Alive and Painting

I’m still here. Starting to paint a few new pieces. Yay, canvas! Hopefully the smell of acrylics will drive away the rest of this damn cold. I’m less than impressed with being sick, but my baby sister got her wisdom teeth out this morning so I can’t complain too loudly about my headaches and fevers and hacking and wheezing. Poor girl. She’s muddling through a haze of tylenol 3’s and antibiotics and steroids, which is more than I ever got. I made the most of the codeine, but she’s not looking too peppy. 

But paint. Paint I will. In between playing soup/yop/drug dispenser. 

Also, just a reminder? I like you guys. Y’all are a pretty nice crowd. ❤

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I Seek to Stumble

Bramble switches lay quiet
waiting
waiting for unwary feet running haphazardly
prick
stab
tumble
blood on my new stockings.

Yesterday, only yesterday I
washed them and now
rust stains and

tiny tears
rolling down my cheeks.
The meadow looked so green,
how was I to know?

Perhaps my feet picked the thorns
not unaware at all, 
but subconscious
toes seeking stocking revenge. 

© Emily Bragg 2013

Focus On The Advil Side

Little things like a cup of hot, strong tea, a sweet kiss on the cheek, a touch on the hand; they let me focus on what’s going on around me, all the good that’s around me.

Especially now, when my uterus is using my lower back as a punching bag (those near and dear to me have heard various similar metaphors, along with the utterance “my uterus is a treacherous bitch“) and I’m living Advil to Advil.

I just, I hate acting a stereotype. I love everyone around me, even when I’m angry. It’s just that these distinctly unpregnant pangs emanating from my lower abdomen can get a little aggravating. And if I snark at you, it’s just the moon-lady talking.

That, or you’re being unforgivably irritating.

© Emily Bragg 2013

Let Me Hurt You Not Again

I know a girl whose thoughts masquerade as gilded golden trophies, hiding doubt and angry rabble crossing ‘cross her splintered mind. I don’t know her mind at all, and yet I know so much; the rest I fabricate. I don’t know when I hurt her and when I do I can’t retract the words because I don’t know which of them sting, hidden barbs so clear to all the rest.

I love this girl.

And after all these years she remains a clear-cut enigma, my projections falsifying her reality. I forget she has weaknesses, so much do I aspire to what she does, what she says. I don’t understand how someone so incredible can see such warped reflections of themselves, so much so that I, I pose a threat. Lash back, I think. Hurt me like I hurt you. I wouldn’t know what to expect.

Dear, refuse my words. Craft yourself a vessel of barb-proof determinism and push off, sail away. I want your words and mind spread before me, but if I can’t carve a space for myself without cutting too deep when my knife slips sideways, push me out.

I never thought I was the stronger one. You were always the brighter light, I only tagged along. And to hear that all along you saw me as brighter? My mind reels. I don’t understand. I can’t be who I am without you, because you define me. Every shared tryst, every joke, every silent moment we’ve built together is the foundation of who I am. You have given me so much strength, and now I only hope you’ll let me try to give some back.

But if I ever become an enemy, cut me down.

© Emily Bragg 2013