Your tired rebuttal, “What about me?” has been rejected by the remaining sane member of the jury. And yet, like the freed prisoner, or bird, who finds themselves unequipped to navigate a world without the prescription of a cage, we found ourselves recreating the same conditions under which we’d been born. Maybe it’s because injustice feels like home. Love lives here, where muddy boots trample foolishly trusting hearts. I’d ask, ‘how could you’ but eventually, those concrete head shrinkers will figure out you’re one of those required spiritual defects in this confounded cosmic plan.

How can we expect ourselves to find something we’ve never touched, held, seen, smelled, sensed or tasted? Oh? Faith? And truth, with it’s condiments of insult, injury and these never ending riddles we’re supposed to solve in the time creases between attempts to survive?

The patronizing promise of love, drowned by sarcasm, ridicule, belittling, adrenaline, gaslighting, coercion, anxiety, peace keeping, emotional breadcrumbs, terror, nagging, threats and the impassioned, hollow faux-poligies that follow. So undeniably powerful; why would anyone bother questioning the sacred bonds of unholy betrayal?

Do you, take this person, to do with whatever you will, forsaking all laws, ethics, morals, karma or common sense, for as long as you both shall live? Or, just until they drown in your ocean of relentless bullshit?

Why didn’t they simply try harder to set a boundary while your hands were inside, under, behind or encircling them?

Do you promise to hate, violate and discard till death do you part? Or, just until someone finally complies with your never ending list of impossible expectations?


Every conversation ends where your accountability begins. You’d think they’d have learned to just keep quiet by now. No eggshell cracking. No silence broken by the heavy yoke of truth. You’d much rather secure a hungry eternity of avoidant delusions and convenient substitutions, then dare to pursue vastly infinite possibilities.

Exactly how carefully are we supposed to pray for this supposedly divine inheritance? ‘I wish I may, I wish I might’ How many journal pages have been burnt as offerings? How many self-help books have we hopelessly devoured looking for answers sitting under the index of our belly button windows? How many thousands of dollars and hours have prompted the sustained and exacting changes experts claimed would result in manifesting the exclusive, elusive secret?

Should we swear? Is that what authenticity means? Or maybe we just throw a fit the next time some exhausting adult-toddler metaphorically takes a piss at our feet? No, no, no. We know better, yes, intellectually. But healing requires corrective emotional experiences. We have to feel better to be better.


They’ve always had patient, compassionate understanding for the consequences of your wounds; to a personal fault. It takes time, trust, support and immense, consistent safety to restore our sense of wholeness and hope after surviving reality. They pray for your restoration every morning…and every night, mourn the loss of ours.

Your criticism, rage, entitlement, demise; the ways you shut them out, minimized their needs, exhaustion, contributions, while simultaneously consuming them. Consequences. Look around. We’re living in them.

However, there’s no need to worry. You won’t feel a thing.

Just keeping you honest, panzon.

~

As above, so below.

Happy, fiery full Aries moon. Are you feeling it? Rain slamming. Wind screaming. I’d attempt to referee but I’m rather enjoying surrendering to their violence. Let’s see what all this mess creates. xo

2 thoughts on “Dear Panzon

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