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Tag: emotions

  • blooms

    You were my most stable flower. Beauty in your own right. You weren’t my person, but you were such my person that I no longer know how to do this life without you. You were my base. Mine. My stability when Gwen visited, when ghosts from the basement of my brain would darken the hallways, when the color red blinded my eyes. You were the stable brick house with the smoke coming from the chimney I could run to when running in the forest from the big bad wolves of my past. You loved me, you never said it, but you cherished me. You heard me clearer than anyone. Even when I couldn’t pay you, You still had ears. Never was it you and I against the world, it was you, me, and Little Lindsey against all the voice boxes and swinging rage. I miss you swaying in my meadow. Whenever I looked, there you were standing tall. You’re not there any more, one too many rough seasons took you away from me. Nothing left, not even petals to collect. I miss you deeply, my beautiful flower. The growth in this field may never bloom the same.

  • this is so not the right time

    a new feeling stirs, unexpected and loud,  

    like a sudden storm in the middle of a drought.  

    the timing is off, the world feels heavy,  

    and yet, there it is—bright, confusing, and unwelcome.  

    you catch yourself staring, heart skipping,  

    but the calendar reminds you—now is not the moment.  

    there’s a weight to this crush, a quiet tension,  

    because sometimes the heart wants what the mind knows it can’t have.  

    so you hold it close, a secret wrapped in hesitation,  

    waiting for the right time to let it breathe,  

    even if that time feels far away,  

    and the feeling lingers, restless and unresolved.

  • arthritis

    sharp pain shoots up my hand reaching my fingertips. it’s a particularly rough pain day. remember when you snapped my fingers like a carrot. they dangled there. you did it multiple times within 5 years. the knuckles don’t even exists anymore.

    i don’t take deep breaths without gasping. hiccups are a repetitive shock to my system. tears blur my eyes with every little blip. stops me in my tracks. remember when you gave me cpr when i didn’t need it.

    remember when you held me under the water until the bubbles stopped. my sternum still clicks in and out like your palms are still pressing. you never really let me go.

    collarbones pinned under your kneecaps as your open hands struck my kidlike face until they cracked unable to hold your weight. not stopping until I begged “like the annoying bitch you are”. and I begged. every single time. i begged my last with you.

    no one knows about the bald spot hidden in my perfect hair, your second favorite handle. i will forever have a side part.

    the body you had no right to wreck hurts more in the cold. little acts of rebellion like hating socks and not wearing gloves. spite warming the blood. i hate that our days together linger on my being most in the morning.

  • god, the scapegoat

    I want there to be a god. I want to believe I will see my people again. The gates can be whatever shade of white, as long as they get to walk through them. I’m ok with the threat of hell as long as they’re in some kind of heaven. Eternal punishment sounds fine for me, as long as they get the peace they deserve. Peace in their world and peace in their minds. Angels or fluffy clouds, I don’t care.

    I just want it to be real. I want to believe there’s a purpose. Something better than us. I want to believe there’s a net to catch us all as we fall. I don’t believe. It won’t change my behavior, I will still choose to be a better human every day. I miss it. I miss talking to someone more powerful than me. The hope it brings. When it gets so very bad down here, we can just pray and that’s our I-did-something-to-help box to check. Without the box, we have to actually attempt to make things better. Everyone has imposter syndrome, so no one will. Without a god guiding us, who’s going to make a move?

    I want to believe there’s justice or rewards in some kind of afterlife. Some magical equalizer. I want to believe when we die, you sit in a room and watch in 3D all the moments you hurt someone else. You have to feel all the feels your victims had to endure. I want to be in that chair. I want to know what I’ve done, how it felt and the impact I made. I deserve that. I want the people that hurt me to have to sit in that chair and feel how I felt. They deserve that.

    I want the foster mom with all the love to give finally gets her reward. Her throne. All the medals to make it all worth it. To remind her that her life’s choices weren’t for nothing. I need a god to tell her she did well.

    I want to believe I was created for a reason. My meaning bigger than I can imagine. I want to believe someone loves me so unconditionally they know every hair on my head. Almost desperate to believe I was known before I was in the womb. I want to believe I belong to something only made for good. How comforting that must be.

