Yes...I Could Write About...

Yes, there was a post. Yes, it was angsty as fuck. Yes, I took it down. Yes, I censor the shit out of myself here now. And yes, I do remember all of those times I swore that I would never do that. What can I say, shit happens.

Yes, I have a lot that I could write about, but I don't.

I could write about how I have learned that kneeling is a spiritual experience for me, about how I went from managing a million dollar department to working in little back rooms in warehouses and the sides of mountains, how fucking difficult it is to be taken seriously as a woman in this industry.

I could write about losing a night or a week or two to drugs I've never touched, about the overwhelming urge to serve and surrender in ways I never really thought I'd crave, about how I realized that maybe I was right and the world can't break me, but I sure as hell can break myself.

I could write about the inordinate amount of time I sit talking to an empty chair--pouring out my fears, musings, pain happiness and tears. About how drowning all the goddamn shades of grey as someone who sees the world in black and white fucks me up, about desire and need to feed that sometimes overwhelms me. About what it's like to have people you trained, mentored, bled cried and sweated with, tell you they'll work for you anywhere you go if you just say the word--and not have a place for them to go.

I could write about how if you have millions of dollars worth of inventory, I'm the one you want to have the fucking keys, but I'm a woman in a man's industry making better money remaining unseen. About stirring up the mix and getting my fucking fix, about how speaking from my knees in surrender to my demons, his demons, dreams without reason, has become my way of speaking to god. About what it's like being a storm in a world where everyone desires only shelter, about the fact that I'm a fucking whore and I really don't mind anymore, or about a look and sentence I was given regarding shame--a moment I'll carry and be forever grateful for.

I could write about how beautiful music makes my son cry, or about how he's gonna help raise his brother for a couple months while live on the side of a mountain. About feeling and feeding darkness and dancing with dreams and demons. About what it's like to rip your own heart out and look at it from the inside. About being the crazy fucking white girl everyone thinks hates them, when the truth is--I am who I am and maybe I'm just to busy to care to share words. About acceptance as possibly one of the greatest gifts one can give...

Yes, there's a lot I could write about. But for now, poetry goes into a folder on the desktop, and the rest is poured out to an empty chair in a lonely city of half a million people whose thoughts never quiet and which so deeply disturb my silence.