Down to This- S. of C.

Everything boils down to this. 
It always does. 

The regurgitation of every vile, foul act that one has every endured, witnessed or committed. 

It is NOT singular when it does pour forth.
When it does, it is about as pleasant as black and putrid bile. 

It is the sins and cruelty of every mother fucking human that has ever disgraced the earth. 

Within every act of rape. 

In every hand that held a knife against sweating skin. 

It is in the secretion of fear, in the delight of savoring the scent. 

In every uncle Ned that put his greedy hand upon his sisters daughter in that place that no one was 
allowed to touch.

It is inside the lonely middle aged woman that lures little Bobby over for cookies.

 It is her desperation and feelings of inadequacy that slaughters his innocence to fulfill a selfish and filthy desire. 
This is one way it spreads.
It is still there when that boy grows to adulthood.
Now he sits on his knees upon the sidewalk he calls home with a needle in his arm. 
It is with him on that sidewalk. 
It is within the needles content. 

It is the within the vast and everlasting needs. 

It is the deceitful wife's slick and swollen cunt eager and inviting. 
It is her husbands brothers rapid flow of blood within his dagger of flesh that pierces her. 

It is her deep in the moans of pleasure taken - not given. 
It is in his hunger and momentary satisfaction of having conquered his brothers most valued prize.

It is inside the finger that curls around the trigger of the husbands gun.

It is within all the shrieks of terror and within every bellow of outrage.

It is in the first blast of rage. 
Inside the bullet for his brother.

 It is within his final exhalation. 

It is within the vacancy in his eyes when he looks upon his beloved.
It is in her voice as she begs and pleads to deaf ears.

It is within her useless attempts towards salvation as she scrambles to cover her naked shame with the bloody sheets.

 It is within the second blast for the whore . 
It is in the way he watches her life force slip away.

 It is within the hollow space inside him. 

It is the salty betrayal that falls down his face.

 It is what guides his hand to point the gun to his temple and allow the final blast to relive him of what plagues each and every one of us.

This is what it all boils down to. 

All this loss, cum, piss, lust, shit, shame and blood.

Who are you?

 We are all the same. 

Join us.

 Make the choice while the choice remains yours to make.
Think.... Shhh...

Filth.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

Wayward Ivy

Deep in the hollow, way deep down, was only the echo of something that may have been way back when. Back when the sun hit one's skin and it was pleasant and there was nothing to fear.

Deep within this cavern the only sound is the shallow breath that she takes only by default. Deep within this cavern she has seen that willful growth along the glistening stone. She wonders what is it reaching toward. 

Way deep down in the grotto, the only living thing that has a destination and an intrinsic map is that wayward ivy. The slick green life expands and climbs with assured intent. The Ivy knows which way the wind blows, knows that the sun is a pleasantry it wants to be a part of.

Deep in the hollow, way deep down. The only sound was the shallow breath of a girl. The only thought within her was a variation of the same desire that still eludes her "It must be nice to know which way one ought to go..."

The only sight she had was green and climbing away from her, with more distance between them every day.

Deep within her cavern.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

Many Roles- Memoir Excerpt

After having been gallivanting the street's and beaches of south east Florida under the ridiculous alias "Mary Jane" (made sense to me at the time) for a month or two, I felt I owed myself a well deserved break. I phoned mommy dearest and she tells me that my Grand Mary is in the hospital again and she was about to leave to go and see her. She asks me if I would come along. Of course I said yes, and she says she will stop to pick me up from wherever the hell I was on the way. No amount of rebellion, hate, nor pain was ever aimed in the direction of My Grand Mary. I loved her deeply, she was the only one in my bloodline that ever showed me anything like love. Total acceptance of my individuality, even discreetly encouraging it. Almost never disagreeing with me, only occasionally I might receive a stern look from her when I would allow my mother to get the best of me.  If I was loud and disrespectful. The look seemed to read "It's not even worth it Mary Catherine." She coddled me, loved me, played with my hair when I would lie down next to her in her room and we would share ice cream with our dog that she christened Pogs (which is Gaelic for kisses and pronounced more like pugs). Her love was genuine, wise and never conditional. She proved that every day until the end. When I was told this I was genuinely concerned and worried for her.

 So I waited.

