I am angry because these motherfuckers set me up. I am half a century into this and in a stunted relationship that is disconnected emotionally, spiritually and sexually and I don’t know that I have what it takes to navigate theses rocky shallows with my heart hanging out, still beating and spraying blood all over the carpet. I feel like I am a raw nerve in the back of a mouth unconsciously and absently being tongue fucked. Sharp deep stabs of pain, uncoiling like a tightly wound spring through the thin strand of stubborn flesh keeping it in an unnatural position, keeping it from letting go. Crying doesn’t stop the pain, the salty tears only sting and shutting down or responding in anger (which is really just a response to fear) isn’t and certainly hasn’t been helping. I am continually reminded of my failure to produce the art, which I have convinced myself, all my life and more so over time, is what I have to give back and that belief perpetuates the pain and the hollowness that is deep inside of me, that which leaks into all my relationships with women, the original wound perpetuated by the mother. I can still hear my brother tell me that our mother sexually abused him. At the time I only allowed myself to think, “that’s the schizophrenia talking”, but something inside me rang that as true. So I put it aside, simply because, what the fuck does one do with that? And I just thought I was hurt because she didn’t know how to love, didn’t know how to show up for me the way I wanted her to, didn’t show up the way I needed her to, so here I am looking for love in all the wrong ways and wanting desperately to be wanted. To feel wanted and the only time I recall feeling wanted was by that son of a bitch that played me, baited me, used me and fucked me, all when I was still too young to have known what that felt like. So I wanted him, because he wanted me and made me feel special and made me want to show up. Then he stole my idea of god and he took my childhood innocence (if it was still intact by that point) but he took also away so many opportunities for me to be myself because he hurt myself so deeply, so indifferently, so fucking permanently, that I am still trying to process it. The me that is me when you see me, is but an inverted reflection of who I would have been if not for the horror and dysfunction of this imperfect co-creation of our divine and impermanent selves.