    And so, the echos of faith and justice linger. Yearning for a world where shadows yield to understanding.

  • Eating ass is parsley. -Moosh

  • it got better baby

    Friday. Fell asleep in your cozy safe bed, living between the books and the thunderstorm sounds being the only violence we see these days.

    Saturday. Blueberry muffins and bitchin coffee in a small quiet town. Adding books to the collection. Spaced themed movie night. Outfits, break dances, galaxy cookies, & shooting star charcuterie. Inside jokes and OoTD in the lobby. I know it warmed his heart. Cool kids at the cool kids table.

    Sunday. Coffee. Moosh. Tasha. Book club, let me nerd about this book. Tabs on tabs. Stitch & bitch. Tell me about your trauma and your deviant behavior. Democracy is dying, but hey cool fireworks; dressed to the 9. 8 adults, one kid. Our people. Our asses slid closing the space between. Glowing glasses, headbands, bracelets and floggers. We sang our hearts out and laughed even harder. This little world where everyone belongs. The most sober people drunk on community.

    Monday. Holiday 5ks & pumpkin spiced lattes. Fambams and birthday trips with the gal I love the most. Hotel beds with tall ceilings and shoe shopping.

    It gets better baby. Just hold out a little longer.

  • dear paternal issues,

    I don’t write about you too often because you’re so 1900’s trauma, but today I am feeling particularly gynarchal. I don’t even know you, but I still have a lot of recordings of the speeches you gave me on repeat in my brain. Even now. 34 years and the daddy issues are still there. 

    I am reclaiming those. You were never an actual dad (insert Mim’s dad joke here) so I can’t REclaim being my own dad, so I will just have to claim. 

    I am now my own Daddy. Back up bastard mentality I gots some shit to say.

    I was a 4.0 student, Dean’s list, merits out the ass. I am a successful business owner. A business that was built on brutalization that I survived by myself. I am the strongest of all the sons. I went ahead and got all the therapy so I could stop that generational trauma. I’m not a cheater, so that’s a huge win from the blood line. I crawled through glass of my own guilt and loneliness to get to be overwhelmed with the amount of people who love me. I get to be authentically me and people still adore me. I have a hot bod, great feet and I am really fucking good at educating myself. I’m financially independent and own 2 cars, including my dream car. I have no children, so no child support court cases in my routine. I speak up for myself and others. I am an undefeated state champion in Brazilian jui jitsu. My skeleton is broken, like super broke, but I am still joy, I still coach, I still run and I’m still great in bed. I fucking taught myself how to read and read more books than Valkyrie’s professor does in a year while my brain is actively trying to make up letters and sounds. I will be Dr Lindsey fucking Falcon and I’m really fucking proud of me for that. I sometimes still have dirt under my fingernails and my hair is always a mess. But I’m fucking funny. And quite frankly I’m the best damn father I’ve ever had.

    So you sit in your unfaithful 18th marriage, and I’ll be sippin’ cold brew out of my #1 Best Dad mug.

    Sincerely,

    The spite-filled oldest daughter.

  • i will let the past have it

    I loved you deeply, as deeply as I think I could love a sister, but I had to love me more. I miss your curly hair and the tone-deaf duets of Christmas music we would sing in the car.  I think about you often. How I could change your entire existence with the magic of Thrive. But I must let you be lost in the tight grip of the past. 

    I wanted so much more for you. I wanted you to be great. I wanted you to be traveling some far off place and not have to keep you at least 500 feet away from me at all times. You chose the end for both of us. I will eventually paint over the blown kisses and butterflies. 

    I chose you repeatedly. I dropped everything and ran when you called. All I needed was for you to love me. I wiped your ass, canceled your cable, spent money I didn’t have, and you still chose to save your poison over me. 

    I broke myself for you. I lost sleep, I lost days, I lost time. You got drunk. I cleaned up your blood, your drool, your piss and your vomit. You got high. I looked high and low and every fucking nook and cranny in-between to fix it. You looked for an escape. I stressed over your daily being; you gave no fucks. You were perfectly ok with making a mess and having me safely clean it up.