My mother picks me up  and we drive towards our neighborhood hospital, the Joe DiMaggio Hospital in Hollywood Florida. As we pulled into the parking lot I noticed immediately that she was not driving towards the entrance for visitors, she had made an entirely different abrupt turn heading for an adjacent building I never even noticed before then. "Where are you going?" I asked with only mild tension. She didn't reply at first Then she said cold as ice "You need help Mary Catherine."

Shit, this was no mistake, no wrong turn here, my heart kick started and flew. I put my face to the window in the back seat and squinted looking for any clues as to what the hell this lunatic had in mind, what did she mean i need help... There it was "PSYCHIATRIC WARD". A grey sign with white letters carving out the name of my doom above an ominous doorway. 

"Where is Grandma?!"  
No reply. 
"What are you doing?!" 

"Grandma is Fine, but you need help."

She pulls the car over to the curb. Fight or flight is kicking in. But I am too shocked to do much of anything.She gets out of the car and walks over to the door like some pathetic fill in for the role of  'Joan of Arc' at a shitty town's local theater. She is in the dimly lit doorway and presses a button, it is late evening and even the door is a gloomy, dreadful shade of grey. The door opens and a muscular black man is standing there. I can not hear what is being said, but it is not looking too good from my point of view. All I see is her phony pleading face, his attentiveness to her and the way she keeps pointing in my direction. 

I sink back into the backseat of the car wishing to be invisible, to cease to exist at all. 
What I didn't know then was that this was only the first of many more visits to come, thirteen visits to be exact. This was to become more home to me then the four bedroom house I used to share with the woman who is supposed to be my mother, my Grand Mary, my baby brother and the intruders (stepfather and his daughter). The streets, the beach, Juvenile Detention and the Joe DiMaggio Pediatric Psychiatric Unit will be where I spend ninety percent of my 15th year of life. I was to become the Queen of that ward and known on a first name basis by both the other teen patients and  staff alike, within a couple more stays.

She opens the door of the rear seat and says at me ;

"All right, we are going to get you some help come out of the car." 
I didn't see any options I was to run down to make a run for it, I could have, but I had been living pretty hard and I was damn tired, so I got out of the car. I crossed my arms in front of my chest and cast my gaze down to my beat up Vans. I hear the mans voice, I don't look up he says "Alright, right through here". I hear the car door shut behind me ,the engine turns back on, I slowly shuffle and follow his lead, inside the building. I hear my mother in the background

"They are going to help you, you'll be alright, I'll see you soon." 

I started walking much faster when I heard her repulsive voice, I think 
"How could she make this about Grandma, that's so fucked up..."

Now I was practically on his heels and was relieved when I heard the door shut behind us. I let out a long breath, I guess I was holding it a while. As we walked deeper into the evaluation waiting room I raised my eyes. She was gone, I was no longer afraid, though I had no definite reason not to be. Perhaps clairvoyance, perhaps madness. The apple doesn't fall that damn far from the tree. 
I did feel at home. There might as well have been a welcome mat.  I was to meet a new family, comrades in one of many battles to come. It was only the beginning. 
I could play this role.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

• 
  

I have dreamed this dream.

I have come to understand that envy is secondary to an unfulfilled need. 

Rage, a certain breed of fury is the outcome when someone comes to the conclusion that their need will never be gratified and this belief is mentally and spiritually fastened taut.

This fury is usually directed towards those who possess what they feel deprived of, 

what they crave deeply.

I have dreamed this dream.

It went like this.

 I see a rich girl with her expensive clothes that cost extra so they look worn and ragged. Frolicking right past me. Me with actual tattered and filthy clothes I stole from one of her kind a month ago and am still fucking wearing. With extravagant bags of material luxury carelessly dangling within manicured hands, her biggest problem right now is a text she is anxiously awaiting from a guy she has a crush on.

 The rage is always strongest if they are peers or younger.

I feel it most when I see a student open up the shiny glass doors of the N.Y.U campus, his purple badge hanging proudly across his chest. It hangs around his upright neck and which holds his arrogant head and I swear by the gods it mocks me. 

"I could teach him things none of his professors ever could..."

 A cruel whisper in my mind. 

