anniversary.

I took what I wanted

While I walked
In that terrible Valley

Two years ago.
I said, Yes,

In a place
where the only
thing I heard was
No.

But today is not joyful.
There is nothing to celebrate.
Today
Is a day
Of mourning.
A day for grief.

I pierced my skin.
I cut off my hair.
I seek to drown
In smoke and vapor.

Today I allow the part of me that said Yes to die.

I do not walk the same barren path
That lay before me two years syne.

This is a new waste,

Here after climbing
The Mountains of Maybe
And, foolishly,
Keeping my sights

On the summit,

Tumbling headlong into
The Desert of Never.

I want to turn my back on this journey

That has tried me
Judged me,
And found me lacking.

But to leave,
I must bury
The remains of my heart
At the base of the Tree

That marks the entrance

To Beyond.

The girl with the generous heart

Once upon a time there was a girl with a very generous heart. She was not very pretty, nor was she very lovable, but she was clever and loyal. However, she was not wise. And so she gave her heart away too often and foolishly.

One day the girl met a bird. The bird was very pretty, but he had a crooked wing and could not fly. The girl with the generous heart took the bird in and fed him and protected him from the things that prey on the weak and the lame.

The girl kept the bird near her, sharing everything she had. Many people asked the girl why she cared for a bird that could not fly, and the girl with the generous heart always responded the same way: ‘This bird is my friend. Yes, he cannot fly, so I protect him. His friendship is more than enough repayment for the little things I share.’ The girl with the generous heart worked hard, making sure that there was always enough so that the bird with the crooked wing was well cared for and happy.

The girl saved every penny she made and eventually she had enough to buy the bird a new wing. She went to a shop where she could purchase a new wing, and she picked out one that was beautiful, like the bird who was her friend. The new wing was very expensive, but the girl with the generous heart did not hesitate to buy it. It was perfect and she was so excited to get home to show the bird his new wing.

However, when the girl with the generous heart got home and showed the bird what she bought, the bird with the crooked wing flew into a rage. He said terrible, hurtful things to the girl with the generous heart. The bird with the crooked wing accused the girl of secretly hating him, of being ashamed of him, and of wanting a new friend, because the only reason to give the bird a new wing would be so he could fly away. The bird said that the girl with the generous heart must not really love him, and that she must think he is not good enough to love with his crooked wing. He said that if she really loved him she would accept his crooked wing and that the new wing she bought for him was just a way of saying that he would only be lovable if he were not broken.

The girl with the generous heart did not know what to do; she had only wanted to give her friend a gift, a beautiful gift that would make him happy. She left the new wing on the table near where the bird was perched in the corner, glaring at her, and she left the house. She hid for a time in the woods and she cried. When she could cry no more, and the sun was starting to set, the girl went back to the house.

The bird with the crooked wing was gone. As was the new wing the girl had bought for him. There was no note, no explanation. The girl with the generous heart would never see the bird again. But she could not forget all the terrible things the bird had said to her.

The girl with the generous heart was clever enough to know that it was her heart that had gotten her into this trouble. And so the next day, the girl with the generous heart went deep into the woods. She took her heart from her chest and buried it at the foot of a tree.

Ever since that day, the girl no longer had a generous heart. She became reclusive and lonesome, and she always remembered what the bird had said to her. She never looked for the tree where she buried her heart, and she lived a long and lonely life, her one small comfort the knowledge that she could never be so foolish again as to give away her heart where it would not be reciprocated.

an old piece

I remembered writing this years ago, and it seemed pertinent recently. So now I am posting it here after it collected dust on my much older blog.

I have grown and matured so much since then, and the broken relationship that this addressed is mended and better. But it was still a step for me.

[untitled]

What is there left to do
When the flow of words
From one vessel to the next
Has dried up
And there is nothing
Left to say?

What is there left to do
When the emptiness
Takes the place
Of that which was full
Of life
But now is nothing more than
A void?

06/03/2005

The Red King, a contemplation

Red King. Supplanter. Your names shed more light on the effect you had on me than months of fragmented pondering and writing have offered. You came into my life unexpectedly. I invited you in, it's true, but my perception of you had very little to do with the reality I was to encounter. You took me by surprise; a neat trick, while I was looking right at you.

