You were the one who left me neglected...

Bad sex -- is better than love gone bad. When he dropped me, left me waiting for someone to pick up the pieces, I lost it. Not just love, but my ability to trust. I grabbed what I could of the pieces and locked them away; they are probably still sitting by the dock on that sweet southern lake. I turned away from those pieces and sought out connections without attachment.

I took my 19-year-old self down to the book store and hung out in the gay section -- I was trying to find solace and comfort in the words of others. And then I noticed him, many hims, they would walk by and look, no, leer. At first, nervous, I would sneak out of the store and drive home. Finally, one day, I tucked my pieces away, and followed one of them into the loo. He was a mid-20s, army boy with red hair, green eyes and huge muscles in his green t-shirt. I walked into the rest room and he was already turned in wait for me. Pure want was in his eyes -- want that I craved from H.I.M., but was willing to accept from soldier-boy. Soldier boy pulled me to him and pulled out the hugest piece of equipment I'd seen, and then pulled me out of my clothes. From there, it's a blur; I cannot even remember the smell of his skin, but I know I walked out changed. I had my power back. Little by little, I gained control by losing it with a stranger. Whether it be that guy, Gunter -- the masters student, John -- the creepy guy who made me discover the smell of poppers on another's breath. And many, many more.

So this has become an unending loop of self-destructive behavior. With each turn of the trick (no, I never took money), I lost more and more of my ability to say no. Now, I can't even hold on to what I've got. I'd rather turn out a stranger than tell a lover how I truly feel and what I'm thinking of; the last time I did that, I got burnt. I will not burn again.

I'm sorry for blaming you...

At 17, I fell in love with love and it has been one hell of a ride since.

It used to be that a voice on the wire could sustain me longer than bread and water. This was evident from my emaciated frame and constant look of hope.

By all written accounts, mostly contained in green denim, I was a scared child clinging to dreams made real by Julia Roberts and Meg Ryan. I believed the fairytale and lost my sense of self.

That strangers didn`t slap the stars from my eyes amazes me still -- Momma tried. Her stars had fallen years prior and she knew their burn. I ignored Momma and ran. Only my stars were stolen.

Too young to enter into contract, but playground promises are binding. Love is the only true indian-giver and ours was no exception. Now no one can own me and I remember everything but your voice.

You cut me open and I...

I can still remember the look on his face. "This is not the end," he said holding a gothic cross and tissue in one hand and my hand in the other. Those words comfort nothing these days.

"You`re going to leave," I insisted, "it is in my cards."

The deck was stacked for naught; it was only a dream...it was only a dream --née a hallucination.

Dreams, exactly where I left them cloud judgment at every passing. We used to speak in dreams.

Have you any dreams you'd like to sell...

I heard a voice last night. It made me wonder: Who am I? The gravity of a dream (Nightmare?) returned with a voice that I`d heard at least a thousand times before. Yet it somehow sounds new and still familiar.

How can one frequency and tone turn this soured prince sweet. If even just for one night? That simple set of words that, unaffected, can reduce me to a sullen, spoiled, lump.

This is where the first meets the present and the sleep lost is mine alone.

Some people hear voices in their dreams, I just hear one; and he was calmly telling me something that I forgot the moment my eyes opened.

Closest to heaven that I'll ever be...

"Battle-scarred is no way to live your life." Isn't that what you told me as I cried that first weekend together, or am I mixing you up with a song. No, I think you said, "don't mourn for what you haven't lost." Maybe it was some premonition, but I cried a river for the loss of you. I was only a child; not even 18 yet and you seemed so much wiser. I tried to trust you.

"Believe me, I will never leave you," you said. I tried to bring myself to, but you bruised what delicate faith I had. A story of a rabbit dancing past answering your call for an answer, the cheap cross on a satin cord, and the blustery lake-effect wind; they paint a rosy picture. I had every right to be scared and you took that from me along with my innocence -- Aren't you ashamed of yourself?

It was that faith that has me brainwashed; It's been over 10 years since we last touched and yet I can still feel your hand on my cheek and can still see my sadness reflected in those beautiful hazel eyes. You used to be able to tell my mood just from the color of my irises. I could not lie to you, but since then I've developed a poker face and quite the imagination.

Ruined. I can't even want those that love me, because I know they don't see the real me; only what I allow them to reach. But I feel that I can be open to the rest of the world through this digital venue; a complex matrix of 1s and 0s. When you bring it down to black and white, I feel much safer in my gambling.

I loved you with the fire red...

It just doesn't make sense. No matter who I am with, or what I'm doing, it all comes back to you. I woke up this morning, safe in my bed, and the first thing I saw was your face. Why do you haunt me?

You left me and dare see someone with my name -- cruel and unusual punishment. Does he know about me? About your multiple pledges of undying love? Here's a thought for you: I hope, somewhere deep in his heart, he knows that when you call out that name...it's me you're really thinking of.

I'm afraid of the way I leave you...

On a crisp morning a few months back, I returned to the battlefield; except the battlefield was gone. Huddled in the safety of the car as I turned from main street in search of 81 campus drive.

Within those walls, I had been forced into maturity by my own carelessness. It was also there that I met the boy...no...man whose hands could reduce me to single syllables. The yard stick that every other has been measured against.

So I returned, expecting to say fuck you and so long but it had already left; the building is gone. What was once a crime scene now replaced with new homes of brick and mortar.

So far from where I've been...

This morning as I lay my arm gently across my pillow. I moved my fingertips in soft circles imagining it to be my true love's chest. Would it be hairy? Smooth? After thinking about it for a moment, I can almost feel soft swirls of hair between my fingers.

It has been a long time since I've fallen asleep in the arms of another. I sometimes forget what it really feels like.

The gentle rise and fall of my lover's chest under my cheek and "lub-dub" against my ear drum. The slight tickle of my lover's breath against my hair.

Those were much simpler times, unspoiled by money, power, or lust. Before my first love set me free into the world. "You need to see what else is out there," he had said.

It's been twelve long years, and even still I'm not so sure.