Dang...that was me?

My mistakes tend to come out on the page.  No matter how hard I try to use my writing as a distraction from what else is happening, it never works that way.  Case in point, an excerpt from a journal entry three years ago:

...Any case where getting what you crave will only create more pain is a hopeless situation.  In cases like this, you can only choose the lesser of two pains.  Which tear can you bear to shed again and again, and which heartache can you form some sort of stable existence around?  Will you at least be able to get out of bed?  Make it to work?  Keep yourself fed?  Or will none of that matter anymore with this choice?  What chance do you see yourself having at the end of either of these?

Funny, what I do to keep it real with myself.  At the time I was post-breakup (of course) and very lonely.  So I toyed with the idea of going back to the relationship, just to avoid the unknown.  Later, feeling bitter about my choice, and in an attempt to write a proper sonnet, this came out of me:

So pity me, for I’m the one in love,

who walks with you down to an early grave,

since I have not the strength to rise above.

My vow was til the death; I am your slave.

I seem to have learned my lesson since then.  If something is bumming me out I just pour extra love on someone else until their happiness rubs off on me.  (Therefore, if you are my boyfriend, you are spoiled, well-fed and you damn well better appreciate it.)  But be forewarned, if I make a mistake again, you'll probably read about it here.  I don't just write poems and stories, I tend to get honest in the most public of places.  It's a bad habit, but then again, those are the most interesting kinds. 

Now, onto the business.  There's a chance I'll be reading this out loud tonight.  It's called The Illness, and no it's not kid-friendly.  Don't be mad, if it weren't for non-kid-friendly stuff...we wouldn't be having kids.  I took it off my page on All Poetry--

I won’t complain of the pain. I’d maybe
sing its praises; this is a good way to go.
Not that I’d fight this infection, your injection
is lethal; if this is death, make it slow.
If this is poison making my blood burn, my thighs quake,
my breath come in spurts…
don’t stop because it hurts.
Don’t let up when the tears flow.  Make a horizon
of my sweet release.
Let me wind and dip my way to bliss
and find it out of reach.
If it’s disease, then spread it like
I’m spread across this bed. Open, wide,
no chance, no prayer in hell once it’s inside.
Whatever this is that makes me writhe,
soaked in sweat beneath these sheets,
just let me go,
but never come.
Only that would be defeat.

© Arissa Freeman, Nov 19, 2012.  All rights reserved.

Hopefully by this time tomorrow I'll have an awesome memory to share.  Don't worry, even if I suck, I'll tell you about it. 

By the way...the name's Arissa.  Pleased to meet ya.