i will be back. ❤

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late night

i am usually in bed. asleep and dreaming of my next paper. tonight is different. i must stay awake for at least an hour and half and pump out this second draft for editing/polishing tomorrow morning before my essay is due in the afternoon.

my partner reminded me that the brain begins to consume itself after so many hours of lost sleep. and i responded with a laugh and “i will stay up only to eleven.” now i am thinking eleven thirty is best for an actual opportunity to put something nice together.

midnight at the latest.

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running out of steam for week nine and week ten. come back energy. i miss you enthusiasm.

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to my drinking partner

i grew ten times larger with each shot thrown back.
keeping up
with you
was fun.

those days were all about
those weekends
those weekdays.

nights of risk&chance
of courage&lit vulnerability
of hot experimenting&illusion
of trust&silent moments
boundaries not bound to place or time or word.
limits: N/A

the liquor. the bottles dropped around us. the look. the exchange. the cigarettes smoked and crushed. the blur. the shots and craft beers. your lips. our words. the restraint. the more shown. the breaking point. the loose fucking. divergence.

i am 188 days sober
wondering what day
you are on.


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a lesson learned:

when taking a studio writing class: log all of your hours as you go. do not wait until the end of the ten week term to type up each entry for every past week, because you will run the risk of driving yourself mad. and it take so much fucking time.

i have organized the past eight weeks, by what I worked on each week. now i have to transfer all of those handwritten projects, scribbled across three different notebooks, into a neat and chronologically typed entry log. next quarter i am doing this totally different. either i will  buy a specific notebook for my log entries to hand in at the end of the quarter or i will immediately start a word-processed log to keep short entries to flesh out at the end of the term.

but i have learned a lesson. i will grow.

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crying to destress.

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writing about sexual abuse:

an honest admission, seemingly impossible but undeniably necessary.

i am twenty six (oh so very young). i was sexually abused from the age of four to fourteen; ten years of being “scared of the dark”. it is only now: after therapy and therapy and court dates and testimonies and guilty verdicts and tattoos, that i am understanding the deeper impact to my sexual experience as a maturing adult.

last week driving my weekly commute, my mind found an emotion or a feeling, pure disgust for myself. and a long-forgotten memory embedded into its nature, my seven year old self scooping globs of cum out of my naked pussy into the toilet, crying alone and cursing him (“Is this what you want, you ugly prick?”). this moment is the moment i started to hate my body. my body was my enemy; the vessel that kept me hostage to an act of horror i could not stop or control. my resistance and hatred and utter repulsion meant nothing, and the betrayal felt was overwhelming.

in the deepest and darkest folds of my body is the memory of these repeated attacks. the forced and resisted orgasms, night after night, are anchored within my cell memory. it is not my mind–when my beautiful pet is eating so fucking well– that resists, but in my unconscious body. in my body, the one that races with the rush of wet stiff tongue and nail scratching sensations and then everything of everything comes to a halt. stops right before climax. end all breathing and good and all connection between my mind and body. the take over: a resistance to protect me from what is understood to be unwanted and wrong.

cumming can be a painful fight for release, a desperate act to overrule learned behavior to repel the urge to surrender to orgasm. my body rejects my climax, forcing the stimulate away. i stop breathing. my muscles contract and clench and bear down. my pelvis curls into itself. i hold myself still. my entire body tight, pushes out the happy and takes on the responsibility of ensuring survival through the pain of release. the job of enduring surrender to reaction, an unwelcome aftermath.

my body wants not what my desires yearn to manifest. my body has yet to catch up to my voice screaming “i want this, i want you.” my body relives horrors inside itself, while my mind directs delightful service to finish me off. this confliction between bodily memory and sexual desire is beyond language at times. but. i need to write about it, i need to speak on it, and i need to name it–in order to tame the internal bondage of my body. in order to remind myself, it is not just me.

sexual abuse of children is a reality of life. without spaces within larger rape culture activism dedicated to childhood abuse, there are missed points of inclusion, solidarity, and support.

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