Dumpless Flights.

It’s cold outside. And I don’t like it. It makes me feel like I’m not real- like how the wind stabs right through me. With every step I take I feel like I need to grasp my ribcage just to hold it together. I hate the way my feet sound when I walk too. My steps feel mismatched, like they can’t catch up with each other. Loud and obnoxious- just like my breathing and my heart beat- just like the hundreds of other people I pass on a day to day; slap slap slap on the concrete as I hastily make it to nowhere watching my feet cross the lines of sidewalk. I count them, one two three four Oops; I missed one I have to start over now. One, two, three, four, fiv- something hit my hand. Hard. I look up cursing at the sky seeing an orange pine tree swaying angrily in the wind. Throwing baby pine cones at passersby and subsequently, my hand. I stop. Standing on the line of the sidewalk- but not too forward because that will break the balance of the line. One side can’t be too long but the other can’t be too short. It has to be even on either side. Perfect, like this tree. He stands tall branches waving and squeaking in the wind. Dropping frilly leaves and circular cones like bombs as another bounces off my wrist, in the same spot, like he’s taunting me. He is taunting me. I imagine a face, maybe he’s old and knowledgeable with a white beard like a garden gnome. His voice is garbled and shrill but comforting. The corners of his mouth are stained with tobacco and he smells of smoke. I like it. The smell of cigarettes and tobacco in the cold. I walk closer to him, touching his bark and smelling it, wishing I could taste it. Why? 

Before I could even confirm, he told me. And you know, it’s funny- all I can do is laugh. I feel so ignorant, but free? I just wish I could have touched him. Do you think he would have smelled of smoke? What would he have tasted like, and his skin told many stories but his eyes always said something different. Maybe that’s it. My eyes said it all but his- they never seemed to say enough.

or maybe I’m just fucking crazy shit I don’t fucking know.

Sometimes I struggle with my job, not because I don’t love my patients, but because of the shit that brings my patients to me. 

Consequences are preventable, death is inevitable. 

Anyways, I’m not here to talk about that. 
I let my guts spill. 
SHOCKER!

I started this blog because I am an internalizer; and it’s literally starting to fucking kill me. So rather get a stomach ulcer, I’m going to spew so that maybe- someone who is similar, or is being put through the same situation but just doesn’t know it yet can run away screaming IM FREEEE. 

So, here is a little introduction- 

I am Bunny, I have one degree currently working on the other; I love wine, I hate beer. I am a sub with switch like tendencies but submission is where my heart is. I have written many books with some published works just for my own safe keeping. And I am here to talk for those who feel like they’re choking on their tongues just to get out a simple syllable. 

much love,

BabyGirl (Bunny)

I woke up at 4:30 in the morning. My heart was racing again. I couldn’t tell you why. I kept looking at the clock wishing it would go back. I tossed and turned, snapping back and forth between pillows. I even sat up; stiff as a board, cracking a window hoping the freezing air would scare me to sleep. It didn’t. But it scared me back under the covers. So I flopped back on my side and stared at the wall. I started to think. Every thought found themselves plastered to white paint in front of me. 

“Don’t forget rounds at 11a with Charge.” 
“You didn’t eat enough, how many calories did he say you need to take in again?” 
“What day was it when I was supposed to get my oil change?” 
“Goodnight Babygirl.” 

My body started to hurt. Why? 
I lay flat now- the ceiling is swirling. Messages and photos flood room. 

Why does he cause me pain? But why do I like the pain he causes me. It’s an addiction. 
Every meeting is like thorns. They pierce me and never leave. They snags and tear, leaving me bleeding on the ground begging for more. And I want more. I need more. It’s like heroin burning every vein I have left. 

He didn’t tell me about the first one. It bothered me but I didn’t care because I love him. He said he cared about me. And that he wanted me. And that He was my teacher, he would guide me all I had to do was follow. So I did. 
no matter what I do he was my ending and beginning breath. My ending and begging thought. When I shower, when I touch, when I beg. But it wasn’t enough. It is never enough. 
why am I never enough. 

Then there was the other. And when I asked I was answered like I was supposed to know. 

But I’m still here. I’m still loyal. 

I fulfill my tasks. 
I journal. 
I keep my thoughts and needs to myself. 
I don’t want. 
I serve. 
That’s all I am here for. Is to serve. 

But damn you. 
Damn you for making me want you so badly. 
And fuck you for disregarding me so easily. 
It’s not over until every last peice of me is shattered laying broken on the ground- and when that happens? I want you to know that it was done by your hand. 

love, babygirl.