My Condolences and Gratitude

He said he would…

I could write novels about the things he said he would do to me and with me and for me.
But they were just words, there was no follow through, I’ll write my own ending.

I lost all the ground I was given until I was adrift on the ocean, again.
S’okay, I floated over to an island.

I float. I send out messages in bottles. They float too. We all float down here (s.k)

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I pulled my panties out of my purse and thought of you.

They got lost in a tangle of sweaty sheets between round one and two. When the first hunt for them proved fruitless, I thought to check his pockets. Wondered for a moment if he kept trophies like you. Would have been 2 pairs gone in as many weeks, and I really liked those ones.

The implications of who my thoughts ran to of their own volition is immense.

You said you wanted to round up everyone who ever ignored me and beat the shit out of them so I would know I was worth listening to. Less than a week later you disappeared. Don’t put yourself on that list, you have endured enough beatings and I don’t wish you any more, by your hand or anyone else’s. Your bruises don’t heal.

You said you wanted to collect all of the men who had taught me things and then let me go so you could shake their hands, the hands that molded me, sculpted me into what I am (or did you just want to write Thank You cards, I can’t remember, oh poets and their love of words).
Just don’t.  Don’t write them, don’t sign anything, don’t put a return address, don’t do anything at all. You didn’t stick around long enough to have a full appreciation for what I am, the creature they helped me become.
And besides, it would come off as a written admission of guilt of the pain you caused me, those exes are the law around here. I serve, they protect.

Thank you Teacher* for showing me that sex is a consensual sensual act. That my skin and his are meant to be explored, thoroughly. I am fluent in body language. I have no shame, only lost in lust, passion and play. Bodies are instruments and when played properly makes such sounds choirs of angels cannot match it.

Thank you Saint Anthony for teaching me what it means to love someone exactly as you found them and the importance of coming forward completely. For showing me what is like to be cherished above all things. For providing examples and avenues for exploring sabotage, the importance of being chosen over and over. Lesson learned.

Thank you Ninja for explaining emotional monogamy in a way that I internalized it because I felt it. For showing me that sex doesn’t equal love, I had the hardest time untangling that one on my own. For his strong and patient hands that were so good with all of my knots and stumbling among other things.

Thank you Jesus for showing me it was possible to burst into proverbial flames just by being in the same room with someone. I always knew he was there before I laid eyes on him. He has my gratitude for sticking around after the fire went out. I am the sum of all of my parts, not just the ones that he touched.

Thank you G____ for being so boring that I cannot even conjure a nickname. Thank you Budget George for being so selfish and passionless and blaming the world for everything. Both of them and their Freudian mommy issues are prime examples of things to run from. I see red flags.

You? Oh baby boy, I am grateful. I will keep the things you changed in me that suit me and discard the rest, but I cannot figure out what to toss. Everything washed up on shore with me in a tangle of flotsam and there is terrible confusion.

See? I got this thank you thing down.

Yes, they all hurt me. No knowledge I have gleaned has come without some damage. Moth throwing herself against lightbulbs while hungering for the moon.

I don’t carry pain around. It’s too heavy and besides, I refuse to blame the next one for the ones that came before.
You have built a fortress from your baggage. All must pay for the sins of those who came before. I had fistfuls of gold coins to pay Charon, but the boat never came. I knew exactly where it was headed.
I could have taught you, my palace is built with love, forgiveness and acceptance.
My drawbridge is always open.

I don’t need you to write thank you cards. No, no.

What would be a kindness? A stack of sympathy cards, all signed by you.

Dear ________,

I am sorry.
That woman who just left your bed wasn’t really with you.
She was a thousand miles away, with me.
It was my face she saw between her legs.
My body on top of her/under her/behind her/wrapped around her.
My mouth she was kissing, that is why she didn’t bite.
My voice she heard.
My name she was moaning into the sheets.

She. Is. Mine.
My condolences.
Sincerely,
The Man who mind-fucked Her.

 

This is what you wanted, for me to be yours, in all ways, no matter where I was, what you did or who I was with.

You are not the ghost of some lover past, rattling chains hoping I will notice, this is full on possession.

You fucking won, and yes I meant that emphatically and yes, I know I owe you a dollar. Fuck you.

 

 

 

*Teacher, was not an actual teacher. He was a 22 year old who found me at 16. Saw me for what I was, this overtly sexual, fragile slip of a nymph girl who ached to try everything. He took me into his bed and taught me things, forged me armor I still wear to this day. He protected me from myself and the world for one glorious summer. The only authority he had over me was what I gave him, willingly.