who am i?


<< April 2009 >>
Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri Sat
 01 02 03 04
05 06 07 08 09 10 11
12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25
26 27 28 29 30
where am i?
Check Them Out!

*These blogs have been updated in the last 12hours

You've seen me in the light. Now check out The Other Side
talk to me


Things I Write About
State of Mind
Something Silly
Blog Notes
Creative Writing
Arts & Crafts
Monkey Love
Slowing Down

If you want to be updated on this weblog Enter your email here:
Contact Me
designed by: els
edited by:

Blue Confusion - from blogskins
Artwork Stephanie Pui-Mun Law

eXTReMe Tracker

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

I wear my own masks.
I didn't cry until you were out of the room.
It hurt enough without having you see my tears.


Fuck you very much.

Addendum: If I didn't love you so much, it wouldn't get to me the way it does.

Posted at 03:48 pm by Anjelle


The first D/s relationship that I was involved in was not officially called such. The level of respect and control was there, but the names were not. I gave to him. He was a liar, a fake, and totally unreliable.

The second was with a man who couldn't respect himself, much less me. Another liar. He fawned over me while we were together, but when the shit hit the fan, he treated me as a worthless piece of trash. A year or two later, he wrote to me and assured me that is, indeed, what he thinks of me.

Then there was the one who wanted me to leave everything to be with him. And when I say everything, I mean my family, my friends, my home, my life... My son. When that one fell apart -- because I couldn't do it, but I wanted to be of service badly enough that I was trying to figure out how I could, and eventually drove myself beyond insane -- he told me I was dead to him. When I wrote him a while later trying to explain and apologize and wish him well, he chastised me for doing so. Reminded me that I was dead. Nothing.

The next one wasn't too bad, but totally wrong for me. Didn't understand me in the least.

Then... There was K. We've gone through much of what happened there. It was sex to him. It was life to me. It didn't mesh. And, in the cases where I tried to explain what was hurting me and how it might be fixed, he took it as an insult. I bled for him in very un-fun ways, and he changed not at all as a result. It may or may not have mattered to him that I was being damaged.

I've made poor decisions. I've chosen men that cannot or will not take care of me outside of their own ideas. Outside of their own desires.

Every time I have to defend the man I love, I am afraid. I'm afraid that I am, once again, making a poor decision. Afraid that I'm blind to something that should be right in front of my face. I'm scared to be that girl that everyone secretly pities because she can't make a right choice. The one that runs from one crappy situation to another.

Now I have two men that I find myself protective over. Defensive if the slightest thing might be misconstrued as 'wrong.'

Please don't hurt me. My self-confidence can't take being wrong again.

Posted at 10:00 am by Anjelle

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

How is it that even with the best of intentions, there is all this drama?

How do we make it stop?

Monday, March 09, 2009

"Are you my slave?" He asked.

"No," I replied without thinking.

And that, I tried to explain, is exactly why I said no. Because I will simply tell him No to such things, without consulting anyone. Because I'm feisty, and rebellious, and there's not a damn thing that I will ever do simply because he (or anyone) has 'said so.' I have to be convinced, manipulated, or bribed into doing anything I don't inherently enjoy doing.

After telling him all of the reasons I am not his slave, I finally got around to asking his opinion.

"If I want you to be feisty, then feisty doesn't mean you aren't my slave," He said. "I don't want you to not challenge me, and I don't want to change or suppress your nature. I know what the dictionary definition of slavery is, and it doesn't matter. What matters is you and I. Yes, you are my slave."

I smiled, of course. I worship him. I would do anything for him. Including try to suppress my nature -- and I did do that for as long as I could stand, once upon a time. (Not that it worked. At all. But I tried.) Of course I am his slave. He is my god. My One.

Remembering his dislike for the impersonal title, I was left with a question.
"Does this mean you are my Master?"

"Yes," he answered. And then we made love.

He gave me words to say. Vows to repeat. And as I said them against his shoulder, I remembered words I had once written. Lines and vows that I had put to paper, intending for them to be a part of our Someday. Intending to say them as part of a collaring ceremony. The familiarity of what he asked me to speak was not at all suprising.

And, in the end, all I could speak was Him. Daddy. D. My god. My master. My everything.

I am his, and he is...


Posted at 10:29 am by Anjelle

Thursday, March 05, 2009
Make a Wish II

What do you do when they all come true?


Next Page