The Pretty Blue Bows

Every now and then
I miss the lull
and low buzzing of a good high.
Wow!
What a thrill after you
plug it into your arm.
Liquid lightening climbing
through the empty spaces of
yourself.

All those spaces that mommy
dearest left deserted
void, cut up
like coupons in the garbage.
And father wasn’t much
help at all
taking it away himself
with a heavy load.

That incipient surge
that belts out,
all the while
making the eyes tumble
backwards,
staring off into
the tiny cranial stars
making up
tiny cranial constellations.

Of course I couldn’t
slip the steel into my
own arm at first.
He would tie such beautiful
tourniquets
that would make girl scouts
wet themselves.

Pretty rubber blue bows.

I was kneeling on the
bathroom floor,
bending over like a virgin.
Spreading my legs out
and panting out loud.
I couldn’t tie a pretty blue bow
but a decent one I did.
Minutes carried on and
I heard the child within myself
scream
before I got the guts
to inject it.

I guess it does make me
feel a little bit sad now.

Anyhow,
my hands were wet and
slippery.
I didn’t know what the fuck
I was doing
but knew what would happen
if I wasn’t doing it.
In it went and off I went
into this land where I
drool on the outside
but blissfully float internally.

Anyone that tells you that
drugs aren’t worth it
has never ridden the heroin dragon
over snowy peaks of china white.
And how lovely you become,
about thirty pounds lighter
than August,
eyes about five shades darker,
lips beautifully cracked, bleeding,
unkissable.

I am the Reverend
of my own ritual.
Delivering the wine into
my thirsty throat,
but the bread never comes.
I just kneel at the pew
and worship.
Prayer makes to forget .
Prayer is better than sleep.
The more saturated I become
the cleaner I become.

It takes away the sin.

I forget how I’ve been
torn apart limb by limb.
I forget the men that came by
the apartment to see me hazy-eyed,
panty-less
propped up in a cheerleader’s
costume.
I forget how he said to smile
and they exchanged money.
above the bed.

Here I go… nodding off.
Prayer is better than…

I forget how old he was
when he sat me on his lap and
pulled my hair back,
pushing into my prepubescence.
I forget how they all denied it
when I came crawling
out for help,
still raw.

Sometimes when I’m praying
I begin to feel that
I am more beautiful
when I am soggy with poison
and bruised from a grip
and broken into.
Kissable.

But then I begin to remember
when all of the fairy dust wears off.

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Published and Promoting! Plus, a Prize Contest!!!!

Solipsism: (noun) The belief that all reality is just one’s own imagining of reality, and that one’s self is the only thing that exists. 1871, coined from Latin solus, “alone”

I have been published! Solipsist, my collection of confessional poetry, is now available on Amazon and Kindle!

book

***SHARE ON WORDPRESS THIS WEEK FOR A CHANCE TO WIN GIFTCARDS TO BARNES AND NOBLE, COFFEE BEAN, AND MORE!!!
I will be sending out thank you gifts to randomly selected WordPressers who share my book on their blog! Please be sure to link lazarusandlithium.com so I can include you in the prize selection! I will be sending the gifts on Friday, January 8th, so please make sure you share and link my blog before then!***

For those of you that don’t follow this blog, in 2010, I hit rock bottom. After struggling with crippling depression throughout my adolescence and heavy drug addiction, I attempted suicide. Thankfully, it wasn’t my time to leave. It has been an uphill battle towards recovery ever since. Every day I needed to make a conscious decision to hang on and get better. Slowly, with the love and support from my family and friends, I began to rehabilitate spiritually, emotionally, and physically. I am very grateful to say that I have been sober (and plan to be!) from the drug that had nearly destroyed me.

Through my arduous recovery process, I had turned to writing for healing. These poems that I have published in Solipsist were deliberately handpicked, as each one was written during a crucial point in my therapy. They are raw, unfiltered. I understand that some of them can be hard to read. They are difficult to share.

So, why open up to the world? Unfortunately, suicide is such a stigmatized topic in our society, along with mental health. I painfully remember not wanting to reach out for help for this very specific reason. All too often, people who are struggling with the above mentioned are labeled as “weak” and “attention seeking.” Then, when someone we love takes their own life, we wonder why we never saw the signs.

I lived through my experiences and I know that my purpose is to spread awareness. If I am able to save one life, my purpose is fulfilled.
That being said, I am VERY excited about my first published book. I am inviting you all to share this moment with me!

