Because I CAN.

The days are beginning to bleed together,
as they once did.
Young, fresh pink skin
fresh no longer
hangs in gray folds, sick and tired,
like the rest of her.
Back then, the blood flowed in rivers,
rivulets of ruby drops
mixing with the wax in the voodoo spells of youth,
"Please just make this stop"
becomes,
"Please, just let it start"
the old ways,the only known paths,
eventually become too worn down and dank.
Just the first walk around the block
brings a miasma of pathetic misery,
blanketing the lungs with it's foggy soot,
breathing becomes just too much fucking effort,
even though every cell knows that it's just not an option.
What does an old animal do, when all the self-preserving instincts go dead,
soiled by too many years of faking it,
as if the flight instinct fled
with the ring of tissues elasticity years ago?
Feet cemented in dirt soaked in old blood,
transgressions past
The tang of metal in the air
drums beating familiar rhythms,
calling the beginning of the dance
purity and control long gone
blood begging to be released,
let free,
the pulse joins the drums
hammering at the skull, begging
for just a taste of the past.

darn you blogger...

darn you all to heck!

I hate that when you start a post, and save it to draft, when you finish it, it posts it under the date that you started the darn thing!

They make a cream for that now, don't they?

I've got the fev'a...

baby fever, that is.

How totally fucked up is THAT??

For the first time, in my entire life, I find myself, fiercely desiring a daughter. I've never, ever, before wanted a girl. I always wanted three boys, which, for the record, I have.

I also don't want to spend my entire life raising children. There is more out there, for me, than that. Not to belittle it, it's by far the most important job I'll ever have. But there is more than that, that I want to experience in life. My oldest son is 12.

Twelve. As in, two-thirds of the way towards voting age. My youngest, is six. Right now, by the time I am 45, he will be 20.

Babies scream. Often, and in the middle of the night, no less.

They throw up, poo everywhere (did I mention that all my children are housebroken now?), crawl, then walk, then run, then climb...they'll eat lightbulbs if you're not careful. They wake up early in morning, and you can't exactly sit them in front of Saturday morning cartoons, and tell them to keep it down while you go back to bed.

I have a four-bedroom house. I have three kids. Everyone has their own room...but not if we have another child.

My mother's health sucks.

My father's health sucks.

I will be the primary caregiver for both of them.

The chances of having a girl, after three boys, is probably pretty slim.

I don't want to start over.

I don't want to be pregnant, and have to quit smoking and drinking coffee, and booze, for that matter. I don't want to be tired all the time, and throw up, and go through labor, and risk birth defects, and retardation, and miscarriage, and stillborn babies.

I don't want any of that.

So, how come my arms feel so empty?