The Truth Whispers Into A Scream
It Will Never Be True Until It Is
She is here.
She is here and the sensations in my body feel of excitement, bordering into nervousness, with a sprinkle of fear. A lot of Martha energy. I can feel the Martha in me wanting to do all the things, rather than just dropping into this voice that wants to speak. After playing with myself upstairs, and actually had the ability to smoke a little since there is no one home.
I leaned in and I noticed how she loves to smoke.
She loves to inhale smoke.
She loves cigarettes.
She loves cannabis and tobacco.
She loves to suck on the stick, gently and slowly allow the smoke to travel down the back of her throat as she allows it to travel freely down, deep down into every crevice of her lungs, feel it fill to capacity, and right when she feels the urge, she then pushes it gently all the way back out.
puffff…..sssssssss……ahhhhhhh….
It feels so good to hold it in my hand, in between my thumb and index finger. Or in between my index and middle finger if I’m feeling classy. She laughs at the word classy, as she stares at me and takes another pull.
She’s me.
I see her.
Blue jeans, fading a little light, but mostly a medium blue, a white tube top, a belt that’s black.
Long hair, with a half-ass Dominican blowout done by her cousin. Her hair is straight, lightly pressed out of her natural curls, still has volume, and surprisingly no frizzes. She’s out on the stoop, on a block that looks like Cornelia Street in Bushwick, Brooklyn, where Mery used to live.
She’s sitting on top of a crate, like the ones you find milk in, in the bodegas. She’s leaned forward, her elbows on her knees.
She smokes and stares out onto the street, watches people walk by with shopping bags.
A short tanned Mexican lady looks like she’s in a rush to get somewhere, worry, and toughness printed all over her face.
She watches as the cars drive by. She watches as she sees Charlie wave to her from the corner. He doesn’t get it, but he gets that there is something about me. He can see the glow from my seat. I wink at him and I give him a soft smile with eyes that meltdown in softness. With a look that speaks from the very bottom that says,
Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for honoring me. I honor you. I honor your soul.
If you need something you must come to my gate and wait till I come out in my robe.
As she comes out in her sheer black robe with roses and flowers, she says to him, “What you need Papi?” as she gently caresses his chin. She is standing taller than he is because the stoop is elevated. He stares at her with such love and appreciation, she feels him deeply.
She has a particular weakness for this particular flavor of man.
“Thank you, Papi, I see you. I’m sorry I was pretending to be needy otherwise. You see greatness and hope in me, so for you, in your eyes, I am okay, I am well. You see I found something. And even though sometimes what I need is different, I know you need me more than I need you.”
I say that with a slight pain in my heart, because I understand the weight of that statement.
“I have things for you,” she says.
I have a shop behind me, there’s a yellow lily on it. It’s not fancy at all. It’s a fake wooden table with a gold cheap metal stand, the kind that allows for it to fold. I go there, I have a small bell, like rusty gold. Yellow Lilly, and things, cures, remedies. I give him a tiny ziplock bag of what a weed dealer may actually sell you weed in. But this isn’t weed I give him. In this tiny bag is a special kind of love, with my imprint on it.
I have an imprint.
I give it to him and I kiss him on his forehead.
He runs off with his treat, completely unable to fully see me. My heart breaks a little bit each time.
He can only see the drug.
He can only see the medicine.
The harsh truth is that I have a particular customer, him, and I’ve grown an attachment. I’ve grown special care for him. So the drug he’s getting is slightly contaminated with the illusion of me as his. What’s worse is that I’ve also taken this drug with him. It’s found a way to let him into my room through its intoxication. He’s gotten a chance to come into the inner chambers.
The inner chambers of me.
I’m so protective of this place, that spraying the pesticide of the illusion of us in the dose, is the way I’ve managed to stay in control while allowing for someone to appease my desire in a compensatory manner. Only to temporarily alleviate me from feeling this yearning for a willful entrance from a man.
God damn.
God damn.
He’s in there.
He’s really in my space.
He’s seeing all the walls,
He sees the engravings on them.
The marks, the dents, the scars.
He sees all of it, and he loves all of it,
And I love how he loves it.
I love how he licks the walls.
How he slides his body into every single engraved hieroglyphic letter, feeling every curvature of its form.
I love how he rolls around the floor and soaks it all in with his tongue as he sucks on every inch, as he drinks and swallows, as he enjoys it like the most refreshing lemonade he’s ever had. Savoring and smacking his lips at the taste of my honey, at the taste of my sweet, at the taste of my bitter.
Every spot in this chamber is full of heightened sensation.
His every step, roll, blink, lick.
Is deeply felt.
This place is connected to every single pleasure ventricle available to the human body.
And he’s gained access to it.
But not sober.
He sees it high.
He doesn’t see it with the sobriety of self-worthiness.
He sees it from the eyes in which the high influences.
Influences him to believe he is worthy without actually feeling worthy himself.
Then, as a result of this place from which he arrives, he has no other choice other than to follow up with a full pretend show where he’ll act like he knows he’s worthy.
And while the words sound fun, it would never be true, not because I don’t want it to be. It doesn’t matter what I want in that spot. And in the realm that is his life, he commands, it’ll be only when he says, not me.
It simply wouldn’t be true because it isn’t.
It isn’t true that he feels worthy.
She knows it.
