Dream, Inspire, Visualize, Expect (DIVE) Publishing

Claire 

Here I am, isolated and alone.  What is there left to do.  To say.  To express.  To love.   It wasn’t supposed to end this way; at least not like this-not written in this way, nor sung in this key.  Desperate and afraid.  Naked and exposed.  With arms wide open I take the dive into the great blue waters of the unknown.  
Here I lay in the hospital bed; bruised, beaten, torn.  My wrists were slit, my voice crackling under a pressure unbeknownst to my younger years.  I didn’t want to give up, I didn’t want to be beaten down and left for dead.  Here am I-confused, feeling no where to turn, no where to go.  
Was that how that guy on the cross felt who always hung over the alter of the church I went to as a young girl.  Bribed by my mama and papa with a new toy if I made it through another Sunday morning without kicking and screaming; throwing a tantrum, vying for attention and affection.  I just wanted to feel loved, not touched in that way, and not caressed in that spot.  

Was that how that lonely man felt, just looking down on us as we pretend to suffer for the sake of others at this hospital for sinners and worldly whores.  Pretending to pray for the needs of our fellow humans, putting a dollar in the collection plate to appease our guilt.  The poor and huddled masses waiting for bread and wine.  Fearing a deity who is unseen-looking for signs of the end of days-as if the upcoming election was a giant uncontrollable meteorite headed towards our perfectly manicured lawns in our self-contained gated communities.

Doom and gloom.  The left and the right or somewhere in between heaven and hell.  Purgatory is this place we call Earth; to be made great again as if everyone fell under a trance or is just too drugged out by mind-altering media or an alien brain-washing abduction by pinheads with orange hair.  

So here I am.  Surrounded by happy faces, tangerine smiles, and fluffy spiritual talk.  I remember the choir singing as nails being dragged across a school chalkboard.  The latest community gossip of the Who’s Who list of shaming by the ‘well-to-do-better-unto-themselves-than-others country club.’  

I wondered how he endured hanging with his limbs nailed to a tree; all exposed to the elements of nature and the taunting of men whom he came to in his own words, Set them free. 

 A ship of fools, whores, addicts, and losers; sailing over the edge of Niagara Falls.  The cascading falls of insecure lowly faith.  Crashing down.  Kneeling down.  Faceplant before the Lord.  I’ve never been one for that fake ass sales hype churchy pitch you get from plastic Jesus lovers who worship the latest pop idols like Ariana Grande, Lady Gaga, or Beyoncé.  

I’m too real to a fault to fall for that shit.  Keeping it real y’all, even if I say the wrong thing; politically, socially, or otherwise.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for people getting down with those like-minded as themselves, but life is too short to live it half-ass, half-baked, and half-empty.  You feel me?  I’ll see you, raise you and lay you down as I straddle your happy ass; placing a smile on your face and leaving you to remember my name bitch for years to come.  


I always have worn a golden cross on a golden necklace around my neck which rested gently upon my imperfect breasts.  Like I should concern myself with the likes of the Selena Gomez wannabes, screwing every Justin Bieber I see. 

But it never meant anything more to me than another accessory, a symbol of my shattered youth, of my early walk down that aisle in that cold, grand gothic cathedral as my parents tried to revive the romance of their Oxford College days.  

I cherish that necklace since my late grandmother gave it to me at high school graduation.  In short it was another extention of my bittersweet, forever seeking spiritual side, that part of my physical and inner-self I replaced in the arms of lovers whom sought instant gratification at the expense of myself and any other girl who unwillingly gave her innocence away at too early an age.  Much as a virgin red rose is torn violently from its root.  That’s how my vagina felt, like a wilting rose bleeding from the inside out. 

As Kesha would sing, Love is my drug.  I just needed my fix to make it through another day, I scream at the top of my fucking lungs, that stubborn inner goddess of mine kicking and screaming for attention and affection in all the wrong places.  I see myself now, that imperfect reflection as if looking into a cracked mirror, my body a used toy, like the Barbie I played with as a young child-as a reward for being a good Catholic princess in church.  
Barbie was perfect in her sheltered unopened box; mint condition.  Fresh plastic, clean, unplayed with, fully clothed.  Aww.  I loved that smell, that chemical aroma, that feel of smooth, silky sensoul superficial touch-even if the doll was artificial, that fantasy girl I dreamt of being; perfect in form, looks, long vibrant blonde hair and that Hollywood fascade. 

I desire a white, lacey wedding dress; unstained by crimson red, or a stranger’s semen.  Now I’m naked and cold in a freakin’ hospital gown, lying in a strange bed, injected with an IV, in a sterile unnatural environment. Where is my ideal dream Barbie fucking Ken life? 

My Tiffany diamond ring pawned to pay rent in a cheap bed bug-infested room.  Raped and left for dead along Route 66.  That sheltered life I once lived as a naive pouty brat now shattered forever.  Cutting myself with the glass once filled with wine, now turned to blood, my own to drink. 

Watching the IV drip as if an hourglass of sand, one grain at a time.  Scorned by men, jaded by reality biting me in my ass; a deep penetration into my very soiled soul.