There is no time…(Me, the Ugly One)

I simply have no time.

I have no time for the bullshit. I can’t walk with the beautiful ones, their neatly trimmed hair and wonderfully pressed clothing. I can’t deal with the fakeness of their spirituality, one that always quotes the experience of others, one that always reads about the path ahead. Please, drop the veil and fucking dive in. Quit with always knowing the right things to say out of a book somewhere, or those lessons from that wonderful teacher, and start fucking up. Say the wrong things from time to time. Do something crazy, that defies that logic you hold onto, that simply makes little sense to the world.

I want to get dirty, muddy to be more exact. I want our hair disheveled by our passion, our thoughts never far from the next time we’re dancing naked in moonlight. I want our glances to be full of mischief, our words to be full of truth, our actions to be full of the love we were born to fly in. I want to live with you, damn it, and I want you to laugh and fly and crash and be reborn.

Because I have no time.

No time to wait while you to dance in the exhaustion of yesterday, or the muck of the mudslides you think you need to heal from. Fuck it, I’ll get muddy with you, slaying the beasts that rise from the muck, holding up to you their severed heads and rotting hearts. I’ll drop them when you jump in my arms, making love to me in the midst of those littered corpses, howling at the sky and shaking so hard the Earth itself is made clean in the quakes.

I know, it’s not the way the book says to do it. It’s not the neat and proper way to do things. It’s not the etiquette those beautiful people demand. It’s raw. It’s filthy. It’s dangerous and it stinks of the fires of passion. It’s how you slay the victim in you and become its Master. It’s how you dancing in the tears instead of crying in the dance. Leave those beautiful ones behind and hear this music, dance with me, the Ugly One.

Let that beautiful dress fall crumpled to the floor. Break off your heals and throw them at the mirror on the wall. Get your feet dirty. Slur your words with fantastic abandon. Let your mascara run until the soil is black around you. Just know that I will hold you up, stand you tall, and never once let you act like you are defeated again.

Alas, the beautiful ones…they run from me. I don’t care about their rules, their feigned resignation to the books of others. I can’t read that book, I’m too busy writing a book of my own. Don’t quote it, don’t cite it, less you get a little dirty too. You may never recover.


photo by: h.koppdelaney