Those Thoughts Again – The ravages of shame

 “Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.” 
candylady

Shame, a burning feeling in my cheeks, in my mind, in my skin. I feel like everyone knows my mistake. I can’t believe I stooped so low; that I wouldnt listen to the voice inside that keeps me safe, (or so I thought); that I would betray myself by being in that position. It wasn’t always me. I didn’t ask for that situation or do anything wrong. But still the shame persists. A constant nagging burning feeling that makes me feel less than, less than anything. It burns through all my identities, creating a self hating monster inside of me. I can’t stop the negative thoughts about me. About how I look, about how others must see me, about how I am, about how I behave. It takes away my feeling of safety. I’m no longer comfortable in my skin. How can I forget it? It comes at me when I’m unguarded. Driving down the road, in the middle of a party, walking to my house, praying, when I’m kissing my mate, when I’m making love. It always hits me hard, the burning feeling almost taking me completely out of the game, making each breath painful. It takes all I have to stand up, to continue forward; all I have to resist the feeling of apathy, of not caring anymore about anything. If I don’t feel, I won’t have to bear the shame. But it keeps coming, never ending, in fact, it grows. Negative thoughts breed and feed off each other. Where will I hide?


God, my creator, is a hiding place for me. He can restore me, heal me, and remove my shame. My heavenly Dad, can give me the strength to hold my head high once again, without the support of drugs, alcohol, music, gangs, belongings, or anything I have unsuccessfully leaned on. I need to know that God my father, sings over me. He sings because he loves me and has created me for great things. He understands my shame. He wants me to be whole again, to live without being affected by that incident anymore. Sure the thoughts may come, but He gives strength to me, words of affirmation, and most of all, power. Power over my feelings and thoughts. Power to believe contrary to whats been said about me, by others, by myself. A chance to truly start over. A chance to breathe without heaviness. A chance to be me, rising above the ashes of shame with wings of confidence and power.

Also published in Broowaha Magazine


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The Queen – Chapter 11 – Taking out the trash

The sting of the needle, inserted quickly out of necessity, brought me back to consciousness. The gray bearded, decrepit doc had me laying on the kitchen counter, working out of an old leather bag which resembled the texture of his skin. Evidently I was out for a while and as he busied himself cleaning up, I looked over my shoulder, seeing the body of our attacker wrapped in heavy plastic, red smears on the inside looking like a crazed water-color painting. My Queen was calm, her hands stroking the blood, my and his, from my body.  I noticed a strength in me, her strength, unafraid and capable of handling these situations, enabled me, giving me confidence and lifting me above fear. She was amazing, and I owed my life to her now, as she did me for had I not taken the hit, she surely would be the one in water colored plastic. I saw her reach under the counter, pressing something, the cabinet above the sink shuttered and then flipped into itself revealing a stash of items, the most prominent of which were stacks of green, fresh money, the counting straps still banding them together. Grabbing a couple of bundles she handed them to the doc, the street has its own health care system. Letting sleep claim me again, I dreamed of the nights with my queen, her body an escort into the galaxies of pleasure beyond my experience.


The doc left satisfied and we settled into an evening of wine and pills, my Queen drowning my pain and apprehension with kisses down my neck and chest, settling into a rhythm with her hair in my lap. Closing my eyes, I turned to see the body again, I inquired about how to handle the trash. “The cleaners would be here soon, don’t worry.” She went back to her self-imposed task of intimating sexual pleasure on her bodyguard. As I grew closer to the summit of my desire, I recalled that this was the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle.

Related Posts: The Queen,  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 11,, Part 12, Part 13

The Queen – Chapter 10 – The Resistance

 image credit: nahom1

Whispering directions to her room, her voice was scant, forcing me to listen. Speaking softly, she could make others stop their routine to pay attention. Her eyes pulling them, me, closer as we leaned in to listen. She led me to her house, a loft in an unpretentious part of town. The door popped when she opened it, perhaps she hadn’t been here in a while. My Queen had access to many places I’m sure, not to mention the access she gains so readily to the hearts of her subjects. The smell of incense, strong and lingering, permeated her sanctuary, adding an element of Eros to the sultry décor. I turned to put up my jacket, damp from the evening dew of our walk, and bending down to untie my boots, I noticed she was gone from the room. I knew where she went, a trail of garments, first her jacket, then more personal items, her black and lacy bra, her panties stretching out from tip of her high-heeled shoes, all led to the shower, now filling with steam.


