In the search for my own authenticity, I spilled my truth onto the written page.

I considered my motives for writing this poem as I stared at the scribble of words before me. What was I trying to say anyway?

Was I simply revealing my bi-sexuality and desire for a poly-amorous lifestyle to a broader circle of friends and relations? Was I standing up for my right to be real? Was I walking in solidarity with others who had opened up about their true selves?

And how would this affect my partner, who was, in essence, coming out with me. I reflected upon the effect on his life much longer than I worried about my own.

No-one would shake their head at my long held dream of roughing it in the wilderness. I’ve done some crazy stuff in my time.

But throw in a second love interest, and all the rest of the kink? Now that was a risk.

Yet, I stabbed my finger at the “post” button and my poem left its comfortable corner to find itself in writing.

After my slightly crowded closet got all shook out, there I was.

Still standing. Stronger. Un-flinching in my truth.

My first step towards authenticity was realizing that I could no longer survive the planet without it.

The Dark of My Soul

I long for darkness; the deepest thoughts are always tinged with black
The dark of my soul intrigues me, calls me
Stirs me, haunts me, asks for release
I long to run to wilderness remote and abandoned
Where I can live free and wild, with mountains to cradle me, forests to sing to me, streams to nourish me, and mysteries to wrap me in their moody cloaks
A cabin, a candle, a wood stove and books. Some honey, some wine, some venison and whatever grows in a garden I have sown
A woman who visits and lingers while I cook; she loves me and shares me with a man. Sometimes she brings new books, sits in the chair by the window and reads, then offers herself for dessert
A man who brings what he’s hunted and chops the firewood, as well as my heart with a side of passion
Can I live with only the Aspens as my friends because people still bruise me? Will I always wash my clothes in this tin bucket and carry my water from the well? Will I forever yell at the sky because winter lasts longer than it should?
My love for quiet, for leather and man smells, for solitude mixed with altitude, mountain air and women who dare to share me…leaves me longing for the unconventional, dotted with wine poured over the tangled bodies of my lovers, who join me in my madness, even as they wonder who lives like this?
Run! My soul wants to run, to this place that I love, and the man and woman who love me and each other without losing themselves in questions on propriety
There is nothing proper about what I want, and I won’t be vilified, this is who I am


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Author: Monika Carless

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: flickr, flickr