Then I march right up to him and grab that fucking badge and spit in face and drag him around the corner. I smash him in the face until his blood is spitting back at me and he collapses to his knees. I kick him mercilessly until he his gasping for air. I have managed to puncture his lungs by breaking his ribs in multiple places. Blood is pouring from his mouth and nose and beginning to seep from his ears. My heart is pounding above it's aching. Through his gasps and the new spaces I have created from knocking a few of his teeth out, I hear a gurgling trying to formulate a word. A one word Question. Finally it is audible. All he can manage to say is 

"Why?" 

In between desperate gasps and attempts to retain the depleting oxygen. 

Now he is in the fetal position and my rage has still not subsided. Again I hear a moist and piteous

"Why??'

I kick him once more so he is flat on his back and put my legs astride him. I lower my body down and clench his badge and lift his limp head. I pull his face to mine so it is only an inch or so away from mine. I look at his averted eyes and and shake him, He looks into my mad gaze and I meet it with all the hate I have harbored for ages and I say only one word as well.

"Need."

I rip his purple pride from his neck and let his body hit the pavement.

I walk away with it clenched in my fist.

 Breathing heavily at first. 

Gradually my longing for a better life returns. 

Two tears fall from my eyes in succession.

 I realese my grip on the badge.

I allow the piece of plastic- so symbolic and so far from my reach- I let it go, It falls to the cement.

I keep walking.

I dream this dream no more.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

I think about you when I masturbate

I think about you when I masturbate. No, not you. Are you that fucking daft?!

I think about a faceless 'you' fast paced- blurred- thrusting- panting- my name being said by an indistinct voice. Hearing again how good I feel wrapped around their cock or how tight and wet I feel on their unrecognizable fingers by this voice of unknown origin. I think about a hybrid of every man that has ever brought me pleasure. At times I can almost convince myself it is better then sex because there will definitely not be any emotional entanglements.

 I am all wrapped up in myself, Quite literally. See It's like this;

 I loved the way Antonio would plow me from behind and spread me open 'just so', the way his hands wrapped around my hips so perfectly.

I loved the way Maverick would look me in the eye as we both climaxed together and he would always push his cum as deeply as he could inside me.

I loved the way Niccolo was on his knees drooling into my cunt, that he broke his vows to taste it.

I loved the way Alex slid his fingers inside me and moved them in the way that makes me drip.

I loved that first orgasm I had by a young man who's name I don't even need to change because I do not remember it. I  do remember my knees beginning to get rug burn from all the friction as I rocked my 15 year old hips and bounced on his pierced cock. All he had to do was keep that perfectly sculpted and adorned penis erect. Which definitely was not a problem. So he leaned back against the couch of our rented room at the Hansel and Gretel with me astride him stark naked and let me go.

 When that thing hit my G spot, I only then realized that I didn't need to rub my clit to climax. 

So- When I say I think about 'you' when I masturbate- I am simply stating what I think about is the intangible, only imaginable. The many faceless men, of complete pleasure, their lust for me. With no emotional baggage,, no expectations, no stings attached. That is what makes me cum. That is what I think about when I masturbate.

Every man that gave me a piece of their power. 

My cunt swallowed it all up and never gave it back.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

Dear Stranger

Although this is not my story to tell, you confided in me many things over our years together, I made observations. This is only my perspective and I want to share it.

What happened to you, sweet stranger? 

Kent, CT - 2011

I know the harshness of your mother and those spiked heels after she would come home a little drunk and very unhappy.

I know of the closets you cowered inside of when you heard her nearing. 

I know the beating you took, I understand the fear you had. 

I know that you witnessed that same woman, your mother, 

endure and accept the abuse by the hands of a man. 

The very same hands that once caressed her, with love, with kindness.

 I know that man, your father, the father you refuse to believe had ever accepted you as his son. 

Never really treated you as his blood. 

He couldn't even look you in the eye that day by Forty-Second Street when he came to give you that birth certificate (well at least that is what you told me it was) before  he sped away in a new SUV. 

You were propelled with his encouragement into exile.
 "No son of his!"  
He has sons more worthy (you believe) with another woman. 
Successful, loved, untainted by abuse and broken homes.

While you were shunned and disowned by the Alfa male of your family. 

While you were barefoot wandering the L.E.S looking for a fix,  these half brothers were receiving the love and acceptance he never bothered to give you. 

You once sat on the grass of your front yard, a boy who still believed in the good in people. 