    You made a mess of things. I trusted you without ever trusting you. I believed your buckets of trauma and sob stories just to kick those buckets over when I had enough. You were 6 feet 7 inches of territorial diaper wearing mommy issues. 

    I trusted you with my NDA.You weaponized my secrets. You went against the one thing you can not do. The one thing. “I know you.” You’re so careful to never say it. But you said it in the worst way you could have spoke it. I’d rather be strangled, because this was so constricting. Although I won’t be letting the past have you, I will be letting the past have the version of me that allowed you access. And you’ll never even know it. 

    I will let the past have it all.

  • I think I change all the time. Not all at once, not cold turkey, but ever so slightly. I don’t even notice a lot of the time. One of the carved into my skull quotes was from my high school boyfriend. “Lindsey, you are ever changing.” Under that is a quote from my mother’s speech at my wedding. “Lindsey is an ever changing person, if you don’t ride the ride with her, it will be the thing that destroys your marriage.”  I am an ever changing person, but it has been how I survive through the uncontrollable life I was force to exist in. I run full steam ahead changing the directions as I go so I never get trapped in a box or hit a dead-end. I equally need change and fear change. Change is the control I have and the master I am a slave to. Change is the calm and the storm I am creating by changing. 

  • tell me

    Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me something that will change how I feel. Tell me I am making the correct decision. Tell me there is a bigger meaning. Tell me there is a god and my small human brain just doesn’t see or understand the bigger picture. Because I feel like I’ve figured it all out. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me there is more than this. Tell me I don’t have to gaslight myself for the rest of this existence. Call me, text me, DM me. Do something so I can have even the slightest glimpse of faith. Tell me this is the fire and we will regrow through the ashes. Tell me this is as worst as it gets. Please tell me something. I’m losing the spark. I’m telling you I can’t hold it much longer. Please tell me something. Please.

  • I’m not that girl. I won’t be that girl. I have worked too hard to become a good human. I worked too hard to like myself. To be someone to be proud of. I won’t become someone little Lindsey wouldn’t be proud of. Nothing is worth that little girl’s opinion.

    I will stay determined. I will stay focused. I will not break. I will not be weak. I do hard things. I will be the most regulated adult in the room. This will not be my story.

  • week 33

  • thinking about someone all the time

    is not enough to make them

    deserving of your thoughts

    sometimes it’s not a sign

    it’s just something you do

    until you don’t

    r.h. Sin

  • your heart is an empty room.

    The piano sounds Apple says I listened the most to in 2024.

    Her hyperness when her meds wear off.

    The green of his eyes I see every time it rains.

    Good morning texts.

    Holding of hands that once shielded the abuse.

    My blue couch.

    The tone of her voice when she says, “GUTTER BITCH or titty baby”, her fake Italian grandmother’s accent.

    Blue

    Showers too long.

    Giggles, stories, jokes.

    Seeing her face walk through the door, knowing she won the war of getting out of bed.

    Cinnamon Tea, and coffee, Hallmark movies.

    Doris Doloris, who will be the biggest heart break of all.

    The shock in a broken face meeting strength for the first time.

    The Professor getting excited to tell me about the girl he likes or the sex he had.

    Books in The Nook.

    Blankets and hockey sweats.

    The end of the day when I lay my head down and remind myself this life is real, and I will wake up still safely in it.

    Smells of honeysuckle, sugar plums, and favorite flannels.

    Lovers that forever stain the walls of this heart.

    So much feminine rage and way too many damn shoes.

  • mess with success

    I’m sad. I’m mad. I don’t want to even be with him but he fucks with my trauma buttons. I hate him. So here I am, broken again. I’m not longer available to feel this pain.

    I’m going to live alone. I’m going to walk to work. I’m going to Domme guys and fuck people. I’m going to create rules to live by. People will know nothing about me.

  • dear girl,

    Stop apologizing for living. No one knows what they’re doing and no one’s doing it right. Which means everyone is. Stop saying sorry for making mistakes you’re not making. It’s just a plot twist.

