Black Moon

Adagio for Strings. Sorrow and Fury.





Last Quarter Moon


It’s right.

It is right.


I am tired. I am cold. I am soaked to the bone. My lower back feels like a mix of fine needles and thick thorns every time I move.


But It Is Right.


Please? Can I hold onto this feeling just for a little bit? Just a little while? May I Mother? Mother May I?


It. Is. Right.

My Brain (22-Sep-2016)


Here’s a perfect example of how my brain works. Do note – if you can’t follow the bouncing jai-alai ball on some level (I will never expect anyone to catch it because Goddess knows I can’t), I understand. Also, understand that we may never get along, because my brain lies to me and sends thoughts on a fast fucked up track and all I can do is try and hold on to see where the ball lands. My brain is only linear on certain occasions. None of them happening in recent memory.


Now then.

*scratches head, STILL trying to sort out the words, for SlothBrain is slothing*

I believe that when I hope for something, when I get excited about something, when I’m genuinely looking forward to something, it will fall through. Crash and burn like the last Space-X Falcon 9 rocket did off the launchpad, taking a satellite with it. (This, by the way, is actually me attempting to be gentle to myself. You may close the page and turn back now, if you’d like. Because the other analogies I had are far, far worse. And I dunno that what I have to say will be any better.)

Fuck it.

Sensei and I were (are…?) supposed to meet up with Sensei’s Journeyman tomorrow. This may now not happen, for whatever reason.

I like the Journeyman. She gets me. She also, I think, is a beautiful, gentle soul who hasn’t once deserved the shit she’s been put through, or puts herself through. It hurts what little is left of my heart to know that. Because I recognize it. On levels that many, if not most outside of us never will understand.

She also scares the living fuck out of me sometimes (not badly. Just…more…*shakes head BBBRRBBRGLLRHRGR*). Hence, she’s the Journeyman.

The Journeyman is here for her own reasons, with others.

Contact has been attempted by Sensei. No word yet. And that’s fine. On my logical (it happens sometimes, shut up) level, perfectly understandable. She’s here on her time. She’s got shit to do with the people she’s with. And, from my understanding, some of those people can be….trying.


I want the meet up to happen. Badly. I want the laughing and the cackling and the jokes and the seriousness and the…Happy.


In my head, I had something to look forward to. To, yes, hope for.


But because I do? It won’t.

It just won’t.


It’s not Sensei’s fault. It’s not the Journeyman’s fault.

It’s mine.

Because I dared to hope for something Happy. Something Good.


Before you say it – NO. IT’S NOT LOGICAL. My brain only works on logic when I force it to, when I put every goddamned last bit of my willpower (lately) into focusing.

But. There you are. And here I are.

I did try to make contact in my own way. *shrug* We’ll see.


Wonder what my brain would look like as a Rube Goldberg schematic.


All I know is that I want the Journeyman to be safe, and happy, and whole.



So. Yeah.


And before you ask?

I’m sober.


God Damn It

I posted this the first time back in December of last year. It decided to earworm me today.

So I post again.



That’ll change in 30 seconds, but hey, for the 29 seconds up to it?


The Jester dances the dance that makes the people laugh.

That’s her job. To play the fool, to ridicule without ridicule, to fumble and fart her way into your heart with her jokes and her gags and her cagey, Chesire Cat smile, until all you remember is laughing. You go to bed, lay your head on your pillow and say “This was a good night.”

What you don’t


Is the Jester disrobing.

Boots off of feet bloody from all the

                bouncing and

            trouncing she’s done for your entertainment.

Voice a metallic mess of shattered vocal chords

                 and cracked lips from the fear of the one word she might say to make you angry, “Off wif ‘er ‘ead and I’ll thankee not t’leave a stain onna carpet”

A growl, an inner howl of anguish and pain that you don’t comprehend because all you Hear are



Bells of her


The sweat soaked costume *sklikts* off her frame like dead, peeling skin still desperately trying to cling to a Framework of solidity

She sits.

Hips aching,

breastbone breaking against the

Shuddering tide of feelings she’s kept inside for so long that

In her dreams (that she don’t remember)

They fly like seagulls alongside the storm

High and free and Laughing


Knowing that it’ll all just start again tomorrow.



How do you ask someone “Will we ever be ‘normal’ again?”

How do you ask “How can I make this right?”

How do you say “I’m tired of walking on glass around you. I’m tired of the walls that are insurmountable, the protective spikes thrust out, the barbed wires behind the eyes, the steel undertone to the words.”

How do you say “I deserve a second chance. You’ve been given them, so why can’t you spare one for someone else?”

How do you say “You made me feel safe, for the first time in years. I let my guard down and I was OK with it.”

How do you say “I was an asshole, and I’d happily remove ten years from my life to go back and fix it from the start.”

How do you say “I miss you”, and not sound pathetic?

Editor’s note – I wrote this down in a somewhat different form a while ago in an actual bound book of paper. Problem is, I don’t date my actual written handscribbles normally, so I honestly have no clue if this is the Before or After version. I’m sorry.

Did I mention this is my life in a nutshell right now?