Following this not so subtle trail was easy, and looking up I caught sight of her voluptuous body sliding behind the clear shower glass enclosure. My voyeurism was cut short by the steam of the shower rapidly filling the now heated bathroom, my body filled with heat of a different sort. The door was left open, in an invitation that I should join her. I quickly disrobed, the tiles giving a sharp crack of complaint when my pistol hit the floor, in my haste I forgot the gun was stuck in my waistband. I heard a giggle come from the shower, she called out, “I have something to handle that”. Meaning a holster, I thought, however, I was naked now and saw she had rubbed the mist off the glass to peek at my manhood. I responded almost immediately, grateful that she knows how to excite me beyond every threshold of passion I ever knew.


I watched her hands caress her body, her glistening skin a perfect canvas for the long streaks of soap trails. She knew how to touch herself, her mouth responding with open acclamation of passions’ triumph over her body. I reached out to touch the Queen, with one hand she took herself and the other took me. With a rhythm born from an ancient percussion of tribal hedonistic dance, we moved together. Every part of her taking me without reservation. I watched as her nipples swelled with anticipation, my tongue gathering the hot streams of water from their graceful tips. I pulled her leg up in the crook of my arm and proceeded to take deep her offerings of pleasure for my parched soul. She responded to my every move, not just receiving me, but giving me herself. We entwined over, around, under, our bodies desire facilitated by the hot water and the oil she poured on our tangle of lust. My Queen, my queen, you have taken me as I have you. I kissed her deep as I finished, only to hear the sharp break of glass and feel a hot sting drive itself deep in my shoulder. 

Blood spattered across my Queens cheek, the bullet passed through me and hit the tile, a few inches over from her head. With her eyes wide in fear, but hot with rage, she grabbed me tight and pushed me through the shattered shower door, I, even in shock, knew what she knew, my pistol was right by the shower, under my pants. With a huge shove that could only been born of adrenalin, she ran me into the intruder. As he and I stumbled in a frantic and fierce dance of death, she grabbed the pistol and with confident defiance placed it within inches of his ear, pulling the trigger, putting an emphatic resistance to the defilement of her palace. The shot deafened me, my ears were ringing, my mind was cloudy, my vision going blurry, my voice only asking if she was OK. She whispered, her voice strong and controlled, that she was fine but she needed to get help for me immediately. As I let her words lead me to hope, I recalled that this is the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle. 

Related Posts: The Queen Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Also published in Broowaha

The Queen – Chapter 10 – The Resistance

 image credit: nahom1

Whispering directions to her room, her voice was scant, forcing me to listen. Speaking softly, she could make others stop their routine to pay attention. Her eyes pulling them, me, closer as we leaned in to listen. She led me to her house, a loft in an unpretentious part of town. The door popped when she opened it, perhaps she hadn’t been here in a while. My Queen had access to many places I’m sure, not to mention the access she gains so readily to the hearts of her subjects. The smell of incense, strong and lingering, permeated her sanctuary, adding an element of Eros to the sultry décor. I turned to put up my jacket, damp from the evening dew of our walk, and bending down to untie my boots, I noticed she was gone from the room. I knew where she went, a trail of garments, first her jacket, then more personal items, her black and lacy bra, her panties stretching out from tip of her high-heeled shoes, all led to the shower, now filling with steam.


Following this not so subtle trail was easy, and looking up I caught sight of her voluptuous body sliding behind the clear shower glass enclosure. My voyeurism was cut short by the steam of the shower rapidly filling the now heated bathroom, my body filled with heat of a different sort. The door was left open, in an invitation that I should join her. I quickly disrobed, the tiles giving a sharp crack of complaint when my pistol hit the floor, in my haste I forgot the gun was stuck in my waistband. I heard a giggle come from the shower, she called out, “I have something to handle that”. Meaning a holster, I thought, however, I was naked now and saw she had rubbed the mist off the glass to peek at my manhood. I responded almost immediately, grateful that she knows how to excite me beyond every threshold of passion I ever knew.


I watched her hands caress her body, her glistening skin a perfect canvas for the long streaks of soap trails. She knew how to touch herself, her mouth responding with open acclamation of passions’ triumph over her body. I reached out to touch the Queen, with one hand she took herself and the other took me. With a rhythm born from an ancient percussion of tribal hedonistic dance, we moved together. Every part of her taking me without reservation. I watched as her nipples swelled with anticipation, my tongue gathering the hot streams of water from their graceful tips. I pulled her leg up in the crook of my arm and proceeded to take deep her offerings of pleasure for my parched soul. She responded to my every move, not just receiving me, but giving me herself. We entwined over, around, under, our bodies desire facilitated by the hot water and the oil she poured on our tangle of lust. My Queen, my queen, you have taken me as I have you. I kissed her deep as I finished, only to hear the sharp break of glass and feel a hot sting drive itself deep in my shoulder. 

