Venus in “Deadtrograde”

A plate of pain keeps
the potential heartbreaker away.
Two glasses of my old tears daily
will help me not go astray.
I am strong and I need no one’s attention,
but I want to be desired,
and I want affection,
but I was hurt,
I don’t want a repetition,
but I want love,
and I can feel the tension.

I don’t cry.
I don’t cry anymore because
there’s a pool of my tears
in my heart,
and I like to swim in it,
or go down, down, down,
and drown,
when a potential One
comes too close
to my feelings’ flat.
If anyone is to decide when I drown,
it has to be me, myself and I.
Would you give another potential
pretentious,
manipulative
dingbat
a chance to decide when you die?

Six planets are in retrograde
in my natal chart,
and venus used to be one of them,
but she’s not anymore.
My venus is dead;
a man has stabbed my sickly venus to death.

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Wounded Healer III

Goddess of Forests

I’m shedding everyone’s tears
but I can’t shed my own.
I’ve got it all under control in public;
I’m a mess when I’m alone.
Pain has injected itself into me;
I can feel it bite through each bone.
I’m decaying on the inside,
but this body is not mine to disown.

My heart and soul are drowning,
and I can’t stretch my hands
to reach them through my throat.
They’ve absorbed too much;
they’re heavy,
but I can’t save them.
I can’t drain the tears and blood;
I can’t heal them.

So, I’ll shed my tears through my mouth.
I’ll cry with my hands and feet,
with my words,
and with my songs,
and with my dance,
till I feel my heartbeat.
I’ll shed my tears as sweat;
they can’t pass through my eyes just yet.

Dead Love II

You didn’t fall out of love with me.

My heart’s legs are badly injured;
yours look intact to me.

You pushed me out of it;
you took “me” out of “we”.

Broken

Laughing in pain,
slowly going insane.
Hiding the stain,
praying for rain.
Ignoring the knife,
pleading for a new life.
I’m breathing in death,
desperate for rebirth.

Transform Your Pain for Healing

death_the_lovers_temperance_lg

When we die- when a strong change befalls us, it’s up to us [choice] to struggle to find balance again. When we choose light, we become a light ourselves.

Remove the cover;
let your pains escape.
Mold them into words and music;
anything you might be inspired to make.
Let their flow lead you to be river;
take as long as you need to take.
Be willing to swim, let go and heal;
be open to new changes in shape.
Don’t cover;
choose to recover
for your very own sake.

You’ll be surprised at how creative you can become when you are angry, in pain, when everything within you just hurts. The high level of joy that whatever you make/achieve will bring to you if you choose to heal through it, by not just ignoring the pain but by expressing it, is immense. Find relief, satisfaction and happiness in/through (not despite) your agony.

Unrequitedly Requited

African-Woman-Konstantin-Yegorovich-Makovsky-Oil-Painting-1-800x1084

“African Woman” by Konstantin Yegorovich Makovsky [Oil Painting]

“I love you.”

My heart froze, but not out of fear. It was beating very quickly, and I could have sworn it was having continuous orgasms, if I had to describe the feeling. I wasn’t afraid anymore; I was nervously, intensely relieved.

He loved me.
He loved me.
He. loved. me.
Oh, God.

Then he continued, and right after he did, I wished that he hadn’t.

“I love you two, you and Leidy.”

Wait, one second! Did he say “I love you two” earlier or “I love you too”?

“You both mean so much to me and I’m lucky to have you as sisters from another mum.”

I immediately burst into laughter, and for some reason, he began to giggle too.

“You both are my babies.”

Well, he just didn’t know when to stop, did he? 

I began to laugh even louder. I laughed so much so that tears began to run down my face.
He was laughing because I was laughing; I was laughing because I thought I had just made a fool of myself, and I was deeply hurt. If he was laughing because I was laughing, he was laughing because I had made a fool of myself, because I was deeply hurt.

I so desperately wanted to sink into the ground and disappear or fly on the angel of death’s wings and never return. He loved me, that was good, but not the way I wanted to be loved.

