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not the first…

Dear Gentle Sir,

I loved a man who was afraid of the Possible – the enormity of it. With me, he began to experience himself in his truest dimensions, that is, until he couldn’t bear it. So, he blamed me for his growing fear. He became afraid of me, not realizing it had nothing to do with me; I simply showed up and held up a mirror. He looked. He saw. He chose another – as is his wont. He prefers that which keeps him, contains him, controls him.

But even now, it is still in him – all that is Possible.
And it still has nothing to do with me.

These days, he tells himself things are great, that he is in a better place than ever before but he’s a step beside where he was before me: he is still small; he remains secretly, deeply afraid of the enormity of himself, of his own Light. He is happiest when he can hide.

Where once there was love, there now lives insight and a kind of wounded wisdom. Every time I kiss you, I wonder if you will (again), like him, take your turn and blame me for your fear? Or will you focus on my nipples, my glowing clit, and hot moans… hoping to drown out the terrifying call of what is Possible within you? Of the choices you are too afraid to make?

Truth is, it won’t be the first time.
I imagine you won’t try to be the last.
If I’m still here, that is.

Thoughtfully Yours,

Lola xo

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its own kind of freedom…

I wrote love notes of various kinds… here and there… hoping I really was seen, feeling against thinking that perhaps finally, my trust was worth giving. I thot: this is what all those story books and fairytales were trying to describe. Swept off my feet, I fell.

Too late I realized I was wrong: when you looked at me, it was not a promise, it was not a meeting of well-mets; it was a warning.

… so many love notes.

Human hearts are fragile, made particularly malleable thanks to the mind-bending heat of misguided belief. Pain births deeper understanding as it sinks into scars you believed to be healed (or, at least, healing). Blame, lies, disrespect, and silence disappears love. We become rank with longing for something that never really was.

This is the struggle to Living.
This is why we pray for blindness.
Loving the Wrong One illuminates if our soul stays open.
I see you even more clearly now but more: I see me.