Empty- 07. 31. 24

When I die
I want to die empty—
devoid of all that I am:
my skills, my talents, my creativity—
with nothing left behind.

To have used it all up, 
to have bled myself dry
of purpose and direction 
until no pulse remains.

I will have lived to my own extent, 
not another’s,
becoming a glass graveyard 
of my experiences—
reflectively clear and fragile.

To have learned from my past,
and from those I love,
and those I will love forever,
even in death’s embrace as I think of you.

I wish to die empty, yes—
to die empty and understand
what it means to have once been full.
Of Flesh and Stone- 09. 14. 24

The pit of the peach is poisonous—
that is no mistake.
What an insolent woman I have become,
savouring my worth,
my nectar swirling on a man’s tongue,
a siren song that lures him to a bitter end.
In his ravenous hunger,
he could eat a god,
but I hand him a stone,
demanding satisfaction—
that is no mistake.
For in my sweetness, I have been taken,
used as a pawn in a cruel game,
my essence devoured while I remain unseen.
I am Lust.
I am barren,
watching him bite,
cold, forceful, unforgiving,
as the sweet juice fades,
a distant taste of memory.
Perhaps, in his hunger, he will become so hollow
that I might carve a home
from his flesh—
each craving a reminder,
fleeting pleasure dissolving
like sugar, leaving ash in its wake.
In this stillness, where shadows curl,
desire coils tighter,
a serpent whispering promises
while tethering us to despair.
What sweet decay we dance upon,
the line between ecstasy and ruin,
drawn in blood and fruit,
the remnants of love, bruised—
my pain echoing in their cries,
the cruelty of man, not Lust,
that brings us both to our knees.
Homesick - 09.07.24

I heard you got back a few months ago.
Your mom said you were homesick 
and you ran out of money.
This town, a landscape of Eternal Return,
a dreamscape crafted for the escaping artist,
where masochistic yearning is worn like a second skin.
You can make just enough to linger while ignoring its sharp hollowness,
between sapphire lakes and emerald valleys
if you squint, it looks like paradise,
with its modernist perfection,
and only two highway exits.

But while you stand before the beautiful backdrop, 
I’m fumbling through the dark,
searching for something solid—
new and strange, yet somehow familiar—
like returning to a place you’ve never known.
The roller coaster’s ascent,
clicking, pulling at my core,
dares me to lean into the void.
Time drips slowly here;
I can’t tell if I’m still lost 
or just still.

In this time warp, I’ve been tiptoeing around who I used to be,
wincing every time I see what’s become of me.
I learned to walk on eggshells
long before I fled with my own thoughts.

I became an escape artist of myself—
and I’ll never catch that girl again.
I’m stuck in my head because, at least,
I can exist without knowing who I am.
This calm might be premeditated,
a breath before the tempest breaks, 
the air thick with words unspoken
or maybe just the quiet acceptance of fate beyond control.
I ache for the girl who danced in the rain.

In this stillness, I feel warmth —
like the embrace of a child I’ve never met,
it aches between my hollow bones, unfamiliar and cold.
I freeze to my spot while they grow and endure,
like coastal moss on a crumbling pine.
I could be feverishly reclaiming
the fragments of my life living in the city,
but instead, I’m pining for a place,
that echoes a ghost of familiarity.

I’m not sure I could ever give up 
my location or let go of this ground.
I haven’t stopped moving since I learned to run.
Catching my breath hasn’t been an option since twenty-one.
My town is ‘where the old come to die; to live, you must be young.’
I’ve always hated that notion,
but it’s given my feet great motivation.
I’ll keep heading in any direction 
that keeps me a few hundred miles away.
I might be desperate, panicked, and unsteady 
But you’ll never recognize me

I think I'm sick for a sense of purpose.
sick to know my suffering’s worth it,
sick for dreams I can’t believe in,
sick for all the things I could have been and will never become

So I’ll keep moving toward myself,
until I’m alone and home,
in a place both strange and known—
yearning for what has never been felt.

I’m home-sick.
Tomorrow's Motivation

Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow. 
Then tomorrow becomes tomorrow, 
becomes tomorrow, becomes tomorrow. 
What a cruel word, tomorrow.

