Awwww Hell.... I'm the Queen Bee in this Bi*ch (Part 2)

When he called her his "queen", I died.  My heart stopped and my ears clogged and there was no world around me, because as much as I had grown and changed, I was not evolved enough for the name that I had been given.  At least not to see it worn by someone else.

I have earned my life, I have worked through being unwanted and unloved.  I continue to love through constant challenge and insistent judgment.  I have climbed out of manholes to hold myself up and gain enough strength to keep going, but to see that I have put in effort to give creative space, and offer open-minded acceptance.  He called her his queen


I don't know what he put her through but I know that I didn't cry after getting "I miss u" text messages at 5:00am, and dread not texting or calling him on his birthday, or listen to songs thinking about the time that I could be spending with someone who would understand me to see some "Other" woman be called his queen.


I know that I am a phenomenal woman, and now I know that I want a love like my grand-parents.  I want a man that may make mistakes, and do stupid things sometimes, and have ridiculous reactions to things at times or may not be completely self aware all the time, but knows that he loves me and understands that my crazy exists, but so does my little girl.  I want a man that can see that though I may be bitching and whining (or in my case lashing out) about something small or insignificant; when he looks at me, and tells me to "calm down" or "be easy" he knows that he's speaking to a little girl who has had to fight people twice her size to prove fit for her own survival.  That may be "Scathing" with her words, but is only saying "I'm frightened" or "I'm hurting" or "hold me".  I know that I have been angry, and boisterous, throughout this whole process because I'm so inspired and so challenged, uninhibited and free.  I am also so ignored and left unacknowledged.  Unfed and left wanting.  So much time for others, and so little for me.  


"I'm sorry" is not going to erase the amount of awkward oddness that I have placed into the universe, it won't delete the horrible, unquestionable honesty that I put in a tweet, it won't undo the disrespect that I lashed out at maximum capacity in any way, but it has allowed me to see that I hurt, and in turn I hurt others.  I let my emotions take control of my judgment and I have been and am going to be up all night crying into my pillow, wondering how human do I have to become before I accept that I am not superwoman.  Before I recognize that like any person, I can think irrationally and act out of passion and hurt and anger.  At what point will I realize that I can meet many standards, but my own are too high.

In the end, I am truly sorry.

Hearts/Suicide

I wrote a collection of my poetry in which I am planning on finding 3 or 4 women that would like to perform them and give them life in front of an audience.  Because of this intention with my show, I also have pieces that I would only do audibly that are separate from the show.  In other words, I don't perform any of my (shows)  collection of poems any more because I don't want to bore those that would support my show.  However, now I am thinking that.... I can put some of them here on the blog, and I am planning a large event, I can put some of them within there to pin point certain things.

Things are falling together nicely.  Here is a piece called Hearts/Suicide:

My heart exists in a realm of pain, inner dark, screeching secrets,

subtle lights, flashing safe warning signs. 

Beating once to acknowledge its own existence, beats multiple times to move closer to its long awaited end. 

Agonizing over interactions with overwhelmingly over estimations of others.  

My life exists somewhere lost in optimistic shadows looming in from an unacknowledged past. 

Through love I experience intense hatred, fueled by productive fears, sorrows frighten my gentle nature, migrating my soul deeply into spiritual limbo, I know who I live for and where I fight. 

Hands grab at me from every side, my conscious devours my ability to self nurture, I am meaningless in this world, obsolete like the letter “Q”. 

My passion exists in a world of limiting possibilities and lack of care.  Loving for others who don’t love themselves enough to care.

My lust relieves my frustrations, now as a woman able to mold and control my chastity.

Slowed by my lost connection with strength, my sensual sexuality because I’m broken,

Cut

At  the sources of my sensitivity by a world so cold controlled by men, identifying themselves as “care takers”, “lovers”, and “friends”. 

Judgmental hatred

Cut like shards of glass, close-minded belittling forcing me down, loving my femininity into self loathing lifelessness

Arrogant ignorance betraying understanding, transforming love into lost uselesness

Cut

Where sensation is most vivid, I listen to women explore themselves, life of gentle goodness rises shining inside their soft vulnerability

Tortured through dead womb sharp needles still, bludgeoning anything daring to pass between my legs, killing shining star of any person brave enough to chance a connection

Slowly strangling signs of vitality out of positive welcoming goodness, awaiting end of this

Masochistic realm, cutting me into skinned welted bits, swollen, open from repeating hits

Turned into stabb wounds, finished off by fire burning, last of my life to its long awaited end.