 

In dedication to:

American Foundation of Suicide Prevention
https://www.afsp.org/

The Trevor Project- providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning (LGBTQ) young people ages 13-24.
http://www.thetrevorproject.org/

RAINN- Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network
https://www.rainn.org
Thank you all in advance!!
Laz

Solipsist Takes Kindle

Lights, lights, lights…

This weekend we went to Las Vegas- a very successful trip, if I may say so myself. My girlfriend was absolutely stunning- per usual. My legs are a bit sore from dancing and rocking heels. No complaints, though.

Christmas is in 4 days. I doubt very much that I’ll see my brother and sister. Thanksgiving was enough for me. It doesn’t feel like holiday season at all.

In other news, I’m waiting for the final physical proof of my book to get delivered to me! It should be here by Wednesday. I’m too excited about it.

Here’s a link to the Kindle edition, if anyone is interested:

Solipsist- Kindle Edition

Short update today!

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The Church – Trigger Warning- Poetry on Incest

The plush resurrection of my veins
Comforts me. The push of a steel crucifix
has fixed my clear, white eyes.
Still, I keep ties on my wrist,
The never-minded furrows in the field of flesh.
I have gone incognito. I am a priestess of pills.
A will has been erected.
They will jot over uncrossed
T’s and double-spaced grievances.
I have been raped by daddy dearest.
My legs, thrown apart, like a tormented ragdoll’s.
My arms, tethered in fine linen, with bruises to match.
Buckles, silver buckles.
My mind has slipped and has curled itself around
Hot coals. The stench of a burning childhood lingers
And sits in our lungs. It breathes. It breathes.
It lives, as you live.
Tall man.
Tall men.
I am the pearl left to suffocate inside a rotting oyster.
A letter from Saint Paul to the Corinthians:
The virgin bleeds.
And bled I did, blood of red,
Half-decade-young mare and I bucked over
To feel you rape me again.
Again.
Ten years of loveless love.
I bite down on the matchbox, lips dry
From starvation.
The least you could have done was finish me off.
By the time you fled into the white room,
Stroked yourself into a frenzy,
I was already buried in miles and miles of sheets,
Bleeding, writhing in confusion.
I am the sinning slut.
I’ve had enough practice.
Thirteen years of growing my breasts for your
Enjoyment. Thirteen years of a wasted childhood,
All for your 15 seconds of shame.
What will it be this time?
Remember how you threw the twenty dollar bill
At the church between my legs?
You said, “Good job. Not as great as last time.”
I took the twenty dollar bill and bought myself a
Journal from the children’s section of my favorite
Bookstore.
In my journal entries, I wrote how I wish you would
Stop
Raping me.
Then, you promised that you would start
Weaning yourself off of my scent, my taste.
I wrote one night in my diary that I was proud of you
For not using your tongue when you came to kiss me goodbye.
For this, I eat the pain-killers, the taste of bitter apathy.
For my fix, my clear, white eyes.
Strange, how I still needed to cling to your chest
Even while you destroyed my body.
I would rather imagine you loved me as you raped me,
Then realize I was just a piece of meat
For you to empty yourself into.

Autumn’s Obituary – Trigger Warning

October.

I can only apologize for disappearing yet again from my cyber home. I’ve been jaunting and kicking around in the ever-terrifying real world. My travels this month have rendered me 5 pounds lighter, yet 5 times stronger. .

Where to begin… Since I last wrote, it was the end of September. The transition back to work was surprisingly stress-free. I was grateful to have my job back in my hands.

My girlfriend and I went through a little bit of hurricane. The hurricane (I see now) was needed. During that time, I re-visited the knowledge I already harboured that I don’t need to rely on another human being for any fulfillment and/or stability; I am my foundation. No person or situation will ever change that fact for me. That time also helped me to realize how much I do trust her and how much I enjoy having her in my life. Every relationship, every friendship, has its own suffering and celebration. So, it’s okay. All I can do is project my sincerity from a place of unconditional love. Needless to say, any shakiness and uncertainty I felt about our relationship prior to this brief moment in time has dissolved and I have stepped forward with a renewed outlook of, “I love you and I am going to treat you with the respect you deserve.” I’m much happier with her now and I feel very loved and secure.