Dear stranger, you waited for him. You waited long after the sitter told you to come inside. 

You were not even capable of thinking that someone, especially your father would break their word. 

He was supposed to love you.

Your mother never ceased to feel guilty about what happened to her child. 
No doubt she placed some of the blame upon herself. 
So she enabled you, listened to your pleas, your whims. 
In secret, she assisted you. 
Always pleading your case...  But you started making demands. You became aggressive as you aged, as you went further into the dark. You smashed her window when she tried to say no to you for once. 

Dear stranger, who are you? You did that to your own mother. The one that showed such love for you. 
These days, do you think she wishes you to vanish? 
After all, you did make an appearance into the world when she was trying to flee, you were not anticipated. 
You held her back then and you hold her still. 
Is that what you sometimes think stranger? I think she still loves you. I think she can't bear to think of you because it breaks her heart. 
This is the only part I am sure of because I am a mother too. 

Do you truly believe your father doesn't love you?  
That you're a complete failure, a total disappointment, dead already?
I doubt it, but no one knows.
What he thinks does not matter anyway. 
What do you think of you?

What happened to that little boy?
 What happened to that young man with talent and ambitions?
What happened to Frodo and Golem? Hockey? Dirt bikes? 
The boy who smiled and laughed with ease? 

when there was no heroin-
 no needles-
 Nor addiction as a disease; a need for escape that leaves you living on your knees.
Think.
Where did he go, stranger? 
Is he still there, beneath your grime and your lies?

 Have you forgotten about that little boy you once were, sitting on the  lawn?

Waiting. Waiting.




 Breaking. Breaking.

You remained there till the sun began to set, for the father that never came.

That innocent little boy needs you. 
Now he waits only for you. 
Do not leave him there alone.
Do not turn away, he may not be in the best shape, perhaps a bit jarring at first. 

He has been neglected for too long. 

Do you fear that childlike vulnerability that much?

It may not be my place to say this yet I will because, despite what you tell yourself, I still care for you- deeply.
You don't want to spend what is left of your life 
in avoidance.

It will never go away, not ever, not completely.

What really happened to you? 
What makes you think you are so so unique?
What made you a stranger even to yourself? 

Just remember, no one will ever care  for or love you
 more than you care for and love yourself. 
You are worth loving.

Please, Stranger you are not that strange.

Now, come inside where it's warm
. I've got some Hot Cocoa I could make for you. We'll get you cleaned up and I'll tell you a  story I know. 
It's about a lost little boy who met a lost little girl and how they each found their way home. 
Would you like that?

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

On my way- Journal Excerpt

Suffering in silence when I wasn't screaming in outrage has been such an inherent part of my personality, I sometimes wonder, quite often to be honest just who am I without this enormous makeshift maybe even haphazard addition to my being? 

Has it always been there?

 I can recall at twelve listing to 'Hole in My Soul' on Aerosmith's Nine Lives album on the back of the school bus crying into my back back so no one could see my tears. 

How and why I felt did understood lyrics such as those at such a young age it tells a story on its own. 

Sounds a bit melodramatic, tragic even, but is it absolutely intrinsic to me? 

Or was it a bud among many others of many varieties that had just been fed and watered while the others stayed alive but stayed withered and neglected? 

Perhaps if I stop catering to the draining demands of my suffering and ceased to be around others who feed this gigantic weed with it's false pleas of need. 

This weed that has been suffocating the beauty that is now beginning blossom.

Perhaps if I consistently feed the white roses of self love and forgiveness of self, 

The marigolds of creativity and expression. 

Perhaps if I fawned over and cradled those I had been neglecting and had left to rot in the dark crevices deep within my mind, never giving them the light and nourishment that they so desperately needed. Perhaps then the anguish the angst, the madness and insatiable needs that had taken over, perhaps then, and only then,

 I will become more of the woman I always felt I was beneath the rubbish. 

The woman I know that I truly am. 

The woman I am on my way to becoming. 

This becoming does not have an end.

I am becoming more and more,

kind yet opinionated.

Gentle yet firm.

Cordial yet assertive.

Fulfilled yet realistic.

Happy yet cynical.

Confidant yet humble.

 Strong yet approachable.

Teaching yet learning.

Wise yet questioning.

Always reaching, and always climbing.

Upward and onward.

Over. 

Out.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen