The road most travelled
The problem is that I’m heading down that road again. The one I was able to get off from and avoid for 8 months now. The one where I know exactly what’s up ahead, no maps required. It’s not exactly autopilot this time. I’m tired. I’m slowly giving up. My personal goals. I’m starting to eat shit again. Nowhere as much as I used to, but I can feel my resolve eluding me. Although there was a box of Krispy Kremes in the office today and I didn’t have one. It wasn’t hard, but it could have been easy too. The food is only a cover for everything else.
Ahat road is a big ass downhill. For each time I tell myself I have to get off my ass, it’s a weight I put on myself. Put myself down for every easy excuse I make. I don’t want to go back there. I do not want to go back. Period. I don’t want to hate myself. I want to look in the mirror and see what others have seen. It hurts even to think about how I was, felt, lived. Inside my head, it was so ugly.
But the travelling alone thing, it’s hard. I understand, I work on myself, I can’t expect anyone to do the work for me. And I don’t. I just need a little rest. It’s been a fucking ride. I’m totally drained. Status quo? An option, but that is still too close to the past. I wanted to change. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be filled. I changed. I came close to being happy. But I still have a leak I guess, because I’m nowhere close to being filled. It was all hot air. Bullshit. Words. Comfort.
The easy road is calling me. Or am I just contemplating it? Am I that lazy that I’m willing to go back? I hope not.
Pour S. (B.)
une longue caresse lente comme le miel qui coule
je me réveille d’une mort ensomeillée
je laisse la langueur s’attarder ne pas me quitter
mon coma m’a porté aux portes du rêve
comme le lendemain d’une journée sans repas
je suis affamée de ces (ses) mains qui se tendent
des ses (ces) mots qui me touchent
ma faim me fait mal tellement elle m’emplit
j’ouvre mes sens (jambes) et me laisse dévorer
par la douceur encombrée de violence de mon rêve
ma rivière de parfum en volutes s’envole
s’élève pour m’engloutir et je me laisse couler encore
je suis à la merci de ce dieu de chair
qui m’abandonne sur mes rives
déesse affamée
et orpheline
Merci Horizon 
Beyond horizons
An english message will follow (ben oui quoi, c’est pas tout le monde qui est bilingue!).
J’ai des liens. Dans my sidebar.
C’est pas des plugs, c’est pas décoratif.
C’est des mots qui m’enchantent, des images qui me transportent.
C’est des vies qui bercent la mienne.
C’est des voyages, des rêves, des rires, des pleurs.
Allez les visiter, allez vers d’autres horizons.
——-o0O*|*O0o——-
I have links. In my sidebar.
They’re not plugs, nor decorative.
They are words that mesmerize me, images that transport me.
Lives that bear mine in mind.
They are journeys, dreams, laughs and cries.
Go and visit them. Travel beyond your horizon.
Boulimie narrative
À lire, écrire, lire, écrire, les yeux fous, le coeur vide, le silence envahi de claviers en feu. J’ai plus faim, je me gave, pour tout vomir en lettres carrées.
On se frotte la bédaine, on fait un gros rot. Et on régurgite pour faire encore de la place. Regardez moi, comme j’ai bon appétit.
Et aucune intensité ne peut toucher la passion que j’éprouve pour chacun des Mots*. Que je t’écris, que tu me lis. Qu’on offre, exhibe, étale, fourre dans la face de celui qui veut bien y poser ses yeux.
Mais pour qui, je m’en fout. Pour moi, parce que si je gardais tout ça en moi je mourrais d’un overdose. Toutes ces phrases, ces mots qui sont mon sang, qui coagulent dans mon background en trebuchet normal size.
Je ne suis pas une bloggeuse, je ne suis pas un auteur, je ne suis pas une écrivaine, je ne suis pas un poète.
Je suis moi. Je suis mes mots. Je vis en virgules, espaces et Majuscules. Des fois en italique, mais toujours, toujours, en true type.
*V.O. chez Veronica
Softer
Softer, is what I heard. Like cream on my skin. Feathers.
As if the thought of bruises was too much. As if I had shifted. Has my place changed?
Shared but unspoken. Too many images merged to stay sharp.
Softer, like your fingers inside me.
Softer, like my hair on your thighs.
I had forgotten about the yearning.
Yesterday, you said. Yesterday, and it became softer.
To pretend
I have the distance on my side. And against me. There are miles, hours, days or seconds between the time you ask and I say yes. You as one, I as a black background. I have no light to shed, no path that you can follow. I walk outside. Rules are not for me.
As I think of all the helping hands, I don’t see mine. They’re all streched and eager. Eyes on their fingers, hungry for a reaction. Teeth hidden, ready to rip our resolve apart. There is no help in their touch. Only an appetite for our weakest moments.
Outside. Beyond. Here. I want to be somewhere with you. Looking at the ones still on the path. I cannot reach out this time. Because ultimately, I want to be reached, I want to be the goal. As I run, in your crosshairs still.
I can pretend. Intent. In all your wants. And get caught. In all of mine. I’m not even hiding.