waves
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By Jenn

Missing you comes at me in waves
Brutally crashing against my face
I’ll tell my mind to stop, but it never behaves
Looking for ways to keep that memory safe, beautiful in our secret place

Most days the waves are kind and small
Your words run through my mind, keeping me in a silent purgatory
Your voice thickens the air around me, making me stumble and fall
Your promise echos in my ear saying “hey, let me tell you a story”

I know it’s wrong, I know you’re wrong
But that doesn’t stop my mind from replaying your breath dancing off the back of my neck
It was so safe and warm and happy knowing you were there all along
But now the ache of your absence brings a fear I can’t seem to check

Missing you comes at me in waves
Should we finally lay our heads in those self-induced graves
Always connected together forever for all of those who tore us apart to see
And then maybe, just maybe they will finally let us be

Make Believe

dead rose

 

By Jenn

  • There once was this little girl
    Who sat alone in the dark
    Wishing she was anyone but who she really was
  • There once was this little girl
    Who made up her own little world
    Safe in her little blue room
    She twirled, she spun, she sang then she’d bow
    And all the pretend people cheered
  • There once was this little girl
    Who just needed someone to love her, though she didn’t know that’s what she needed
    She searched her whole little life, looking to fill a void
    Searching for that one little place that she felt truly safe
    Somewhere she could just be her happy little self
  • There once was this little girl
    Who lived inside this big girl, with big dreams
    But both girls were filled with fear, self doubt
  • But one day there was this boy
    Who instantly understood that little girl and made her laugh harder than anyone else
    He was kind, handsome and full of life
    With his crooked smile, dimples and his crooked way of looking at life
    He was everything she didn’t know she needed
  • One day this boy showed this girl what life could be like
    They fit together like puzzle pieces
    Making a beautiful picture full of color, love, laughter and sunshine
    The thing is, when you’re a broken little girl
    You always think love comes with strings
  • There once was a girl who fell for
    A boy who didn’t expect anything from her
    Who looked at her like she was magic and made her feel safe
    Who made her laugh and smile harder than anyone else
    But instead of letting him love her, she pushed him down and ran away
  • So that little girl lost her handsome prince
    Because who wants to love someone who doesn’t know what that means
    Now she sits in her room, imagining
    Playing pretend in her head to fill the void
    Knowing she would never feel that safe or happy again

 

Dear Lord

Dear Lord,

Stop the pain.  Please.

By Whitney

Dear Lord,

Stop the pain. Please?! Stop the murderous rage coursing through my veins.

Stop the tears, the dry tears running down my pale cheeks.

Nobody can see.

My body is shaking, craving a cure bigger and better than cancerous nicotine.

My mind is tumorous, crazy, needing more than just illegal drugs.

Nobody can tell.

Dear Lord,

The pressures and demands, the stress and problems, all unload onto me.

Can no one see my shoulders are no longer as broad?

I can’t take on the world.

When once strong, I am now weaker than the weakest being alive.

When once I had all the answers , now in their place questions are all I find.

Solving them is no longer an opportunity, it went in his moment of lust.

Dear Lord,

Can no one see I just need to be left along?

I’m more lonely in a crowd than locked in my room…by myself…

Alone.

Dear Lord,

You all say everything will be fine, I just need some help.

Support.

But no one can.

How can you support me if you don’t understand me?

Can’t look into my soul and tell what you see.

How could you see my soul when it’s unclear to even me,

hazy misty fog.

Does anyone even truly see as far as my heart?

is there one left?

It’s been torn and ripped apart so much that if I have one, it is surely pale as scars.

Dear Lord,

Is there a meaning to my life besides being a toy to be crushed in the of men?

Countless nameless cruelties done to me which return to terrorize my dreams.

Is there ever a decent nights sleep, more beyond a tireless few hours?

How I yearn for a peaceful eight hour nights sleep filled with child-like fantasy.

How i wish for this deeply ingrained terror to leave me be.

Who knows when I’ll wake up with a knife in my hand again?

I fear my sleep for to sleep long and deep meant to flashback and die all over again.

Slow and painful death each time I remember, each nightmare revisited.

Dear Lord,

Stop the pain. Please.

2017-07-23 18_48_39-(2) Whitney L Morgan

Glass Jars

heart

By Jenn

Hey, you wanta know what I’m good at?

I’m good at hiding
I’m good at pulling away
I’m good at being pushed aside
I’m good at being unlovable
I’m good at not needing anyone
I’m pretty good at not feeling

You wanta know what I’m not good at?

You….
I’m not good at you
Your dark, twisty evil beautiful
I’m not good at this
Whatever “this” is
I’m not good at playing games
I’m not good at “happy”

But I’m pretty sure neither are you!

You play it cool…so fucking cool
Wait no, you play it like a bitch
Like a little bitch pawing at bigger bitches
To keep you feeling like a “man”
Like you just wanta be cool with me
Like you’re scared to loose me
But then you play it like you don’t give a fuck
But then you are quick to say you’re sorry
When I say fuck it, fuck you, fuck this
You’re scared to lose me
You’re a contradiction
You can’t play both sides, man

So which are you?

