Exposition.

At first, I was very excited about keeping a blog. Well, I'm still excited about keeping a blog, actually. I suppose there's a part of me that feels the incessant need to publish my inner workings. It's been that way for as long as I can remember. Mind you, it's absolutely not about being praised, or feeling good about myself, or people reveling in my brutally honest admissions. In fact, I'd rather (most) people not even let me know what they're feeling about my writing. There is far much more to me than meets the eye, but something about publicizing grossly personal thoughts that most people would never even think about revealing turns me on. I enjoy sharing pieces of myself, letting others connect to me in ways they hadn't before imagined possible.

But as mentioned previously, I am the definitive Virgo, and hyper-analyzation is a both a bad habit and a trait that I cannot shake. Typically, I write something, whether it be a blog entry, a note filled with prose or haiku, a rant, all the way down to miniscule Facebook statuses or comments, and I'm happy with it. But sure enough, undulating like high-tide, a wave of insecurity always, always, always washes over me. I begin to think about what I just published, and far harder than is necessary. The inner monologue begins:
"What will people think of this? Oh my God, this sounds retarded. Does it? Am I trying to hard? I'm not, am I? People are going to think this is weird. Wait, no, they'll love this. I'm cool, I'm way cool. Maybe. What am I thinking? Oh God, I need to delete this. Wait, what will they think if I delete this? Will they notice? They won't notice. Maybe I'll just leave it. No, no, I can't. Delete. Hurry, do it. Think of something more clever. No---less clever. Won't come off as overdoing it. I over do everything. Right? I don't know."
It's absolutely pathetic, but again, the over-analysis is something I can't escape. Regardless, I typically end up feeling confident enough with my work to not delete it after publishing it, and convince myself to not give a fuck about what other people think. Or at least, give less of a fuck about what people think. After all, their opinion, unspoken or not, says absolutely nothing about who I am as a person or what I'm truly capable of. Maybe I'm too sensitive. I don't know. Ramble, rabble, ramble, rabble.


Anyway, what I'm getting to, is that this next piece took a lot of courage for me to post. It was originally posted as a Facebook note, and it made me feel a bit better that I could block certain people from seeing it. It's a raw display of the two most substantial things that have ever happened to me. I remember writing it, I was sobbing, pouring every piece of my soul onto the paper. My wrist could barely keep up with what my mind was churning out. At first I was very afraid of people judging me. After all, it took over a year for me to publicize it. But eventually, I realized that this important piece of my life needs to be shared. I want people to know, it's okay to make mistakes, it's okay to love, and it's okay to make mistakes in love. I hope at least a few people can connect with my experiences.
The tone is very bitter, but in reality, writing this helped me move on and upward towards contentment and happiness. I appreciate the lessons I learned through my transgressions every single day. To anyone who has ever battled addiction or lost a soulmate, this is for you. My admiration for you is immeasurable.

Black Tar Chic
January 5th 2009

Thunder claps and applauds my tricks.
God is beating his wife
and staining the pavement with her dismal tears.
"Hit me again, hit me again."

I feel half my body dissolving into an emaciated cadaver
leaving grisly fibers
Perhaps your heartstrings? No, no...puppet strings.
Yank my head towards the sun.
I know I need the Vitamin D.
Ashy, pasty, still tasting your butane tongue.
Thanks again.
Wait---for what?
I perhaps owe only you for such priceless advice
(Hello, hello, how low)
I am fragments of your hero's cranium against the ceiling
Swimming, making snow angels---blood angels.
Unmatched, delusional infatuation.
Courtney Love, eat your heart out.

Burn off the oxide and pile on the misery
Melting swiftly; warmth against the back of my eyelids.
Bitter reverie;
grainy and torn memories like vintage film,
ragged like thrift store sweaters--
pantyhose of twenty dollar whores.

I'll never be as open as I should be.
How open is open enough?
Crawl back inside me, I beg.
Deer in the headlights, side of the road garb
Pulverized pile of efforts without much to prove.
Perhaps I'll never wrap my head around you
Unless I spontaneously combust while we spoon
If ever again.

Unfaithfully yours
Flowers and sex to apologize, fruitlessly,
For the eruption inside me of a coworker's spawn
the evening before, fling with an exaggerated fairy tale.
You're fucked, I'm fucked, get fucked.
Already you're just a distant mirage.

Ring inside its perfect golden box
Black pearls are fucking ugly.
Perhaps that's all I've learned.