You are equally
To what you
A great photograph is one that fully expresses what one feels, in the deepest sense, about what is being photographed. ~ Ansel Adams
Image ©2013 jillie
Sometimes it’s necessary to let go of who we are, in order to become who we’re meant to be ~
It’s that moment
When all is aligned
My hand to your lips
Your eyes meeting mine
Is so familiar
There is no question
Only the knowing
There must be
Worse than being
More painful than
Something other than
Though I’ve yet to
Thunder cracked as lightening split the sky wide open. Rain poured hard, mimicking tears of pain being shed, as a manipulated heart he so long abused and ripped wide open, lay bleeding in his wake.
A single spot of light shone bright through the darkness; signaling to the fallen, a beacon of final truth; his ugly truth and the realization that her intuition had, in fact, been right all along. She wasn’t crazy, she wasn’t imaging the things he vehemently denied and tried to convince her were normal fears; she was spot on each and every time, and that unnerved him, that she possessed this gift of a seer, which meant he had to be even more clever and cunning; at first proving to be a source of great excitement, but as time passed became more of a challenge that left him mentally and physically exhausted.
His torturous reign of which she had so long been an imprisoned victim, had finally come to an end; and while he still believed he’d walked away victorious, unscathed from the initial onslaught, being extremely contrite while pleading with empty promises of altering his behavior.
She knew it was only a matter of time, and his escapades would begin again, once the emotional storm had subsided; but karma would most assuredly ensue, and this was a knowing she believed and felt in depths of HER soul…
Image and verse ©2013 jillie
He sits in the corner of his shangri-la in his worn leather chair, claiming its better for his back than the spot on the sofa next to his wife. Pipe and fizzy coke to his left, tablet in lap, phone in hand; and multiple chats and emails with various women from one end of the country to the next and a few in-between that are within reach, crisscrossing over a vast and virtual world.
He is everything that each of them need and want him to be; and while he becomes their own personal situation, savior, healer, dream weaver and incubus, in truth, he is no one at all; just a lazy, fat, pathetic womanizing pig, insecure in every conceivable way, stroking his ego and feeling like a man as he manipulates the puppet strings that take them to the point of professing undying love, praise his beauty, his intelligence and beg for another shot of his big fat cock that he promises to bury inside them to the hilt; and eagerly does so with any of them he can get his hands on.
He looks at himself in the mirror every day and instead of seeing his true self, he points the camera, pulls a pout and shoots off a good morning kiss to his harem, betting with himself which one responds first. He manipulates and lies with such ease and grace, obviously a trait mastered at a very young age. He’s filled his head with so much fantasy, for so long, that he actually starts believing the bullshit lies he spews. And insofar as keeping them all straight; he simply uses the same lines over and over, with slight variation depending on the essence of the woman he’s playing at the moment; the dark side, the light side and even the insignificant dull grey, because she’s two cubicles away and eager to suck him off.
Quite simply, he is a self-absorbed emotional vampire; whose energy field was weakened in childhood, and so to compensate for this loss he mastered the ability to drain and feed off the vitality of others; unconsciously as a child perhaps, but finely honed and crafted over the years, and abused most fervently the older he becomes.
For the keepers, he showers with gifts and listens while they ooh and ahh across the miles; thanking him profusely for his generosity and sensitivity in knowing just exactly what suits them and makes them happy, falling evermore deeper in love with this King, would make them his Princess while keeping them well hidden from the Queen; then he buries the receipts in a cubicle drawer and pays the bills in secret, each and every month.
This vampire does more than drain physical and emotional energy; he winds his wretched self into the crevices of your soul, as he clutches your heart then suckles like a pig on a teet, until he has drained you of everything he can extract, leaving you lifeless and gasping for breath while he points his attention to the next victim, until you’ve recharged and then he inevitably returns for another round of feeding.
And yet no one takes responsibility or accepts the truth of this soul sucking womanizing fuck, and so he continues, even now, as he faces the fire, securing another secret lair where he can meet and feed off some gypsy blood while walking on the dark side for a while.
Makes you wonder just how many women it will take to fall in love with him, bare their souls and stroke his ego and cock before he’ll feel like a real man. In truth, he’ll never be a real man; he’ll always be the pathetic pig sitting in the corner getting his fix at the expense of others. A pitiful waste of human space if ever there was one; a sick fucking joke that not even a mother could love…
El Supremo, Indeed!
Fear is a silent killer that comes in many forms, recognizable at times, well disguised at others; it slowly chips away at us. Breaking off pieces, sometimes chunks at a time, from the inside out until there is nothing left.
She tried again and again to express her heartfelt apologies and sorrow for the things that had transpired, the words slung like daggers straight to the heart; acquiescing it was her own fear and unknowing that spewed forth, when all she really wanted was answers to lingering questions, reassurance that all was not lost and to feel connected once more. But it was all to no avail.
For he could no longer see the goodness, feel the warmth from the light that emanated from within her; no longer cared or believed her claims of love. For the vile hurtful words penetrated deep, cutting like knives and instead of pulling them out and attempting to heal the wounds, he preferred to leave them there to fester, become diseased, possibly be the death of him, as a reminder that she was just like all the rest.
He refused to see or entertain the idea that circumstances beyond anyone’s control could possibly have been factors in the emotional outbursts that ensued. No span of time or space offered healing of any sort, for she no longer took him to that happy place, where he felt good about himself inside and out; there were others who filled that role now, others with whom he could relate and play, who took him away from the pain, if only momentarily, if only in his mind; and so he simply aimed to cast her out and forget, dismiss and toss her aside, throw her and her demons away, as a piece of trash that’s quietly hauled away and forgotten.
Forget that she had bared her heart and soul, exposed pieces of self that filled her with shame and she never wanted to relive again; doing so at his urging and prompting, all in the name of healing; things she had never shared with another living soul. Things she buried deep and locked away, sought to take to her grave, things he now knew and she wished he didn’t. She trusted him with everything and now he viewed her as nothing.
And even though he’d done the same, questioning her over and over about things that were of no consequence or didn’t exist anywhere but in his own mind, she eagerly answered every question he ever asked of her, trying to dispel that fear and reassure him; but none of that now mattered or was even a factor, for there was no rebuilding of their world; a world he once convinced her was built on a foundation of absolute trust, truth and love, like none other he had ever known.
And so she goes on, seemingly breathing but gasping for every breath, walking silently, alive but mostly dead; believing in nothing and no one; knowing that truth is but a lie, trust does not exist and true love is but a mere fable sought by romantics and faerie tale poets; and a surefire weapon used by womanizing men who seek nothing more than validation from countless women to remind them they’re alive.
A travesty she will carry through this life and all others…