Are you that kind soul
The beautiful, sensitive soul
I see when I look in your eyes?
You seem to see that in me
I see it
I see the way you look at me,
How can you act like you’re so demented
When you look at someone like that?
Are you a timid man who’s afraid to do the wrong thing?
Are you a man who feels like your soul is ripped out?

Or are you the badass you want me to think you are?
Are you the the man who says “fuck you” to the world?
Or are you the dumb fuck who stabs everyone you care about?

I don’t think you’re either
I think you’re a shell of a man
Washed up along that trail you like to walk
High in the mountains
You’re a muddy, bloody mess
With your heart tucked neatly in your pocket
Making everyone pay for HER mistakes
That. Bitch’s. Mistakes

When you pulled your heart out of your chest
Did you have a sick and twisted smile
Did you hold it up for everyone to see
Hoping to make everyone run
Did you get off on it pulsating through your hand
Did your dick get hard watching everyone run from you
Did you get off watching
That beautiful heart still pounding,
Dripping blood
Did you laugh as it ran down your arm
The tighter you squeeze the more you enjoyed it
Are you just waiting,
Waiting for someone to come along
Who’s dark enough to lick your hands clean

What you don’t know is
I’m that person
That person who could lick your hands clean
My mouth would curl up in a smile
Enjoying each crimson tear running down your arm
Licking, sucking like I was giving you
The best blow job you’ve ever had
A small giggle would escape my throat
When your moans turn into cries of ecstasy exploding
Harder than any other girl ever has or will again

What you don’t get is
I’ve cut open my own chest
To let the air in
Because I couldn’t breath
What you don’t know is
I’ve laid on the cold bathroom tile
With a cold razor in my hand
I’ve bled on my floor more than you
Watching each stream of blood
As it formed my silent tears on my tiles
I’ve cut out everything that feels
I’ve cut my wrists, my legs, my soul
What you don’t know is
My soul sits in a glass jar
Cause I vomited it into my hands
To hold in the sobs of panic and hurt
With a smile on my face
What you don’t know is
My dark is darker than yours, darling
My bloody pieces are all bottled up in glass jars
Hiding from you,
All lined up
Displayed like fine china
Waiting for you to come find them
Rearrange them
And put them back again

But I’m pretty sure you can’t handle it

So you see
Your dark isn’t too much for me
My dark is too much for you
Don’t be mad because my shiny case
Is more sparkly and organized than yours

Bloody Fucking Hell

whitgun

It’s Monday…

if the title didn’t clue you in…I curse…a lot. I use “Fuck” not just like it’s a conjunction, verb, adverb, or adjective…I use “Fuck” like it’s a bloody fucking comma. I’m honestly a little in love with that fucking word. I pepper it throughout my speech and writings. Even a lot of my poetry.

If you’re not comfortable with cursing you likely are not going to like 50% of my posts, and I’m ok with that. This blog will not be for everyone. Despite our cute little about me pages, Jenn and I are pretty dark and gritty people, and this blog is going to be the relief valve for our darkness. We’re drowning in it, showering ourselves in it’s gripping hedonistic blood like Carrie at the prom.

I’m not resigned to the darkness that lives inside, I’m not just accepting of it. I understand it, I seek it out and pay it attention, I relish in it. One thing you should know is that I don’t identify as goth or emo, or whatever the fuck else we’re calling moody all black wearing angsty teens these days.

I’ve had a few anniversaries of my 29th birthday. I wear colors. I smile, I joke around; I listen to bubble gum pop (and country, classic rock, alt rock, hard rock, folk, jazz, blues, etc), watch chick flicks (and action, drama, thriller, comedy, and documentaries). I work in Corporate America and I LOVE it. Most people who casually know me would never think of me as goth/emo.

Yet, I love the darkness inside. The scars I carry continue to teach me lessons, continue to show me my weaknesses, continue to show me how strong I have become. They help me to know that I can survive anything because they are living fucking proof of all the hells I have already survived.

I suffer from PTSD. I have lived through a lot of tragedy, dealt and been dealt a lot of fucking pain. Some days it is nothing more than a story. Most of the time, to most of the audiences I have…it is nothing more than a fucked up story. Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a story I brag about. Because I’m that kind of fucked up. Some days though, some days my soul is crushed under the weight of that story.

I have always been creative. I have always been inspired by pain and misery. I have always been a writer. Ever since I first learned to take pen to paper. My mom still has the cutesy things I wrote as a child. Twelve years ago started a series of chapters in my story that sucked the creativity out of my soul.

Fast forward to last Friday. When Jenni wrote some awesome dark bloody fucking poems that spoke to me and unleashed a longing in my soul to write again. She was in a similar spot, having her own share of darkness and tragedy. We have very different stories, with very similar outcomes. So a long phone call later, we are creating this blog, a Facebook page, typing out and scheduling our first weeks worth of posts and planning the first month.

Some of my content will be new, some will be the remnants of my past; it will be dark and brooding, bloody and messy, bright and cheerful, sweet and loving, goofy and whimsical, dirty and sexy. It will be me.

And in true me fashion, I hope I slip and slide against your skin, pour into your eyes, snake my way inside and spark a fever in your heart. Check back in a couple hours for my first touch on your soul. Will it be a gentle caress? A hungry kiss? A teasing bite or a hard slap?

Kisses

W