Day 6 — This is not a spell or a prayer or a curse. This is a RANT.

“Heav’n has no rage like love to hatred turn’d 

Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.” 

~ William Congreve

angry Indian goddess
Angry Indian Goddess

Today I found out the day he will be connected to his arranged breeding partner — next month. He did not have the balls or the courtesy to tell me himself.

I hope she treats him exactly the way he treated me: with secrecy, shame, withholding, lies, and sneaking.

I hope she has terrible body hair, body odor, rotten teeth and bad breath.

I hope she is frigid and demanding and boring.

I hope she bores and disgusts him over time.

I hope she fights with all of the “family”.

I hope he is embarrassed to be seen with her.

I hope he misses me every second of his “wedding” day.

If the prophet Ezekiel can reflect a jealous god in ancient texts, I can lament too.

May he have the pain he caused me. May it simply come back on him.

I hope the weather on that “wedding” day is windy, cold, dark and dank.

I hope she can never get pregnant. All the silly hypocrisy and bondage for nothing.

May it be.

 

Thank you for reading and being my therapist /: ))

 

 

 

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Day 4 of Exile: Pellucidity

 

MichaelParkes-for adul
Art ~ Michael Parkes

Longing for naked pellucidity,

hoping for carnal reciprocity,

begging like a bitch beneath his table.

In the end,  he was simply unable

to be courageous and transparent.

I do not blame him.

It’s the centuries of inbred obtusity.

Woe is me.

Woebegone are we.

 

 

 

 

Day 2 of Woe

goddess
He has faded like twilight shadows.
I am newly aware I could never please.
I recall his delight in me once sheltered from sorrow.
Oh, light many candles on my altar.
Grieve with me in silence over the loss of our joy.

My Muse Left

 

Michael_Parkes_Summer_Memories
Art ~ Michael Parkes

The season of the numb, empty heart —

It has been the deepening freeze/drought for a long while.

Hope mixed with denial can be folly.

The time comes to save oneself.

Confront the law of diminishing returns.

Do not fret, beloved.

There is still life on/in this hard earth.

muse left
Photo courtesy of Realistic Poetry

 

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