Yearning for Change

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I’d like to think that by nature I’m a pleasant person to be around. I enjoy listening more than speaking. I love to laugh when the mood strikes, and I relish intellectual conversations and debate. But since the pandemic hit, I feel more lonely than ever.

There, I said it. I’m lonely.

I’m not usually the type of person who is desperate for attention. And for the first couple of months being locked down at home I was fine. But admittedly, while a 2nd wave of COVID-19 sweeps across my state, I feel myself itching to socialize. I yearn for conversation. I crave meeting people and doing things. I know it’s hurting my mental health to not go out.

But it’s not safe yet. Today alone my county saw another death, 37 new cases, and 6 people are in the ICU… and I live in a very small town.

So, I’m staying at home. These four walls are my entire world and in this “bubble” I know that I’m safe.

In the midst of being couped up, I’ve been turning more to talking online to new people on various platforms. A part of me is excited to meet new people and have wonderful conversations. Another part of me feels jaded and skeptical. I’ve made friendships online before and none of them have lasted. It’s so easy to log off and never be heard from again. It’s so simple to block, ban, or delete someone from a friend’s list.

I can’t but wonder if people ever think about the emotional implications that such actions have on the other person. Personally, I find it very difficult to block someone online. Perhaps I’m a bit too tender hearted? I don’t know. I just feel for the other person and never want to cause anyone harm.

I wish that there was a way to talk to people online in a healthy way. I wish there were like minded people out there who wanted to hang out with me just as much as I’d love to hang out with them.

Only time will tell, I guess. Thanks for reading everyone. Xx

Turning the Page

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I dust off this space with a quiet, steady hand. Like a tome that has been neglected, I regroup here because in truth… I need to. I need a space that is just for me. A place where I can exhale and let go. A place where I can share my journey. As a creative soul who dances between projects, this blog will be just like the great, green room in “Goodnight Moon”. It will be colorful, whimsical, and fun. But there will also be shadows and darkness in this room, and for that I apologize in advance.

It is my hope that in this space I can sort out my thoughts. I want to live and let live. I want to be at peace and share my soul with the world. Thank you all for being here with me.

~Kitten xx

The Myrmidons

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Standing still, a blast from Poseidon hits my face,

and I’m reminded how small I am on this great, vast sea.

Turning my head, I feel him before I see him.

Dark, silky locks of jet black tied back with a maroon bandanna.

He walks towards me with a slight saunter in his step,

a mixture of salt and soap carrying in the air from his presence.

“Captain” I mutter, my heart quickening as I stare into his dark eyes.

“Minnie” he smirks, and it’s all I can do to not squeal.

Oh, how his voice makes me want to twirl like a giddy schoolgirl.

But the truth is, that on this vast ocean, the Captain and I have forged a bond,

of blood, sword, and steel. My ride or die, we know that we have each others back.

“Tali” I whisper, and he steps close. Lifting his weathered hand, he brushes back a lock of my hair.

Qizu” he whispers, his eyes boring into mine.

At the stern of the ship music begins to play.

Vibrations carry through the deck signaling that the shindig is about to begin.

“Come” he mutters, taking my hand in his.

And without a word, I follow…. because he knows that I would follow him anywhere.

Fangs

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I sit here, heart pumping hard in my chest.

I close my eyes and feel the spirit of the Wolf flow through my veins.

Not just any wolf, I am a Beta.

Fierce. Wild. Hungry. And on the prowl.

Like so many others, I belong to an Alpha.

An Alpha, who with one word can reduce me to tears.

An Alpha who isn’t afraid to bare his fangs into my jugular and hold me in place.

I howl with a predatory cry.

A fierce warning to anyone who might come near.

This one is mine. I claim him, just as much as he claims me.

My fur stands on end thinking about others who would flirt with my mate.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The world is both colorful and vast.

I must learn to adapt, and yet, I feel the lines in the sand.

My mind, trained to think one way and yet, feelings are so fluid.

But despite it all…

When he howls, I will come.