During this time, however, real tragedy struck. One of which I am still trying to comprehend. My ex-boyfriend’s brother has taken his own life.
I’ve written several letters to him, the brother, in hopes that somewhere, somehow, he was listening to me. I have so many words, feelings, thoughts about this.
My heart imploded when I read the words, “…he has passed away….” I didn’t believe it at first. My eyes ran over the jumbled letters and shapes over and over again. I felt numb. Then the sudden rush of, “Why?! Why?! Why him?!” filtered through my bloodstream, jetting bursts of sickness throughout my body. I hadn’t known it was a suicide at the time, but below the surface, I already assumed.
What a wonderful human being. He had been my brother, my friend, even my mentor. I knew he struggled with severe depression for several years. We spent many nights on the edge of his bed talking about his past suicide attempt, his feelings of despondency, life in general. We felt comfort and familiarity within each other, as I understood him completely, vice versa. Still, I never really thought he would try again- or succeed for that matter. The sickness still pervades my thoughts when I have a moment to myself. It hurts my heart to imagine what he was feeling in the moments before. I pray often for him that he has found peace, wherever that may be.
I was in shock for the first 3 days. A friend of the family’s had given me the details of how it happened. I wish he hadn’t.
Perhaps what breaks my heart even more than him leaving us is the thought of the unimaginable grief his family is in.

This is a lot to feel.

When this happened, something within me snapped into a painful awareness. Even to this point, I don’t feel fragmented. I just feel, present.

I have been grappling for many months to feel whole, and now I do. For now, I suppose. I feel very aware, and I know that some part of me is grieving. Grief is sacred. I almost feel as if I am a wolf protecting her den. My walls have gone up, though in a healthier way. This month has been a test of strength and self-reliance. I am only allowing that which nurtures me into my space, and any other bullshit can see its way out the front door.

Although I feel “better,” now the embers of the previous two weeks are beginning to fall and settle on my shoulders. Some piceous sadness has swept over me, yet again. I’m a little bit concerned of psychosis slithering its way back into my head; I think I’ve been hallucinating. I’m continuing to be alert- or as alert as I possibly can be. I haven’t been sleeping very much, either.

I’m focusing on the good things:
I am finally back in theater at a community college. I was cast as the lead in a play! Rehearsals start in two weeks. I am VERY excited about it.
My relationship with my family has greatly improved, particularly with my cousin. He has helped me through a lot of turmoil the past few weeks.
My friends are coming back into my life, and I am making new friendships.
My girlfriend, as I am always grateful for her love, support, and ability to make me smile when I need it the most.

I need to write more.

Bedrooms and Bipolar Flicks

As I sat in the movie theater, the lights above me darkened and the noise began to dull. Somewhere from behind my eyes, tears pushed themselves and hurdled onto my unsuspecting lap. Surrounded by an audience of 40 people or so, how could I feel so alone?

The familiar “movie feeling” has infected my every thought again. Nothing feels real, and when it does, it passes by me so quickly that I barely have time to enjoy it.

I am depressed. 

Hello, friend, with your dark cape and roots. Have you packed a bag? If so, you know where the sofa is. Would you care for sugar in your tea as well? No? That’s right…you like it bitter. I’ll be over here…well, you know where to find me…

At first, I thought that the episode was the usual two day bug. It’s been 22 days since I looked out the hotel window from the 22nd floor and really wondered if I would die on impact.

Wow. 22 days. It feels like it’s only been about a week. I’m looking at my calendar right now in disbelief. Almost a month. It’s scary. Actually, terrifying, usually. I lose myself. But what’s really terrifying is when I stop being terrified. Instead, I feel nothing. Instead, death no longer frightens me.

What a fucked up illness. There’s not even a “problem.” There’s nothing to solve. You ride it, or it rides you. Unfortunately, we’re too tired to strap on our riding boots, so we become the buck.

I want to be held. All night, never to be let go. And if I wake up crying, fuck it, let me lie there and cry it out. Hold on to me so I don’t have to hold on to myself. Because I can’t.

What a maudlin rant. Excuse me, bloggees and bloggers.

This weekend, my girlfriend’s friend came in from out of state, I did have a great time with them both. I thoroughly enjoyed the laughs and meals we all shared together. The weather has been very out of character for California. We are experiencing humid thunderstorms and heavy rain. It’s my favorite weather, minus the suffocating humidity floating in the air. It’s nice for a while, though.

Tonight we watched Infinitely Polar Bear in the theater. It was a GREAT movie. I don’t normally give reviews of any kind on my blog, but this is worth a watch. It’s about a manic depressive father who is basically raising two daughters on his own because his wife and mother of his children decides to pursue her education. I’ll post the trailer so you can check it out…

It was interesting to watch the translation of an adult living with bipolar disorder. The movie made me think of my own future as a parent- something I think of frequently.

The system has kept quiet and have retreated to their respective bedrooms. Or, maybe I’ve retreated to mine and I’m just unaware of them. Dee leaves me notes every now and then. Allie is taking care of Senka. Rogue is sad and isn’t doing so well.

This is what the hallways looks like:

1989c_40hallway-contThis is what the common room looks like:

1989c_37blue-room-reverse

In other news, my girlfriend has cut my hair short! I like it.