First Aiders for Broken Hearts

Wind-Song

“Wingsong” by Michael Escoffery

No one can touch
a broken heart like a writer.
Even doctors are not skilled enough
in matters of the heart like that.

The writer drills the love-hole in
the reader’s heart further with their pen,
which may or may not be painful,
removing the rest of the waste
that was left behind,
or that the reader had tried to fill
the empty space in it with.

Then they may fill the hole up with words,
promises of a love that would be easier and sweet.
That is the most the writer can do,
for no one else can completely heal
the injured heart except the one
that the reader truly loves.
Else, their heart may never be fully healed,
and they may hurt themself and others.

If the reader does not dig the writer’s words out,
and they try their best to trust again,
they may be fine till “the one” comes,
the new one that will give them new love,
for the writer’s first aid keeps the
heart alive till the reader meets
and becomes their own healer.

Moving On

Nude Back

“Nude Back” by Michael Escoffery

I was devastated,
but more accurately, devastation was me.
I wasn’t happy,
and almost all of the time,
unhappiness clung very tightly to me.

I didn’t even feel that I was living,
that I was,
because I couldn’t feel,
and when I did, it hurt.

One minute, I thought,
“he left me,
so I’ll leave me too.”
The next, I thought,
“he dislikes me now,
so I’ll like me.
Who the hell needs him;
who?”

I’ll dislike all the things he likes.

He likes water,
so I’ll hate water.
He likes air,
so I’ll hate air.
He likes fire,
so I’ll hate fire.
He hates life,
so I’ll hate life.

The ‘only’ that truly like me,
water,
air,
fire
and life;
are the same things keep us alive.

How do you find peace
when a piece of you is gone?
How do you put yourself together
when you’re left in the cold to burn?

“Does he miss me?
Does he miss at feast,
or has he found a different Miss?
Is there a new Beauty for my Beast?”

You have a list of things you hope
he’ll remember and cherish at least.

It hurts;
it’s like an invisible stab to the chest.
It really hurts.

Moving on
and looking back;
moving back
and shedding tears.
Moving on
and looking back;
looking blank
and shedding fears.

That is how the broken have moved on,
for years and years.

Human Sacrifices and Sheet

BlckMTade’s heart is broken into three pieces. It was split into two whole halves for a long time, but it was shattered last night, and there are three pieces now.

Tonight, he’ll meet a new woman, and in a few days, he’ll make passionate love to her. She’ll think he’s madly in love with her, but he wouldn’t really be, obviously. He is, and he would be, in love with someone else who has declared herself unavailable, and for a while, the new woman would become his true love’s clone. 

Maggots and contaminated blood from an untreated, rotten wound in his heart, anger- fiery anger, and sweet-bitter desire would be the new recipe for his semen, for her new meal, and she would lick and suck and swallow in delight, without a slight clue on how or under what conditions it was prepared.

The good or not so good news, depending on what side you’re on, is that he will get better. Within 6-8 months, he’ll get over the old girl, and, unfortunately, the new girl. She would not be so new anymore. He would not be as vulnerable, and the wound would be fairly healed by that time, so he would change; he would become his true self again. 

It would be time to search for a real replacement; he’ll be totally done with the “living sacrifice”. The not-so-new-anymore girl’s heart will be split into two halves when his behaviour changes, and of course, it’ll be shattered into three pieces when he announces that she is of no true use to him; she was, but not anymore. 

Poetree

It’s poetree.
Butter doesn’t help it grow;
dung does.
Comfort won’t make it flow;
chaos will.

You might be surprised at
the number of times you’ll give
hand-jobs to pens in one day
as soon as your heart gets wounded,
as soon as it begins to stink.

Your hand will move across paper,
and back again,
till undiluted pain rushes into your fingers-
pain, like pus,
deposited into your bloodstream from your heart.

You’ll bleed ink and
carve your blood into words;
you’ll come, on paper,
so you can maintain your composure
and manage the hard time,
even if you can’t get closure,
even if the words don’t rhyme.