You were an earthquake--you hit me hard, suddenly. I missed the telltale warning signs. And you shook my world, rocked me to and fro and shattered me with exquisite precision.

The more I think of you, the more I understand--the bits of clarity that dribble though to my conscious mind. I understand the fear--delicious and intense, trickling down my spine like lava. You terrified me and transfixed me; for you I would have stayed in that desolate wasteland I so hated. You inverted the poles on me, altered the constellations. All my instincts were pulling me north, pushing me north, dragging me, coaxing me, calling me, cajoling me. But three weeks with you and I lost my sense of direction. You were a magnet, drawing me to you. You became my north, and that frightened me.

The excitement, the desire, the pleasure and the nervousness--all vying for first place in my conscious mind. Around you I could be simultaneously so nervous I could vomit and so happy I was dizzy. I wanted you. I'd forgotten what it was like to want so much, to be filled, consumed, to burn constantly with want.

After the Man, I thought I had shut myself off to that, to the wanting. Perhaps I had, to protect myself--a sort of survival instinct. Or maybe since the Man, after I had doffed my mourning, I simply hadn't encountered anyone who could fill me with electricity and fire, till you. But then you sauntered into my life and devastated me with laughter, with delight. Your merest glance was enough to make me ignite, your lightest touch enough to make me go up in flames.

Earth supports fire: it feeds it, stirs it up, lets it consume and grow and swell. An earthquake can stir dying embers into an inferno.

You were unexpected. And then you were gone. But I am grateful for the all too brief time we had, for the three intoxicating weeks (ironic, I know). You weren't trying; that's what made it all the more intense. But the embers you found still glowing deep within me, sheltered from the world, from the lovers taken and left, from everyone since the Man, that your clever hands (and mouth) stirred back into a blazing beacon, embers I had thought long since extinguished... You brought me back to life, to awareness. You filled me with hope.

I mourn losing you. And I know I have not finished mourning the might-have-been. But I would not trade a single moment spent with you--frenzied or fraught--to spare myself that piercing pain.

You proved I am still alive.

Thank you, Red King.

The Red King, a fragment

I had thought there was nothing left to find--
When the Man had left, the fire
Dwindled, and all there was where
Once I had blazed like a beacon
On a foggy night
Lay ashes and memories.

But his hands, so roughly gentle
Found among the ashes
A dimly glowing ember
And coaxed it into something
More than a slightly
Smoldering memory.

My Red King moved me like the earth,
Shifted my world
Inverted the poles
My trusty compass always pointed North
Due North
Drew me onward up the coast
And suddenly, I was being pulled
In a new direction--like
A sailor with a new polestar.

The first cut is the deepest...

For A. M. E.


Once our young bodies twined and writhed, reaching
for an ineffable moment of release
that could only be known once we gave it
a name; so we lay panting together,
spent, but unfulfilled.

                                     Still, you overwhelmed
me with wonder, with want, with need, but my
childish hands spread wide, letting it trickle
through my fingers; my eyes screwed up against
the effulgence of the promise of our
naive passion (exposed, in its guileless
infancy, to the scathing paroxysms
of all the rage and hate and spite and fear
the world had to offer), thus I could not
see it for what it was: something so new
and so portentous, just barely breathing,
its pulse quickening beneath the surface.
I kept my eyes closed tight and the brightness
burned through my eyelids, tinting my world pink.

Then suddenly it all lay broken, smashed
to pieces at our feet -- unfixable.
I looked up at you, both of us so very
young, but older than we will ever be.
I took just one step toward you, stumbled,
cutting my feet on the shattered remains
of the shell that once insulated our
felicity, turned away from the pain
in your eyes and the shame and agony
in my chest. I staggered away from you,
ran as fast and as far as my cut and
bleeding feet and my cut and bleeding heart
would allow.

                       But the wounds were still there, blood
seeping through my shirt: so I stitched them closed
with sutures I can never remove, your
name written indelibly across my
heart with golden threads that shall never break.


11/02/2010 revised 16/12/2010