Paper Doll Dreams

“Who taught you, Mama?” my daughter asked me as we snuggled up on the floor. I saw in her eyes that boredom was taking over. She wanted something to do. It would be easy to be like other parents and gripe about how “kids these days” has it too easy. They’re saturated with technology that stifles their creativity. But I’m not like other parents. No. I’m a rainbow mama! I dream in colors. I dance with wild abandon. I tell my child that anything is possible, even if her career path is wanting to be a pirate.

So there we sat on 70’s shag carpet in this little rental we’re in at the moment, with a sewing kit between us. “No one taught me” I muttered, “sometimes you have to make your own magic”. I gave her a wink and watched her face light up. Her game-boy was charging. Her books were warm with hours spent reading. In these last bits of summer she wanted something different…. creative… and new. “Cover your eyes, sugarbean” I whispered and obediently she squeezed her eyes shut. “No peeking now!” I warned with a sly grin as my hands grabbed a cardboard box I was getting ready to toss.

A few strokes of my hand led to a simple drawing of a cardboard doll. “One…” I counted. She began giggling again. “Two….” I said excitedly. My daughter loves crafty things like me. “Three!” I said and she opened her eyes in awe. She fetched an old pair of worn leggings and for the next hour we sat on that floor creating a simple outfit with nothing more than a needle and thread, and a bit of cloth. It was perfect and we made memories together.

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I’d like to think that we all need a bit of magic in our life. We need time to turn the mundane into a special moment. A time to dream. A time to twirl, laugh, dance, and sing. We need space to see the world in vibrant colors, because the world is magical… if only you believe. Do you believe? 😉

See you tomorrow, friends. ❤

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I Live For the Drop

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I slid on my new pair of pink headphones.

My fingers tingled with glee.

Only a music junkie would know how I feel.

I hold a secret that most would never assume to be associated with me.

Are you ready?

I love techno music.

I drive to it. I’ve fucked to it. It makes me giddy.

I crave going to Tomorrowland.

There is no right or wrong way to dance with techno music.

But it’s the drop that gets me.

The music begins and I close my eyes falling into that moment.

The build up begins. I feel the pulse of the beat in my chest.

My cells tingle yearning for more. Feed me more…

It peaks at the crescendo and the excitement is nearly palpable.

And then it drops.

The bass kicks in and I squeal. The song flows through my body.

I become one with the music. A universal language that unites all people.

The beat blows me away in pure ecstasy.

Like an orgasm, I ride the high until the last beats trickle away.

And it’s there is that space of bliss that you’ll find me wet, beaming, and complete.

I’m a Tree

If I were a plant, I think I would be a maple tree.

It grows, stretching it’s roots far into the ground, covering mysterious soil.

It’s bark forms as the trunk rises and grows.

Twisting and turning it faces storm after storm.

Standing ever precariously, inching ever upwards towards the sun.

Yes, if I were a maple tree, I think I would have nests.

Birds would come and flock to me.

They would nest among my branches, seeking my shelter, warmth, and care.

Squirrels would burrow within my trunk, getting the closest of all.

But never knowing the imprint that they leave inside.

I would sway with the wind.

My leaves would blossom, bloom, and then eventually fall and fade away.

Cracks and crevices would streak across my bark as it slowly withers with time.

Secret rings would form in my core, hiding my true age from the outside world.

But then, one day there would be a man.

A silent man who would come for me.

“I see you” he would whisper, “And I claim you, as mine”.

Unlike the birds and squirrels that take and feast upon my form,

the man would simply tap into my spirit.

Droplets of sweet sap would begin to fill his cup.

And he would take from me, little by little, drinking his fill,

But never leaving me too dry.

He would nourish and protect me from those that would do me harm.

And there, in the still of the forest, he would become my guardian.

Yes, I think I could see myself as a tree.

That would be nice.

