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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Wednesday, August 15, 2012

ladybug sings the blues

i had an uninvited guest last night.

during a very unsober 3 am moment.

rigid and wide-eyed, frantically backhanding my nostrils as they dripped with ferocious farm animal intensity; snorting and snotting, huffing and puffing, blanket-mouth stuffing.

[10 months doesn't guarantee you shit.]

but there, through the mist of my tears; unxanaxed panic attack, like the literal parting of the red sea...

red wings, with delicately painted black dots.

she appeared boldly, in a flash of cherry-red through a sad, squinty blur.

blink once. twice.

she was tenacious. weaving through the spokes of my gargantuan white noise machine; the fan's soothing symphonic now whirring in discord with my heartfelt histrionics, our cacophony awakening glendale's undead.

but nothing. not the howling winds of fan; of hen would keep this steadfast mofo away.

up and down. up and down. up and down.

unburdened by her beautiful, lacquered layer, steadfast she wiggled those black, shiny legs, sheltering her soft underbelly; her toughest meat. her heart.

i was mesmerized.

["fuck you!"]

anger, fear and judgment pelts down on me like acid rain, stinging my skin, leaving comforting welts. beautiful bruises. this is the skin i remember. this is where i belong.

sick. diseased. useless.

unlike storms that break and clear sky, i collect on the ground, in filthy, muddied pools.

tremors trip my fall. i sweat. i shake. and shake some more.

in the inch deep water, i choke mud. it's cold, freezing. i shiver deep and long. fever.

i turn my head to the side and gasp.

there is no air. no fair.

["you were a fucking terrible wife!"]

i was.

i was.

[maybe it's not an excuse, but it's an explanation.]

in canada, if you find a ladybug overwintering in your garage it brings good luck.

it has been the longest winter.

with such black, navy blue nights, the stars frosted the sky silver when they went to sleep; blinding cold light.

with such icy, thin air, your insides scraped raw on the quickest of inhales; you barely breathed for almost five years.

with such black hearts; black iced, can a spring warm enough ever be sprung?

and then i saw her.

my plucky little friend.

crawling around next to the sleepily spilled coffee grounds.

then i remembered.

"ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,
your house is on fire,
and your children are gone..."

my fears paralyze, choke; i hang with regret.

but after all the mud has been thrown, you are muddied; bloodied and no-one can see.

i cannot roll around in the mud anymore.

it may be good for my skin,

but it's just not good for my soul.

and we all have one.

[even ms. ladybug.]

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