I woke up at 6AM this morning. (This is a big, big deal.)

I have an absolute need to streamline my things. I must remove clutter and excess. There are bags and bags of stuff lining my hallway, waiting to be taken and donated to the secondhand store. I don’t need it. I don’t want it.

It does not escape me, the parallels between this organizational drive, and the inner dialogue I’ve been having of late, regarding my relationship with my Mister. I’m in a period of transition, and I’m in the process of redefining my wants, and clarifying my needs. I’m letting go of some of the mono-centric, ingrained expectations that I haven’t been able to let go. Perhaps completely releasing them is not realistic. Our entire society is mono-centric. It’s what I know. It’s how everyone I know relates to the world; even many of the polyamorous people I know structure their relationships to this end. I think our brains try to “make sense” of polyamory, by framing it through monogamous eyes.

So therein lies the crux. My needs seem to have shifted, and Mister may or may not be able to meet them. My monogamous-minded self wants to run away, because surely Prince Charming is out there somewhere waiting to meet all my needs. My underdeveloped poly-minded synapses are screaming to be heard above this dialogue:

No. Don’t walk away. Communicate, clarify, compromise. Don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater. He can’t meet all your needs, and it’s unfair to expect him to.

I love this man, deeply. The automatic script that runs constantly through my mind, needs to be rewritten. Hell, it needs to just be purged and donated to the secondhand store. And I will not be buying it back, no matter how safe and secure it makes me feel.


There are words
inside me,
but they are
stuck fast
to the center of my chest
and they will not,
can not
come out.

Your root beer eyes,
hold mine
until I look away.
The words move to my throat,
and I
swallow them back down.

My universe is
Grab me, quick
before I float further
from you.


I’m debating.

Special Man Friend has a name. (It’s not actually Special Man Friend.) It’s awkward to type Special Man Friend each time I want to refer to him here. It’s also not very catchy, not particularly charming, and does not roll off the tongue easily.

I do call him Mister often, along with a slew of other pet names that are much less manly. Darling Man and Sweetheart are in high rotation. I can’t reference his chosen career. I could call him The Philosopher, The Fisherman, or The Smart Ass, though I suspect that last one might get me in trouble.

He is exquisitely adept at the following: Doing many things in a short period of time. Knowing the smallest bits of trivia possible. Making surprisingly good grilled cheese sandwiches with exactly one and one half pieces of American cheese. Finding good places to eat. Rolling his eyes at me. Choosing the perfect gift. None of these skills lend themselves to a fitting nickname.

Mister it is.


I want my brain to quiet and simply be.

I want to be alone in the place that teaches me that I am stronger than I think, that I am whole, that I am complete.

I want to sink into the depths of myself, where I slowly, gently, touch those dark corners of my inner core, feeling with my ethereal fingertips, the grit and grime that needs to be purged. Let me sit with it. Make me let go of the pretense, the pressure, the expectations. Give me permission to embrace my imperfection. Take me there. Hold me under the thickness, make me feel the weight of it on top of me, and when I thrash and fight to come up for air, push me down again, and again, and keep me there, until the acceptance of my strength and my choice finally comes, and the pain dims and holds me, like a cloak, and I am free to gather it around me and pull it close. I want to clutch that pain to me, drawing it in closer with each breath, until I am at once, reduced to the very essence of self, and set free from the confinement of everything that is me.

Once I am there, stand guard. Keep me safe and watch over me, until, after a time, you reach down and pull me out. Bring me back with steady insistence, that yes, I am loved. Yes, I am flawed and I am broken and I am imperfect, and still, you see my exquisite resolve to embrace the darkness that swirls within my light. For it is this balance that I desperately crave.

~In Brief~

“Everything you want is on the other side of fear.” -Jack Canfield

What I’m really afraid of is that I don’t have it in me to do this hard thing well. That I’m not loving enough, understanding enough, selfless enough. That I don’t have it in me, to do good poly. That I will get too tired; too weary.

Some days I just don’t want to think about it any more. I don’t want to communicate, I don’t want to be mindful, I don’t want to be in it for the greater good. I want to have what I want, what I need, NOW. I don’t want to wait.

I love the theory of polyamory. But sometimes, the practice of poly is exhausting.

The end.

~Ode To The Pet Name~

I am outspoken, opinionated, and difficult. I have a hard, cynical edge. I laugh too loudly, judge too harshly. I am impatient and short tempered. I am independent. Driven. Feisty. Logical to a fault. Jaded.

Sometimes I lay awake in the dark, fighting with the demon that whispers to me that I’m not good enough. Not good enough in my work; not good enough at home. Just not. I crave perfection, and rarely attain anything close unto it.

And then.

Then he calls me Princess. He calls me pumpkin, buttercup, cupcake. I am his pet, his strawberry, his lemon drop. He speaks to me, soft and sure: “Kitten,” he says to me, and my world goes silent.

And in that moment, I am me. The very truest me. The me who exists without expectation or pretense. I am not an impatient, difficult woman. I’m just a girl.And I am his.

Everything else fades, and my mind quiets. I exist, in my core, at the center of my body. Waiting. My mind is still. I am his princess: beautiful, treasured, good and kind. I am his kitten: adorable, playful, wanted. I am everything he ever says I am… a deliciously sweet cupcake, a luscious, juicy strawberry, a treasured and loved pet.

And in that moment, for just a moment, what I desperately crave is finally mine. Because for a time, I am exactly what he wants. I breathe him in, and I breathe out perfection.

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