Tuberculosis in those gasping fits of indulgent wheezes spraying the viscous life goo out in a spray. A misting of not so mild proportions even if the emotional fluid is less clingy initially than blood, it still latches on and shows up in the worst of spots.
The time you decided to gauge your ears and that a pen was the logical jump – pressure couldn’t hold back the infection, or the stable nutrient sludge from leaving a heavy velvet trail down the side of your neck.
Pressure can’t hold back everything, it builds on itself until there’s a raucous and feverish exhalation as the balance shifts and pop there goes the cap.
Just so with love in the quieter stages of a new relationship where urgency tears apart at your genitals, your heart, your mind, and all you want to do is sleep and talk and fuck and cuddle and touch and gaze and there’s a missing component sitting at the back of your mind whenever you’re not around the object of your infatuation soon to beget something more….
It’s an incredible array of emotions that comprise us as people in this world, so much so that the involuntary act of vomiting up a tempest of undigested feels and such onto another can be as easily described in the lead in as something detestable, rather than beautiful.
I know I like to think to that moment when the dam breaks and truest of joys radiates in a way that lets energy ripple its way across the lips and my skin seems to be afire with passionate rightness….love, or anger, sometimes they can be dual sides to the same ride, a peaceful lake to a jet boat ride or some such adrenaline rush.
But man, when I look into those eyes.
I still melt.
If it were to be the way that BPD were,
You’d be a goddess or a demon all cut pure,
In gleaming shards of perfect,
You’d hate with everything,
You’d love without anything in reserve.
There would be no middle ground,
No gray area to be common found,
I’d split your single you into two,
Burn effigy of the one not true,
Until the times they changed again,
And I realized that you were my truest friend.
Thank God you’ve showed me to look beyond,
Hear the words your actions write,
When ears signal music to a different song,
You’ll remain imperfectly perfect,
Like us all.
Wash, rinse, repeat,
Reading the same page.
Making the same mistakes,
Being stuck on.
The stuff of stars is what she says we’re made of,
Wildly burning out into the nothing behind warming halos.
Waves of ink staining heaven above wrap around them,
They blaze on in resistance.
Even though they are but a Dot waging war against an endless sea,
Each wails its personal music into the beyond to remind us that we are not alone,
And some of us are even Angela’s.
Why is it that my words echo with such deep longing and feel so true,
But my actions call to task each syllable, each letter, each sentence,
Make me a liar in my own eyes, and shame me to the one I love.
Why is it that I regret each moment of time that I connect to another,
When I know that it will end in tears, that it will end in sadness, in another broken heart,
Because inside I never seem to change from the disgusting thing I’ve always been.
Why is it that the outside which feels so pure and grasps for grace blessed with integrity is so sweet,
When foulness runs afoot on seconds of impulse, chased spots of purgatory, whims of fancy,
Forever haunting myself with the tastes of beauty that I want the world to see me for.
That I think I can be.
But I deceive myself worse than all the rest.
I can never change.
So it seems.
And only God can forgive me in the end.
For I can never forgive myself.
This is a fascinating and detailed read highlighting some of the specific challenges facing addicts seeking to recovery and dealing simultaneously with a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder (BPD). Great material for anyone interested in the overlapping issues and frustrations in treatment for these two damaging illnesses.
Exhibitionism at it’s finest calls for a complete strip down – but like most nudity, sometimes those watching would prefer the clothes stayed on. Authors must dangle and hope the meat on display attracts the eye. Easier perhaps when your life is wrenched from the most vivid hallucinations of Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson then run through the Douglas Adams’ improbability drive. Prodded with LSD and electrified glow-sticks into the Minotaur’s lair to play. Surely that would entertain?
This is a lifelong dream, a Purpose or a calling that I’ve never been able to just put ahead of everything else. Please share, and thank you for taking the time to browse. Thank you.