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Sticky Fingers and Deep Smiles

I sat watching her from across the room. I could have helped her. It would have been so easy, but I wanted her to do it on her own. With a furrowed brow, I watched my daughter stare at the orange with intense concentration. A pile of oranges lay next to her chopping block. At 11, she was finally learning to chop things on her own. I sat, marveling at how far we’ve come together. This was the same child who used to be afraid of everything. From the moment she could toddle, she was shy to the world. It wasn’t uncommon for her to sit between my legs, peering out at the world with curious, yet timid eyes. If I rushed her into an activity too fast, she would cry and have a meltdown. So I learned to go at her pace. We eased into life together. With her little hand in mine I watched her begin to acquire new skills.

Chop! The first orange was cut in half and her face lit up at the achievement. Secretly I exhaled, giving thanks that she didn’t hurt herself. “You’re doing great” I cooed to her. She looked back at me, her blue eyes sparkling as she grabbed another piece of fruit.

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It wasn’t that long ago that she conquered her fear of fire for the first time. I had lit a candle for her to roast a marshmallow over, but the fire made her tear up and recoil in fear. Eventually I sat behind her, determined for her to learn how to make a s’more, and watched her roast the marshmallow for the first time. Her eyes widened as it began to blacken. “Now, blow it out like a candle” I whispered as it caught fire. For a second she panicked but quickly began blowing it out. Moments later she tasted the gooey confection and her fear dissipated into triumph and joy. “I’ve got it, Mom” she said proudly and roasted another one. I beamed at the milestone and childhood memory we had formed together for her to always remember.

Chop! Another orange down and sliced in half. She looked back at me beaming. “I’m doing it, Mama!” she squealed. “Yes you are” I grinned, watching her intently. Truthfully, it’s difficult not to “helicopter” her. But it’s important that she learns how to do these things on her own.

For so long, when she was very little, family members would chastise me for being too much of a “hawk” over her. With a wave of my hand I dismissed their comments even though they stung a little. I knew from the moment of her birth that I wanted to be a stay at home mom. I wanted to cherish her childhood and soak it up fully. I wanted to walk hand and hand through her first 18 years together, giving her absolute reassurance that I was here for her. And that’s just what we’re doing.

As the mountain of orange halves grew next to the mixing bowl, I saw her place the knife down. Now it was time for the fun part. “Now” I said smirking, “squeeze each one over the bowl as hard as you can!”. She giggled grabbing an orange. With all her might she squeezed the juicy fruit. Juice went in the bowl, on her, and all over the counters… just as I expected it to. She glanced back at me worried that I would be upset at the mess that was ensuing. Instead, I giggled and gave her a nod. With permission to go wild she squeezed orange after orange into the bowl. She busted out laughing as juice shot out wildly in one direction and onto the floor. But in the end, she had a bowl full of juice. Her tiny, sticky hands picked out the seeds gently and she marveled at their feel and texture. Finally, she poured the fresh-squeezed juice into a glass. This was her reward.

“It tastes SO good!” she gasped beaming with a deep smile, “there’s no sugar in it!!”. I cradled my sticky daughter close. “And that is how real orange juice tastes” I purred. Sending her off to the table I began to clean up the mess. Sometimes, it’s great to get messy… to let loose… and just soak up life to the fullest. So go ahead, get wild. 😉

Have a beautiful Saturday everyone. ❤

~Punkin Xx

Born in the Wrong Era

My mother came into the rental I am staying in this morning. I watched her tired body flop on the over-sized couch. Her dyed blonde hair was up in a high ponytail and she was wearing lulu lemon yoga pants and a tank top that hugged her form. “I’m bushed!” she said. I knew she had just come from a spin class. We began to catch up. I had something on my mind and I wanted to test the waters with her. It was now or never. My mom would find out anyway. She’s a sleuth like that. “So…” I said slowly looking at her, “I’m thinking about wearing more modest clothing”. She quirked an eyebrow at me. It was her signature move right before the intense interrogation that I knew was coming.

For as long as I can remember my mother and I were like “two paths diverged in the woods”. I can actually smile when I reflect upon the differences in our fashion choices. When I was younger I felt like I had less of a say. So it was my mom who got me detention once for dressing me in daisy dukes and sending me off to school insisting I looked fine. I didn’t look fine. I got a ruler placed to my legs as I stood there with my hands to my sides. My shorts were above my fingertips which went against the dress code. I got sent home. And then there was the time that my mom went through the phase of wanting us to wear nearly see-though tank tops with a matching bra to cover our nipples. That’s about where I drew the line.

