Vindication/Validation

By definition it is vindication I sought
Absolution
A resolution to bone borne guilt
Crawled on hands and knees to seek succor from the gravity of experience

What was deserved, though, was validation
for the shadows of said experience were real
The demons that haunted these heels, with teeth all too large,
left true damage in their wake

The gap expanded between us
You- unsure as to the validity of my perceptions
Me- raw and broken under the weight of sight

Yet, you built a bridge to span the difference
Despite any hesitation or reservation,
made your way into the space I occupied alone
Within the warmth of your understanding,
standing inside the light held aloft,
there was peace

Finally, peace

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

ChocolateSushiCouture- Photo shoot, Spring 2009

Image
I never thought that on a rainy spring day I would be in a studio in downtown Chicago with a cute little assistant shyly rubbing bronzer into my legs. He was so shy, in fact, that he couldn't continue up to my thighs. (A fact made obvious later when my skirt hiked up and the skin was pale enough to blind Helen Keller.) Nor did I think that I'd have an exuberant stylist (see below) with his hands up said skirt, and down my shirt as well. ("Don't worry honey, this means nothing to me.") Ah, it's a good life I discovered just a scant few months ago. My friend, plus-size model Teslyn Butler , who I met at a commercial shoot, recommended me to a local designer named Niehla Ollie who was in dire straights for a Caucasian, curvy model. After sending a few snapshots through email, Niehla agreed to use me for a small photo shoot. I was folded into an enthusiastic embrace in her apartment and immediately put into make-up while I learned the basic ins-and-outs of plus
Read more

Oblivion

Orgasms splinter me Gasping darkness tilts into oblivion I am a thousand different breaths on the other side The distance mounts between us I cannot tell you that making love is suicide I don't want to die
Read more

Never at the Same Train Stop

Riding on the "L" from Evanston, way up on the northside and at the end of the Purple Line, (For non-Chicagoans, it's about as far away from my house as you can get.) my hip is throbbing from my second round with circus class and my head is spinning from therapy. As I get closer to the southside I can feel some of the tension leaking away and I know that soon I will be home; I can put ice on my ass and stomp around in frustration. (Well, limp around animatedly in frustration, anyway.) I'm sunk into my hoodie and pretending I'm the only one on the train when a gaggle of teenage girls sit in my vicinity. I keep my eyes averted but tune my ears in, prepared to be irritated/entertained by their conversation. Their voices take on the important edge of people who are convinced they should be listened to, and lets face it, who doesn't love hearing teenagers fling their hormones at each other? One girl in particular stands out to me because she's wearing a strip
Read more