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art

This loneliness is all I know.

Here you are.



torn
torn


I'm torn today. It is a day of celebration of something very strange to celebrate. It is my Liberation Day. Freedom Day. Independence Day. The day I no longer am controlled. Why am I torn? Freedom is a double edge sword. I am torn because while I am happy and proud of myself for pulling out from under a bad situation, I find myself longing for it.

I'm torn not because I miss the pain and annoyance and the insults, but because it became a habit. Like heroin. Like alcohol. You get used to it. It becomes part of you, an integral part of your life, even if it's a negative influence in your life. Never mind the negative parts, you miss the safety of it being in your life. This is strange. I am torn.

So you can see I am not so torn that I am not celebrating, because I assure you I am celebrating. And so should you.



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becoming
becoming


I'm finally becoming the person I need to be and that fills me with fear. The discovery and realization of this became profound when I realized that this can be a simple process, or I can make it difficult - it's up to each one of us - and most likely I'll make it as difficult on myself as I possibly can. We always become what we choose whether we know it or not.



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overwhelming darkness
overwhelming darkness


I have come back into a dark place in my life after about a year or two concentrating purposely only on bright and cheerful subjects. And I'm happy about it. Why? Not because I embrace negativity but because I embrace who I am. Sometimes those dark feelings manifest and I am learning not to push them aside, but to find out what they mean, to get to the bottom of something important to me.



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mask of serenity
mask of darkness


The mask of serenity covers me so I can feel better. A reassurance that everything is fine, even though everything is always fucked up and always will be.



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past finding out
past finding out


It is past finding out. Time is cruel. It passes before us unaware. Ten years, twenty. I still think it's 1985. Then it seems like nothing can ever matter again, it's gone, past. Time is a veil that never is revealed, never lifted. It is the complex thread of our lives which are interwoven with other people, other situations, and other things until we disappear.

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a dark secret
a dark secret


I have a dark secret. I keep it with me every day of my life and I tell no one. It's so dark I have sworn to never tell anyone. What have I done and what do I do?

He always accused me of keeping secrets. How funny. He worked so hard to wring it out of me, to drive it out of me, to make me confess all my terrible sins, to exorcise my terrible demons. He was certain I had miserable sins to confess. How he was so certain I'm not sure. He just knew there had to be juicy details I was withholding. He just knew there had to be deep dark secrets in my past and present life that had to be told. To him.

And him alone. When I refused to divulge a dark secret, or two, he pushed harder. Threatening me if I didn't confess and denounce. I continued to refuse. What did I have to divulge? A sexual secret of torrid love. A nasty plot against him. Lots of nasty plots against him. A dark secret so evil that he was dying to uncover it.

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a dark secret
male strength


I love male strength. I love how strong men are and how they know how to take charge and get things done. Men get so much done. They are driven. They think about women and sex all the time. That's what we're told. Is that right, men?

That's ok. I like that about you. I think about men all the time. So I guess you could say I have a man's mind. Sex. Men. Male strength turns me on, just as I'm sure feminine soft beauty turns men on.

You pull me close, and you do it just forcefully enough for me to notice. I can tell you want me. Your urgency is apparent and I love it. No need to be half-way. Be aggressive and show me. Show me you know what you want. I'll respond by showing you that I want that too.

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bleeding
bleeding


Bleeding. He bled me dry. He took me and attempted to mold me to his cast. I was his clay for shaping. I was his artwork. I was pliable and ready for any suggestion. I was a blank slate. A clean white canvas. Draw me. Paint me. Make me become.

Why was I so compliant? My life had no meaning. I was no one. He could provide some substance for me. He could do this for me. I was sure of it. He could give me the thoughts I needed and the viewpoints I sorely missed on my own. He knew exactly what I needed and what I should be doing all the time. I let him guide me. He inserted everything into me he could. Thoughts. Ideas. Viewpoints. Demands. Penis.

This is what I ended up looking like. This is the unveiling. This is the reveal. Bleeding.

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shadow of my former self
shadow of my former self


end

It would be sad
if I cared anymore
will time fade my vision
my vision faded to black
never to return

should I say
you did this to me?
should I say
your words pushed me away?

I can say it but you never
believe me

I'm but a shadow of my former self
never the person you wanted me to be
your vision was always blurred
you always wanted it that way
you can go to your safe place
where the world revolves in
your head

the cries in the night
such time wasted
for what
to get carried away down the wrong
path
again

And now I am a shadow of my former self. I am different. I am myself again.



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jealous
jealous


He was jealous and his jealousy knew no bounds. It festered as he pretended to be ok with the things I said. Smashing me became a pasttime.

Smashing everything and everyone I liked was also a hobby. Later I figured out it wasn't so much that he was jealous of the people and things I directed my affections toward, but rather he was angry at me and felt the need to smash everything I liked in a roundabout way of smashing me. He had a lot of venom inside of him.

It happened time and time again, yet each time I never expected it. I always thought this would be the time things would be ok. They never were.

This artwork represents each of us as black seething entities that have so much red soreness between us that we will never touch, we will never come together. Never again.





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the hard hand to hold

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