Holding Out

I. I’m getting there with BOD stuff and that is lifting my spirits considerably.

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II. A thing I ordered before the breakup arrived in the mail yesterday (yes, it took that long). Two pendants – a wolf and a buffalo. I had ’42’ engraved in the buffalo. I’d meant to give the wolf pendant to 42, and keep the buffalo pendant for myself, but that’s not going to happen now.

I considered throwing them both in the trash, but after some thought, I decided to keep them. They are on a silver chain and hanging on my gargoyle, who has been tasked with watching over me while I sleep.

I came to a place of acceptance over the last couple of days. I won’t throw the good out. I won’t. I am starting to have lovely moments when I remember the good and instead of it searing me, it is making me wistful. Little smiles. All that was real.

I will not let that go.

What I will let go of, though, is being failed like that. I will let go of being lied to. I will let go of being handled. I will let go of anyone who can’t meet me where I am, who can’t sit with me as I am. I will let go of people who need to ‘fix me’ or ‘manage’ me. I will let go of being an option. I will let go of being inadequately partnered. I will let go of being shelved or kept simmering on someone’s back burner. I will let go of subtext. I will let go of mixed messages.

I know things got very hard and complicated, but I deserved to be stuck up for, fought for, chosen. I am worthy of that, so I am giving up anyone who triggers feelings of low worth within me.

If I feel like I don’t matter, if your actions don’t align with your promises, if you lie to me, if you neglect me, I do not fucking want you.

Onward.

III. This meme, because yes.

I am still holding out for a kilt & boot-wearing pagan or pagan friendly man who has done or is in the process of doing his own work. I am holding out for someone who makes me feel like I did when first we fell in love and the sight of you made me weak in my knees. I am holding out for someone whose masculine makes me feel feminine instead of maternal. I’m holding out for someone who knows how to thrown down. I am holding out for the same kind of corrective experiences – the experience of someone who was willing to be my rock, who took my side, who fostered trust, who made time. I am holding out for someone who makes it clear that I really fucking matter. I am holding out for someone whose words align with their actions. I am holding out for someone who understands that I need a secure attachment to someone who loves me as much as I need a therapist, and who gets that what I need from them is as important as what I need from my therapist. I am holding out for someone who will not give up when things get complicated or difficult because I am worth fighting for.

He will not need to save me, but he will know how to love me, and I know he’s on his way, because magicks. 

IV. May all be straight within me.

V. Day Five of my eleven day working, because #artwitch

VI. Election + COVID stress has me sipping vodka soda at noon, and I’m okay with that.

VII. My eyes are very, very tired from building graphics, so this will be all the screen time I do for the rest of the day. I’m spent, but satisfied with what I’ve done so far.

VIII. GIVEAWAY. Click to enter. 

IX. I suspect the number ’42’ will haunt me all my life, but I am getting used to it. My girlfriends and I are starting to find it funny. John Oliver said “Title 42” about fifty times the other night. My junk folder sat at ’42’ for hours one afternoon. I logged off of a live and the viewer count was ’42’. I look at my phone at 4:20 every fucking day.

I’m like, wtf Universe? And the universe is like – look, the best way to work through a trigger is exposure, and besides, it’s still the answer.

X. Que sera serin. What will be has been. 

 

 

Still.

From November 2, 2018

In Any Light (Prose)

 

The leaves outside my window are the most vivid golden yellow, and though the sky is grey and full of clouds, there’s this amber light coming in, and it makes me think of you.

 

I love you in the daytime when there’s light enough to see every line around your eyes, and every thought as occurs to you, and every expression, and every movement of your lips as you speak to me. I love you in this light, when you sit across from me, touching my arms, my calves, my thighs, when you sit here reaching for your coffee cup, lighting your cigarette, filling the room with such a powerful sense of your presence that I can feel it for days afterward.

 

I love you in your absence, too, when the light falls on the empty space you occupy when you’re here, like a spotlight on that space that waits, like I do, for your arrival.

 

I love you in the morning when I’m not quite ready to face the day. The way we wake together, and you reach for me, hold me against you like your life depends on it. The way I feel sometimes like my life depends on you holding me just that way.

 

I love you in the spare moments when I am finished one task and ready to move onto another – that I can just reach out with my words, and you’re there. That you give me your time like that. That you take mine when I offer it. That you let me be a part of your ordinary reality with tender, thoughtful tendrils that reach for me throughout the day. I feel you, always. The pluck, the gentle tension when longing strikes, and your body wants mine the way it does.

 

I wonder if you feel it when my body wants yours, but it doesn’t matter. I know that some part of you receives all of me, whether it registers or not.

 

I’m listening to music, and “A Case Of You” just came up in my rotation.

 

“I remember that time that you told me, you said

“Love is touching souls”

Surely you touched mine ’cause

Part of you pours out of me

In these lines from time to time”

 

Yeah. Like that, except you’re in all the lines, all the time.

 

You’re my favourite ink. The longing, sure, but also the certainty, the sense of being replete, the trust, the healing force you bear upon my childhood without even knowing you’re doing it, the way that reaches back through my very DNA and heals the wounds of my ancestors.

Twin flame. I don’t really believe in that stuff, you know. I think everything that happens is natural, organic, of the earth we inhabit, encoded in our bones.

 

But still. There’s something to it. Must be, because something is very different with me when I add you to the equation.

 

I believe myself to be whole without you. You aren’t a piece of the puzzle. We aren’t broken. We aren’t incomplete. But something happens when we touch souls, and though I’m ill-equipped to describe or define it, I know it makes me somehow more than I was before.

 

I’ve held this lantern up in the darkness for a long, long time, and sure, I held it up so I could see my own way, but I am grateful beyond measure that you caught sight of it in your own dark night, and found your way to me.

 

Thank you for arriving.

 

November 2, 2018

***

November 2, 2020. Yup. Still.

 

Grackle Heart

Photo by Cassie Burke on Unsplash

Grackle Heart

Somewhere between my throat
and sit bones
there are questions
fluttering, beating
like jewelled black wings.

When did my ribs become a cage?
When did I swallow the key?
Where’s the lock? What are the answers?

It’s all on the tip of my tongue
but I can’t find my voice either.

Not today.

Every enchantment
I’ve come to count on –
roosting grackles,
groves of alder,
candlemoonfire,
the light in my own eyes
at sun rise & set,
magentapurpleindigo skies,
that song, all the songs

are all locked up here
in this cave of bone
and all that’s left to do now
is wonder
when I’ll hear the door open,
feel that rusty hinge sing
in my ears,

wonder when
if ever,
I will get to
fly home
at last.

Effy Bird Wild
25/10/20