She knows it, yet she persists on letting him in her chamber just so she can pretend she’s seen. So she can feed off his taking. So she can feel taken. We read all about vampires and how we must stay away from them, but have you heard the story of the woman who loves to be taken by one. It’s the collapse of an entire narcissist/empath construct our world has created, in viewing the vampire as the one needing the help, never once acknowledging the empath’s pleasure in it.
We can pretend all we want.
We can drug, whore ourselves while pretending to be a savior of some kind.
We can do it for as long as we want, just to get a hit; just to feel like we are seen, except it would never be true.
It would never be true.
It would never be true.
It would never be true.
It would never be true.
His sight would never be true until it is.
It will never be true until it is true.
It will never be true until it feels like truth in my body.
Is she ready to stop the supply of the drug?
Is she ready to stop consuming her own drug?
Is she ready to stop using her self to get high?
Sadness prevails in her life suddenly.
The light she once carried as she sat on her stoop- now dim.
He still visits her at the stoop.
He still comes and he consoles her.
He reminds her of the light he’s seen in her.
He reminds her,
And it feels like love,
And it is love to a certain degree, except it’s compensatory.
It’s love given with the expectation of once again reviving me so that I can provide him with the dime bag dose of me. Ironically, it’s the love that I’ll fall for blindly so that I can have the dime dose bag of me. There’s a quote from Nikos Kazantzakis that says,
“I once saw a bee drown in honey and I understood”
And boy did I understand.
Once upon a time, she would force herself to create these dime bags of her self to supply them regardless of how she was actually feeling. She would show up with sadness in her eyes, and he’d still fall for the drug. He will receive the dose and then believe I am okay again because business is up and running, but all the while she’s not okay.
All the while, she denies herself. While playing the game of blaming the other.
She keeps working,
Providing,
Her sadness keeps perpetuating.
Her sadness now has deep roots, branches, and a stem.
A pulse.
Her sadness has made her frail and bitter.
Suddenly the smoke stops feeling like the pleasure and delight it once had.
Now it feels like an outlet for her pain and bitterness.
The pleasure that once existed in every inhale becomes the place where my pain gets transcribed into the pleasure imprint that this smoke once provided me with.
Now it’s become a habit.
Now it becomes untrue.
Routine.
Habit and routine of him coming to my stoop to re-up.
Of him saying anything possible to get it.
Of him whipping it out.
Turning me on.
Making me laugh.
Dangling the fruit of desire in front of me, except it’s a false version of it.
And the yearning is so painful that the temptation of it becomes unbearable.
The truth whispers into a scream.
The truth whispers with the wind now starting to squeal loudly as it pushes against my windows and doors.
The truth screams with the tires screeching of cars racing down the street.
Suddenly the honks become louder, the trucks, the transit noise,
Suddenly the underground train can be felt, and the rumble shakes me,
Suddenly the people walking by are no longer beautiful, they are all just bystanders, watching and falling for the front and the false image I present.
Don’t they see I’m trapped and I’m screaming?
Don’t they see the pain I am in?
Don’t they see that I am tired of selling this product that is corrupted?
The yellow lily now drops to the floor.
The cheap fake-wooden table rots from all the teardrops I’ve spilled here. The cheap golden legs rusted, bent, and deformed from my internal aggression. The line of customers now shortened, and there’s the only one left — Charlie.
Roger still stands on the corner from time to time, trying to find his way in, his ego is too big, and his lies too obvious. I’ve stopped supplying him many months ago, but there once was a time when he was my preferred customer.
How do I turn Charlie away? How do I tell him I no longer am able to sell? He will try to get me to open up shop again and it’ll break my heart to see him break down. He doesn’t want to lose what I give him.
He doesn’t want to see that the sunshine he once saw here has now turned to a rumble of roaring thunder and darkness. He doesn’t want to see the truth that my time of selling is over. He doesn’t want to see his own darkness as I shatter and fall into the abyss of my own darkness.
I say he, but really it’s all I’ve projected on to him.
I am ready for the truth.
I will close the gates of this shop.
It’s time I make an honest living.
It will hurt to see, feel, hear the death happen right before my eyes.
It will hurt to see suddenly nothing,
It will hurt to no longer feel life here.
To remove my life force energy from this thing that no longer serves me.
I need to leave this place.
I need to leave this home.
Beautiful Cornelia Street,
Beautiful bodega crate,
Beautiful cracked concrete,
Beautiful table,
Goodbye.
I leave a rose with the yellow lily as an offering of thanksgiving.
She leaves the cigarette pack too, she stays with the one in her mouth, however.
She cries.
The pain knots in her throat and in her heart,
She gathers the courage with her breath,
Takes one last pull of the cigarette and throws it into the fire pit she created before she leaves.
She watches it burn.
The whole house slowly going up in flames.
For a moment she thinks if only Charlie would come to dangle anything, to see if he’ll come now that the supply is burned.
Alas, he does not.
How my heart hurts from this death inside of me.
Roger watches it burn from afar and he cries from a distance. Coward.
My sheer black robe with roses and flowers now becomes the veil used for my mourning.
What does she do next?
She puts one foot in front of the other,
One foot in front of the other,
With blood red lips, she walks.
She walks in hopes of finding a better anything.
Who knew that creating a feminine led business would have required such destruction!
She does not want to be whored and used as a drug.
She’s in search of honor.
Respect.
Purity.
Honest exchanges.
She wants to grow bigger.
Love deeper.
In order for this to happen, I must leave the drug corner.
I must remove the corruption from the sacred honey elixir that is She.
It is done.
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