Passionate Seekers

Empty sex, soulless endeavors and failed attempts at trying to find ourselves somewhere buried beneath all the shit we were drowning in. He called me a bitch in front of the kid and I didn’t like that so I reached out and socked him right in the chin. “I don’t need this. Why am I even here?” Only I knew why I was there. He had this freedom my tiny inexperienced little fingers just wanted to grasp and never let go of. Only thing is his freedom came with a price he wasn’t willing to share. The previous day we were all cuddled up watching Nemo. Snacks mingled with kisses. Things were quiet and I told him why I liked him and he told me why he liked me. It’s for reasons I can’t recall because there’s something about toxic relationships that make the good times fade much quicker than the worst. You gotta dig a little deeper to find the nice girl hidden behind the slutty bitch. There was this one time we made dinner together, daughter in high chair, music on, and bare feet tapped against the black and white tiles. We danced and sang terrible lyrics and smiled in fear that tomorrow was nipping at our heels. And it nipped. I tell him he’s useless, he tells me I’m a whore. We go back and forth till the socking happened. Shitty, I know. That may have been one of those nights I lost a handful of pearls on the floor of some other guys bedroom. We just wanted the release, you know. I’m not sure either of us ever got it.

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This Black Lacey Number

 

Saschia Johnson

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Love Notes from my Spine

I’m holding you up

like a puppet on a string

but you have to move your own arms and legs

You can do this, I shout from behind

I support your rapid decline

and slow ascension

Rolling down has momentum

it’s the act of Sisyphus that brings progress.

-Saschia Johnson

Sisyphus c.1870 by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, Bt 1833-1898
Sisyphus c.1870 Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, Bt 1833-1898 Bequeathed by A.N. MacNicholl 1916 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/N03141

 

 

Featured Image:

Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, Bt

My Fairy

There’s a fairy who guards my heart

speaks to me through the quill

She sees what my heart wants

And can sometimes take over

This space doesn’t fit the both of us

She wants things I’d never

And I she’d never

You can imagine the struggle we have

Sharing this vessel

Her smile is sly and makes me feel cute

And her eyes

those look up when my chin’s down

She’s feisty

and rampage is her middle name

I kicked her right out one morning

She had me out drinking

Shots of Crown and mixed it with,

 

I don’t even remember

She kissed boys and told them all my secrets

So I told her she’s no longer welcomed

She cried and cried

Then I did too

But I was serious

she had to go

I held my lip and I held my ground

She left lightly a closing door the only sound

 

A draft came in the window

what happened next was unbelievable

Goose bumps lined my arms and legs

And a cold ache seeped from my bones

My legs started to chatter

And then my teeth

I climbed into bed and just couldn’t leave

The skin on my bones went saggy and wrinkled

My mind became a black hole

all things got

Sucked into

and never returned

My cheeks went hollow

and my pupils grew tiny

I had lost so much energy

I couldn’t even beg her to come back to me

 

but she came back all on her own

She fed me bathed me

and coaxed me out of bed

Slowly the black hole dissolved

Till it was as if she’d never left

and now we’re here doing nothing

but writing  our co-existence into life.

-Saschia Johnson

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between the carpet and the comforter

By: Michael Morlock

curled up on the floor, surrounded by toys, crawling under your daughters blanket just to try and be close to the things you love the most, and it’s still only you, alone, smothering beneath the coloured comforter, neck at a harsh angle, face burning against the coarse carpet, willing and wishing for something, anything to come fill you up, but you’re still empty, like the crib, like your cupped upturned hand, like the passing days with no child or partner to hold on to, to help you hold on. vision is rope. and the further you try to make it extend the more frayed it becomes. 20/20 summed up when all is said and done is 40. that’s only a few more years from now and the rope seems pretty thin and faulty on certain days. days frequently named “too often”. “all the time” in the parlance of childish over-exaggerated speaking. if there are even words. not just mumbles. whispers. thoughts which never quite reach the mouth to find their way out and you no longer comprehend the difference or the fact that these things only are spoken in your head, and you wonder why no one hears you anymore. did they ever? if a person falls for longer then a short rest, do they make a sound anyone can hear over the raucous din of their own lives?
will we even notice the passing of one another as we travel on our journey? or do we not recognize the ones who’ve lost direction until it’s too late?
loneliness burrows deep, undermines the roots of trees, the foundations of structures, the will of even the strongest souls.
so much of life is the slow dirt crumble waiting for the cave in.

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Michael Morlock, a father, artist, and time traveler from New England. You can find him @themancalledmorlock

 

The ways to fight

The many ways women fight oppression

 

 

Not shaving

Breaking men’s hearts

Ridding themselves of all things beauty

Working their asses off to prove they can do what men can

Staying home and doing what they love

Embracing all things beauty

being confident in their body

Learning self defense

Creating a workplace the supports women’s needs

Picking up male mannerisms

Letting men help around the house

Being the breadwinner

Being a mom

Eating healthy and going to gym

Flirting

Voicing their opinions

Yelling and screaming

Crying

The arts

Protesting

Hiring more women in the workplace

Teaching more women

Supporting more women emotionally spiritually and financially

Shake Shakin what they mama gave em…

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The list infinite… And I’m open to hearing more