The Battle and Blessings of a Devoted Nun

small white buckets of velvet sit
high on their earthly stilts,
proud of their purpose,
whatever that may be.

along the bedside of a pumped up priest,
chanting relentlessly on worn out beads
and bleating to a God that hasn’t listened
since that night in 1992.

I chant, too. On nights like these.
though I know the difference between
a steel crucifix and the holy ghost.
I chant for you, Wife,
so that the aches I give you may leave your bones.

both of us coil in life, like
snakes, split-tongued and tempered.
when you sleep I hear your dull rattle-
humming and hissing.

I adore your ridges, your stuck claws in the ground.
I am able to lick each nail clean from the socket,
gently ripping you from your familiarity.

Wife, may you buckle beneath my loyalty,
overcome by love and love and love.
For you have grown knowing nothing else
but to scratch and bite.

I am no causality.
and if you bite again, well, I love to bleed.

lying still, save the rise and fall of your stomach,
I keep my eyes fixed on your collarbone.
I’ve always loved the dark rings on your skin,
the way your chest juts towards the sky.

chanting here I speak now in low whispers,
my throat cracking with elongated aaaas.
funny now, God must have left the sheets,
as I find myself spilling this soliloquy to you.

I’m worried that you’re awake,
listening to this raw moment of truth.
then again, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before
drowned in whiskey and smudged in mascara.

how content I am to exchange nothing
but silence and mutual dreams.
like a nun, devoted to said steel,
I bend here on my knees, devoted
to the god between your legs.

come morning when the yellow hood
has yawned and collapsed over buildings,
I will taste your mewling mouth and
delve into our third sacrament.

for now, we sleep beside those small white buckets
of velvet that sit high on their earthly stilts.
I am proud of your purpose,
whatever that may be.

the air has cooled.
I hold you here,
still chanting through my heart,
still holding yours.

The Barn House; a Short Story

Smooth to the touch, familiar, and welcoming, the lariat laid complacent in her hands. A job well done, it seemed to her. Each strand had been carefully tucked. Every coarse filament had been deliberately concealed to perfection. Had she been able to feel pride, this would have been her lasting accomplishment.

The birds outside the barn house became quiet that morning. Her legs carried her on to the grass. Still wet with nocturnal spit, the leafy blades begged her to stay- as if God had thrown some sylvan miracle by her feet as a persuasion, though futile. The moon had begun to exhale into its diurnal pocket. As she stood, the wind collapsed dead. Had she been awake all these days?

The last time she had been outside before sunrise was years ago. Life seemed to peel her out of bed with curiosity back then. Summer camp. The days were overflowing with field trips, guitar lessons, horse back riding, and swimming. It was different. The air wasn’t so sick. The sky wasn’t so bloodthirsty.

She spun around with sleepy heels, no further words left to assemble. Nestled within the stables, timbered beams stretched sadly, awaiting their inevitable mortiferous purpose.

Up the rope flew, tearing down ancient webs. Out the chair shot. Breaths. Tepid breaths. Human breaths.

The laconic brevity of dusk cradled her into finality as the sun rose, three seconds too late.

Coffee and Moths

23 hours, 8 minutes later.
Rebel coffee grounds float to the top of my cup.
A truly spasmodic moth approaches the rim,
he looks right, looks left,
well I can’t tell.

I hear twelve­thousand clinking clocks
clanking in my skull.

The wily moth whispers something obscene to me.
He seems to be rather rapt and roared
within his mothly affairs.

We hold a colloquial meeting
on the edge of my bed.
As I stare down into my now sullied drink,
his scratchy gestures confuse me.

The abeyance of my seemingly stationed
sanity stretches so far away. I continue
to listen to this wretched and feeble mite;
the plight of his life is at stake.

Oh, how he cries and blubbers on top
the rim of the cup, nearly falling down
about three times. The bumbles and
flitters all reverberate beneath my muscles.

Quicker his tongue traipses
and I become unnerved. This small body
of fur and wings resonates a stark fear
that is nestled, buried under my feet.

Startled, he gazes into my eyes.
Bright splatters of red and blue explode
somewhere inside the pockets of my delirium.
I am alone 

Wooden Bells

A civil cluster of yellow bees

Congregates in the tall stocks

Of blue-wheat grass.

A class of artificial monks

Swings by, diving for golden rod

Syrup and aluminum wings.

These things with busy 

Abdomens, they buzz and bumble

Beyond words. This world, 

It crumbles without this 

Goblin lull.

Tiny souls of nectar and seeds

Find themselves stacked upon

Each other, their small fragile

Knees knocking like wooden bells.

Brothers from a lucky hive

Come to reunite

In the tall stocks

Of blue-wheat grass.