confession: i’m a love bandit belonging to a gang of unknown others who can’t pass wet cement without finding a rock or stick to carve an offering. if you see a heart symbol or the word “love” or “you are love” or “you are loved” or “love you” then you’ve seen our work.
confession: membership to our love bandit gang is always open. we welcome all new members to claim allegiance by carving love into new cement.
confession: i’ve found lots of new cement in the past few weeks.
confession: there are people i begin missing as soon as i’ve hugged them goodbye and they drive away from the airport drop-off curb.
confession: i’ve been playing games in my head about death. i imagine situations involving who dies when and how and why and what happens next for those left alive. these games begin spontaneously and require effort to end. i don’t mind playing through a game when it highlights who and what matters to me. i don’t like playing the versions of this game when they involve suicide scenarios. yesterday while innocently driving papi home from a dentist appointment, i accidentally imagined my suicide and its preparations, all the stuff i’d need to give away and letters written to loved ones to explain, the gun i’d have to acquire (because hanging ain’t my bag and pills aren’t reliable and i’m not a public spectacle bridge jumper and razor blades along forearms might be something i’d enjoy and suicide isn’t something i want for pleasure), and the take-aways from that round of the game were two-fold—i have too much stuff and it is a wise choice for me not to own a gun.
confession: i’m not suicidal, only anniversary-related ptsd-fueled depressed. march is my darkest month. death is a friend that keeps me choosing life.
confession: on the outside everything seems calm. on the inside i feel pressurized, carbonated, and shaken. if you could pop open the top of my head, the shadow thoughts and feelings would blast from a geyser spraying demon fire and vampire ash.
confession: i went to a women-only workshop this past weekend and was archetypally reminded that hetero women at women-only workshops think their vaginas are powerful and mysterious. i’ve been inside, around, beside, and within too many vaginas to find them mysterious. fascinating, beautiful, sensual—absolutely. mysterious–no. powerful—maybe, depending on how you use yours. my pussy is most powerful in the service of my heart, mind, and voice.
confession: i want to hear your voice. i want to listen to your heart. i want your thoughts in my ears. tell me. write to me. whisper. telepath. text me. visit my dreams. whichever feels best, easiest, most honest for you.