    Dear girl,

    Leave him. Please leave him. He’ll never change, and you’ll just end up with a fucked up skeleton that makes you fall on the kitchen floor needing someone else to help you. Or he’ll kill you. You’re too important to lose. Somewhere out there there’s another little girl that needs you to tell your story to save her.

    Dear girl,

    Stop being afraid to tell someone you want to join them. Take the chance. People like you. Geronimo baby. Make your own fucking rules.

    Dear girl,

    Stop letting those demons in your head work overtime. I’m sure they’re tired.

    Dear girl,

    Explore the world. And do it alone. Do it with people, but only people that don’t suck.

    Dear girl,

    Your family are not the people that surrounded you when you were born. Family are the people that show up on a rainy Saturday morning just to support your dreams.

    Dear girl,

    He’s wrong, you’re right. Stop shutting up. You are smarter than that. You could run circles around those tiny tittybabies. Also dawk them in the face.

    Dear girl,

    Be gay, be so fucking gay. Be open and be proud.

    Dear girl,

    Brag about yourself, you’re so fucking cool.

    Dear girl,

    Say NO. A lot. All the time. Never stop.

    11.9.23

  • i spoke

    Early Tuesday morning I sat in a crowded court room.

    I remember practically nothing.

    Only two people knew I was there.

    Neither being my spouse or mother.

    I’ve never disassociated so well as I did when the attorney pointed the remote to the tv.

    Probably 40 people.

    Dressed nicely.

    Watching my rape like it was the morning announcements in high school.

    Just another Tuesday.

    For the judge, the attorneys, the accused.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?” The attorney asked.

    Snapping me out of my safe disassociated state.

    She repeated herself.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?”

    I couldn’t speak; an issue I rarely have.

    I looked at my shaking hands placed in my lap.

    The writing that covered the left palm read “Today, you become his nightmare.”

    I lifted my head, stared right into the cold eyes I once felt not good enough to look at.

    And spoke the biggest thing I’ve ever said.

    “Yes.”

    11.9.23

  • emo kids

    I wish I had an option in choosing my emotions.

    Press on my nose to switch the emotion on any given situations.

    At funerals I have to pretend to be sad when someone I barely know dies.

    I wish I could channel that sadness and broken heart-ness I felt over a break up of some trashy guy that wasn’t good for me anyway.

    I wish I could choose to be happier when I’m given a thoughtful gift I actually think is dumb.

    I wish I could have the option to turn off all emotions when it’s just been too much to handle. Turning my brain completely off. I’d get so much done if I could skip the sad days and turn on passion when convenient.

    Yeah, that’d be cool.

    Not take on others emotions as well just getting what needs to be done.

  • calgon take me away

    Everything is changing.

    I like it.

    But it’s still change.

    Beautiful home with good smells and throw pillows that remain in the same place they were 12 hours earlier.

    But it’s still change.

    Quiet sleep with the middle of the bed being an option.

    Long showers with no one interrupting to ask if I know where the TV remote is.

    5 fucking seconds of peace and quiet.

    But it’s still change.

    New routine catered to my own self care.

    Being able to make decisions based on joy and happiness instead of traumatic based fear.

    But it’s still change.

    Scary

    And exciting.

    But it’s still change.

  • jits

    Jits is suppose to be my safe place. It’s suppose to be the bus in which I transfer the next broken lindseys. It’s suppose to be the team, the community, the family. It was the thing I used to remind myself the answer to the question I have been riddled with every night at 3am for the past eight years.

    “I can handle anything.” Written on the gym walls.

    “I am strong as fuck.” Written on my gi.

    “I am powerful.” Written on my rash guard.

    “I am still alive.” Written in sweat.

    I lost my proof. I became human, and a weak one at that. I am still broken. My body cracked and everyone saw. The mat isn’t safe. Jits is where I find out I am just another broken body. My bones aren’t made of solid belief. They are broken bones. Unusable. Hindering even. Damaged from all the damage. My body isn’t my warrior fighting for me. She isn’t the hero. She isn’t the fighter. She is the score board. She is the unusable target that’s holes are too big to be significant. Jits was suppose to be the showcase where you prove what you are. But jits became the mirror of harsh reality.