Blood spattered across my Queens cheek, the bullet passed through me and hit the tile, a few inches over from her head. With her eyes wide in fear, but hot with rage, she grabbed me tight and pushed me through the shattered shower door, I, even in shock, knew what she knew, my pistol was right by the shower, under my pants. With a huge shove that could only been born of adrenalin, she ran me into the intruder. As he and I stumbled in a frantic and fierce dance of death, she grabbed the pistol and with confident defiance placed it within inches of his ear, pulling the trigger, putting an emphatic resistance to the defilement of her palace. The shot deafened me, my ears were ringing, my mind was cloudy, my vision going blurry, my voice only asking if she was OK. She whispered, her voice strong and controlled, that she was fine but she needed to get help for me immediately. As I let her words lead me to hope, I recalled that this is the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle. 

Related Posts: The Queen Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Also published in Broowaha

Saltwater of Lust

“I was always holding onto people, and they were always leaving.” 
 – Lili St. Crow, Jealousy
Syrkell
The following is a fictional account, don’t get all worked up over it…

Yeah, I paid you for your services, what you thought was sex. Yeah, you used all my drugs, trashed my house, and spent my money. You lay down next to me, and to your surprise, I ask, “Can you just hold me”. You left within a minute, surprised at the intimacy I required. I can get sex without paying for it, but can I get you to just hold me? No amount of money or drugs can get you to just lay here for hours, caressing me, holding me, giving me affection, helping me to feel like I’m someone special. You leave me here, alone, me and my high. I can never get high enough, drunk enough, to lose this feeling of rejection and abandonment. I need to have a woman’s touch, that thing which you hold from me, your affections. Now I must go on, with wildness fucking every woman I can get my hands on, trying in vain to quench this thirst with the salt water of lust. What a fucked up game this is, a fucked up hand I’ve been dealt, to need something that I can never get on my own, to need you. I suppose I can blame it on anything I wish, but in the end, can you just hold me?

My Worst Enemy – Self deprecation

“All the shitty stuff people do to themselves… it can all be the same thing, you know? Just a way to drown out your own voice. 
To kill your memories without having to kill yourself.” – Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies

Giggling, you see me. I was hiding and you found me, again. I ran but you took a short cut and found me. I yelled but you hid and wouldn’t let anyone see you. They say I’m crazy now. You always hide when I tell someone about you. You tormented me most of my life. At every turn youre there to talk your crap about me. Your sure to tell me what negative thing someone else is thinking about me, you won’t even give them a chance to say it first. You hurt me more than anyone I know. I finally gave up running and you found other ways to torment me. You love the chase. I partied so hard trying to get rid of you, I nearly died. I lost everything, all trying to hide from you. The times you beat me, I just cant count them. I relied on you to help me many, many times. You always let me down, and left me to my own escapes: drugs, parties, sex, and music. Damn if I could just live without you Id be better off. Quit talking to me, quit stealing my dreams, quit trying to make me feel guilty. Just quit it! I’m tired of you, get out of my life. But you wont listen, you just hide, waiting for the chance to shoot me in the foot again, then laugh as you see me trying to pick myself up. I know you well, my enemy. I know you well because you are me.

My Worst Enemy – Self deprecation

“All the shitty stuff people do to themselves… it can all be the same thing, you know? Just a way to drown out your own voice. 
To kill your memories without having to kill yourself.” – Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies

Giggling, you see me. I was hiding and you found me, again. I ran but you took a short cut and found me. I yelled but you hid and wouldn’t let anyone see you. They say I’m crazy now. You always hide when I tell someone about you. You tormented me most of my life. At every turn youre there to talk your crap about me. Your sure to tell me what negative thing someone else is thinking about me, you won’t even give them a chance to say it first. You hurt me more than anyone I know. I finally gave up running and you found other ways to torment me. You love the chase. I partied so hard trying to get rid of you, I nearly died. I lost everything, all trying to hide from you. The times you beat me, I just cant count them. I relied on you to help me many, many times. You always let me down, and left me to my own escapes: drugs, parties, sex, and music. Damn if I could just live without you Id be better off. Quit talking to me, quit stealing my dreams, quit trying to make me feel guilty. Just quit it! I’m tired of you, get out of my life. But you wont listen, you just hide, waiting for the chance to shoot me in the foot again, then laugh as you see me trying to pick myself up. I know you well, my enemy. I know you well because you are me.