A Festering Abscess

I didn't get to feel the prick of my skin and see the ink flow.

I didn't get to feel the pain of beauty, only the pain of love.

Relationships are hard work.  When we hurt one another, there is often an underlying message that isn't coming through, there is only a ball being volleyed back to our side of the net.

Papi was holding in the hurt that I inflicted, but it burst through the knife of the tongue.

The monotony of tree after tree on our ride down to Seattle was broken by hateful words.  "I blame you for not letting me give Smokey kibble when he wanted it.  I think that's why he died."

The blade punctured my heart, but I added pressure the pumping blood as long as I could.

maybe Papi was experiencing the upheaval of withdrawal?

I tried to let it go.

Easier said than done.

By holding it in, I became contentious and less than tolerant with every person who had the unfortunate meeting with the demon that was now speaking for me.

I had my dark cloud again.  That bastard was held fast above my head.  Nobody can see it, but they can damn well sense it.  We are, after all, intuitive animals.

During my wait for the tattoo that never happened, I got down to work on my computer and did some long overdue clean up.

Papi said, "Well, while you're just reading, why don't you read the FtM Sex Guide I sent you."

I've been avoiding it.  I thought it would be a way for partners to discover the new found body that has been entered into the relationship.

Wrong.

It was just a transgendered person talking about their clit.  I was so uncomfortable and felt it was an attack on my trying ego.  My soul is working so hard just to be at peace with where I am 'right now'.

'Right now', I'm not ready for this.  'Right now', I'm just getting used to the fuzzy peach moustache and wispy chin hairs.

'Right now', I'm accepting the changes in my life that are happening because of this transformation.

When I met a potential new friend at the gym, I called Papi my husband.  It felt wrong.  It felt awkward.  But most of all, it felt like the right thing to do, so that they would consider mi esposo as a male figure right from the gate.

When Papi asked me about the guide and what I thought, the dark cloud rained upon me and words slipped out on that now slick runway.  "I thought it would be about sex, but all it was, was a platform for the guy to talk about his clit like it was a dick.  He'll never have a dick.  He wasn't born with a dick.  It's a swollen clit."

my dagger stabbed repeatedly in an effort to defend myself, after being told i killed my love's cat.

The fucked up part?  I was irritable because Papi blamed Smokey's death on me, which came from Papi having resentment because I made jokes about the full body binder that mi esposo received in the mail.  I retreated in repugnance when my love put a fake penis in to this article of clothing.  I didn't want it anywhere near me and that was agitation thrown at my love because of the fact that Papi had used drugs.

Do you understand the vicious cycle here?

You can go back further and further and try to find the initial culprit of pain, but it doesn't matter.

We realized that the wounds we force upon one other are going to have to be spoken about right away.

If not, they will fester, and I'll wake up with swollen eyes from crying all night long.

It's just not pretty, that vision in the mirror this morning.

We have to clean these wounds before they become abscessed.