  • cherry

    You took her.

    I said I was ready, but I didn’t know what that meant. Not really.

    You took her forcefully and fast.

    I didn’t even know you. I didn’t even love you or trust you.

    You didn’t deserve her.

    I was so young. Too young. You were young too.

    I don’t remember much about that place where you took her. But I could remember every other detail about that day. Your smell, that dumb laugh. I remember the blood, the confusion, and the tear-filled bus ride home.

    You weren’t nice, but neither was I. I don’t even know if you are to blame for taking her.

    I’m sure at some point you figured in out in life.

  • i am just so fucking angry

    Anger is the powerful mask my fear wears. It’s easier to be angry than scared. The memories and torturing moments still live in the attic of my mind, but I pretend they don’t. When I see something or have an experience that resembles the secrets, I get scared.

    No, oops. I mean angry.

    Hello triggers, it’s always nice to see you out of your cages, care to rage?

    I go zero to one hundred because I can’t relive it. I can’t be so out of control of my body and mind again. My eyebrows get low, my blood gets pumping. Ready to fight the ant hill I can only see as a fight. Kill the threat, end it. Fight and rage until we no longer fear.

    No, oops I mean anger.

    Sitting alone, broken, putting the pieces back into place, cleaning up the mess. I can’t feel that again. I can’t tiptoe around this life. So we rage. We rage before we need to, because I am just so fucking angry.

  • When my husband and I started boning, we weren’t super serious, but definitely way more than sexers. There was a moment. A simple text. Saint Patrick’s Day is my favorite holiday, it was once my birthday. At that time in my life, no one had first names or correct information.

    The text came in at the exact moment I landed in Chicago.

    “Happy Birthday, I’m in Chicago as well, can we celebrate your day?”

    That was the movie moment where the plot twist could have happened. I didn’t know Stephen that well yet and marriage was a not-on-my-radar, not-in-a-million-years kinda thing.

    I stood there celebration and friends around me. Phone in hand staring at the green river in my favorite city, wearing my sexiest green heels. Having a very wealthy man, who is fantastic in bed reaching out ready to make my birthday memorable.

    I blindly chose Stephen in that moment and for all the moments to come. I chose to break the cycle that my paternal curse had put on me. Not only did I choose Stephen, I chose Lindsey. I gave myself a chance to deserve something I didn’t think I was worthy of. I chose happiness, loyalty, hardship, grace, impulse decisions, hockey games, movie nights, Chinese food, and laughter. I made a choice not knowing the outcome. I chose the right door and I fucking won. I can forever say I never tainted this pure childish real love.

  • i vow to forgive and build

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will forgive you.

    I will never stop building you.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will choose you over doubt, fear, and expectations of others.

    I will love the you, you have created yourself to be.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will honor the you, you had to kill to become this.

    I will remember what you went through without haunting you with it.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will continue to advocate for you.

    I will continue to unapologetically protect you.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will show up for you everyday, even if I’m not the person I want to be that day.

    I will continue to break walls.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

  • little lindsey lulu

    At age 4 he forgot to pick you up again. I make time for self care.

    At the age of 7 you stared at the parking lot the entire game while playing 3rd base. He never showed. I post my writing on my blog because I’m proud of it.

    At age 13 he yelled at you, humiliating you, telling you, you were stupid, too hyper and annoying. I don’t surround myself with verbally harmful people

    At age 16 he made you wait outside the car for an hour while he made-out with his girlfriend. I rarely depend on people.

    At age 17 he cheated on you. I no longer put my worth in someone else.

    When you were 19, he beat you so bad you spent the night on the kitchen floor because it was too painful to move. I learned how to fight back.

    You pissed yourself at age 22 because you were locked in the trunk of a car for 3 days. I am strong in so many ways.

    You believed you were worthless at age 25. I fixed that hurt little shell of a child inside my soul waiting to be saved.

    I see you. I hear you. I feel you. I chose you. I met you at all those moments, picked you up and held you in my arms. I made you a safe place to grow and heal. I went back to pick up your pieces and put you back together. I got you now.

    You will never be alone again.