Abandon: HIT ME BACK TO HEAVEN
(sound of voices praying)
I stopped being a Catholic when I was thirteen, but I still can’t stop confessing, professing my shit, yeah exhibitionist to the core, the showing must go on. I was borne to be an artist. I like pain. I do. It’s always lived in me, so I learned how to like it. I learned how inflict it on myself, cutting, pulling the scabs, branding. I’ve always done it alone, to myself the technique growing with time. Why? Uhhhh it feels so fucken good you just don’t know. The next day any movement reminds you of the soreness, breathing alone can cause it to sting. Maybe I’m really a submissive. Submissive. It’s an exercise in letting go. I’m not gonna try to control my life. I have to let it go, like I once did. I’d close my eyes believing in the feeling, the safety I felt in those prayers those fears laid down to rest in between those pages. But that type of faith seems so long ago and the memories turned bible page thin. I didn’t want to stop believing that things would change, that:
(in Prayer tone)
I would not lust otras como yo.
Not be broken down by rejection
Not be so fucken horny
Those prayers ceased, as did the weekly rituals.
(Sound of hand slapping face)
Te va castigar dios. If he was going to do it why can’t I do it to myself? Take my faith into my own hands. I searched for a replacement, not sure how many miles my pedometer has tracked of my strolls up and down the beach, como la pinche llorona trying to figure how I let things get to here. And still I don’t learn that like the waves you have to ride it out. Found a way to some other commandments. S/M felt like a way to command who and what would hurt me. Did I say controlling pain? But if pain is my pleasure then…oh what a tautological bind. The welts, rakes and burns, are they not strong enough to exorcise my demons.
Let me believe in myself.
If I can’t believe in my ability to love and be loved, the most basic of things then how can I succeed, how can I stop being a FUCKEN TOOL! Yeah, I am a fucken tool, look at what I build, you tripping over it right now. Just call me craftsman…I build what I can but sometimes it was hard to build me. Couldn’t jack up myself so I jacked myself up, physically. A tool, beating myself against that hard surface that would never change, never chip and sculpt to my heart’s desire, one so muddled in self-doubt.
Submissive
I feel crazy like I need to go off, fireworks, like the motha’ fucken Drake of theater, only prettier. Bet you no rapper knows this definition of busting on stage,
A black box MC, mistress of cock-inesssss, of cocks and circumstancesssss that keep bringing me back to this place.
Cual de los dos amantes sufre mas pena, la que se va o la que se queda
The one that stays, in that moment, in those feelings, suffers cause when they leave it feels like they’re yanking me from my roots. I struggle to recover and get caught up in the
(in singing tone)
anything you can do I can do better, anything you can say I can be meaner, I can be colder…I can do better, I can do better, better, better. For myself each and every day. My hands are bound and I pray, bound in prayer, bound in play-
Some people measure growth spurts with markings against the wall
Scribbles
The 3rd year, the 4th year, 5th year, 5th scar on my arm. Growth entails making better decisions, they say but all I’m doing is trusting love (huh) seeing where it takes me. And it has taken me to a lot of beautiful places, people have touched lots of special places.
People leave traces
on my soul
And when it’s time to grow you have to, like the roots you have to yank and re-pot. Pick a bigger pot, more soil, water and it will grow.
Blessed is this blood that I shed for my art
Blessed is this blood (chuckles) that pumps from my heart
Blessed is this blood that I shed here today hoping to grow in an amazing way.
No catechism, no communion, just confession, cutting, cicatrizando, caressing, I’m the worst communicator in the world, a writer, a story teller, the worst in expressing my needs. So I write pieces and then I master pieces to make sense out of my life…(chuckles) My life, my life, my life a constant conversation with myself
(sound of voices praying)
pushing me to go and to go and I don’t know where that is. And damn these headaches! a constant halo of heat squished in between my brain and top of my dome. Tension, caused by my apprehension, cause I don’t speak, I don’t speak my mind but my mind speaks to me all the time and won’t fucken shut up and I have no choice but to listen.
Submissive
Clear, honest consensual the basic rules of play, but when it’s for reals, you can’t hear, what I say…I say I’m not topping enough, not good enough, not good enough, not enough.
Submissive
Give up control. I am not even gonna try anymore…acts of kindness fade like cicatrices- it’s only when it’s hot, warm and sore that you pay attention to the wound, then it, I fade into the rest of your skin, the rest of you. And too bad that we only see ourselves from the inside out, not outside in, except maybe on Facebook, seen, seen, oh to be seen.
I am not even gonna try anymore gestures are always left to be misinterpreted and my questions kill more than just the mood. I am not even gonna try anymore, no more of this topping from the bottom, topping with a soft caring hand mistaken for weak but quick bitch feel my grip- as I grab at…nothing, still coming up empty handed.
Submissive
I surrender so that you
MY You
You hear me…
Will one day too
I surrender, I surrender
I submissive
I a tool…. Come- play- with- me
Involve our entire being
Abandon what’s been played
Hit me, hit me, hit me back to heaven
Through ceremonial play
Baptize and purify me
Pressed that hotness onto my skin
Forever and ever not even death will do us part
With this brand
I me
wed
to this life of abandonment
on my journey
doing it for love
doing it with faith.
(photo credit: Raquel Gutierrez)
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