As I got older and became a mom, suddenly I began to feel a tug towards the need to cover up. I didn’t want the world seeing my body. I moved to a state that prances around with skin showing on the daily. I live in the liberal mecca of the U.S. and so I’m sure my mother nearly had a heart attack when her already-modest daughter said she wanted to cover up even more so. “You were born in the wrong era” my mother said, smirking at me, “Are you trying to be a nun?”. I smiled politely and assured her that I wasn’t about to run off to the convent despite being Catholic.

“I just…” I said carefully, and then I got down my Bible. I like visual references. It helps. But my mom looked at my Bible like I was holding a snake that would bite her. “Oh Gods…” she muttered. (She’s an atheist). “Exactly! This is about God!” I said excitedly. My mom huffed but said nothing as I showed her the Bible verse that has been gnawing in my brain.

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Now let me pause here for a moment. I’m one of those people who drives around with a: Prays well with others, bumper sticker on my car. I’m all for coexistence and how you believe is between you and God. I was merely trying to tell my mother, who was going to have an opinion on my attire, how I wanted to dress and why. I read the verse aloud as she wrinkled her nose. With a wave of her hand she told me to go ahead. “If you want to live like the 1950’s… go for it” she said sighing at me. I smiled at her lovingly. I don’t expect her to understand. But at least now she knows my plan. 🙂

I can’t wait to pick out some fun fashion pieces! Maybe I’ll share them on here with you. More thoughts as I think of them. Have a beautiful Friday!

~Punkin Xx

A Hopeless Romantic

I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. I stared into my own reflection today and gazed back at the woman I’ve become. When I was 18, my breasts were far perkier than they are now. But my mind… my glorious mind, still oozes with the same passion, vigor, and hunger for romance and adventure that it did when I was half my age. Unlike many other women, I dislike a bouquet of flowers. No. Let me correct that. I dislike roses. Roses that apparently Kylie Jenner’s home was flooded with recently. So much so that it made the front page of Yahoo News. Roses scream… cliche. A flower vending machine.

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No, give me daisies. An inexpensive, friendly flower that is so commonly overlooked. Let’s cook a meal together instead of going out. I, in just a t-shirt and panties, while you stand there in your pajamas. We’ll laugh… get messy… and snuggle as the music plays. We’ll taste the dish as it goes, seasoning together, and sneaking in kisses between bites. I’ll tease you about saving room for dessert, before you pull me towards the couch telling me that I am dessert.

I’m a hopeless romantic.

I see a downpour of rain and my first instinct is to dance in the puddles until I’m soaking wet. I’ve done that a time or ten. I twirl, lifting my arms towards the heavens, waiting to be kissed under a thundering sky. While “The Notebook” may have had the most epic rain-kiss of all time, I just want a french kiss of my own. Wet… chilly… but warm, as our bodies soak in each others’ heat.

I’m a hopeless romantic.

I long to feel your hands slide over my curves as we take a hot shower together. I’ll turn, facing you, and giggle as I shampoo my hair into an elaborate spiked crown. My small hands and narrow fingers will slide over your broad chest and shoulders, drinking in your form. A sensual moment overlooked so often in the day. I love a good shower. I’ve always dreamed of having one of those shower-heads that makes it rain from above. I love big snuggly towels, freshly warmed from the dryer just waiting to swaddle my body.

I’m a hopeless romantic.

I yearn to stock up on an array of desserts at the store. Laughing with glee as we eat in reverse tonight. We’ll lay out our spread, complete with two forks, and share bites of our food. We’ll swoon over chocolate cake, cupcakes that are adorable, and cookies that are perfect with tea. No doubt, I will have brewed a cup of tea. Tea for me and coffee for you. Yes, together we’ll be the perfect pair. We’ll kiss, tasting the sugar on each others tongue, only breaking apart to make room to lay down and really fall into the moment.

I’m a hopeless romantic…. and I wouldn’t have it any other way. ❤