To avoid self disappointment through inactivity in our incessant need to shelter ourselves from our own aspirations. 
My ego’s way of saying: I’m scared i’ll hate what i do, so i won’t do anything, then i cant hate myself. 
Perhaps today isn’t the day. I’ll wait for a sunny morning to start. 
Or maybe, for that little voice in my head to be kinder and giving with my ideas. 
I will wait until the flow state comes to me. Maybe next time. 
No, trust me, i want to, it’s just that i lack the 
motivation…

When do I feel motivated?
When i do feel motivated it’s fleeing. 
It’s the leaky faucet in the bathroom at 2AM, 
dripping my potential down the drain 
to where my awaiting and critical relatives live craving a success from me 
that I haven’t even managed to imagine for myself. 
We stare at all the intricacies of our lives, and relationships, and history, with the weights we carry around and refuse to address, 
yet we demand the simplicity of motivation to create the energy, to create the energy, to create the energy to simply be alive. 

And who would you be when the metaphorical bus of motivation, 
traveling most likely behind schedule, arrived at your stop? 
Would you, perhaps, be someone… motivated?

Perhaps it isn’t motivation we seek, but a sense of purpose and ease. Something that is always heard and not seen. 
The tag line motivational speakers use to lure you into an empty conference room to spout their ideals onto your own life before even learning your name. 
In a fast acting, critical analysis, permanent state world the odds to fail are about the same as they ever were, 
but now the odds of public failure has increased. 
To try is to fail, but to fail is to fail. And how would you fail if the world wasn’t watching?

Am I using the idea of motivation to fulfill my habit of avoidance? 

Which i use to protect my fear of failure, which i use to hide behind my fragile ego, which has been in a firm boxing match with my sense of worth and it has been since i was a child, 
who then is protecting the quiet notion inside of my mind that actually has no idea what’s going on, 
and so I can’t trust the part of me that believes in me. 

It’s the one that realized that there is no over arching purpose to fulfill, one day i will be here 
and the next i may not be so lucky, 
so i feel guilt at not feeling ready to live but understand 
i must live in order to feel any fulfillment. 

Stagnation in our fear of stagnation.
Complacency in the fear of complacency 
So we seek exterior influences for gratification.
We spend most of our finite time on this earth in constant comparison, 
consumption, 
and indulge in virtual fears of real life consequences. 

To stare into the mind of a stranger online and see the highlights to compare to your mundane. 
And in this sinking sense of self we become easier and more …predictable. Patterns upon patterns of inaction and consumption
Why can’t i just be like them? For this movement to come naturally. 
Why didn't i start sooner? When i was younger, smarter, prettier, had more time.
We are simple in our hypercriticism as we bury ourselves, frozen into place until…

It’s tomorrow… 
And I think i’ll just do it tomorrow,
or tomorrow,
or tomorrow.
August Body
Summer is the time where i wait to feel like a person again. 
 I wear my body thin and my skin grows coarser. 
 My hair is a frizzy dry mess that carelessly is shoved atop my head. 
 When does the body feel alive again? 
 When did it start to feel dead?

I’ve grown homesick of myself 
Trying to reform those i miss in my image 
I don’t want to forget them 
But they don’t match my form completely 
I’ve become misshapen in my want for them 
My skin has become dissolved of itself, 
Leaving a sour taste behind on my tongue 
Who am i but the memory of myself and others? 
Who am i devoid of it all?

-maia fields
(04/17/24)
An Exploration of Femininity

I’ve become claustrophobic of the demands of womanhood. 

Betterment for the sake of others,
while imposing on self-values.
To become more attractive, 
but not too beautiful;
be intelligent, 
but not overly clever.

Oh, but also don't be better than other people, 
and make sure you hold yourself high, 
of course not too high. 
Embrace yourself, 
as long as it’s within the dotted lines.

Be the ‘clean girl’
the ‘it girl’
‘that girl’
‘motherly’
the ‘female manipulator’
‘ethereal’
‘femcel’
the ‘girl next door’

There are so many boxes to fit into yet none of them quite hug fleshed curves. 
It’s a balancing act to be everything, while making it seem like nothing. 
Effortless beauty comes with a cinched waist, they say.
But we hold it all, with a warm smile, because we’ve always managed to hold it,
haven’t we?

And what happens when the criteria aren’t applicable? 
When we are told that our shapes aren’t quite what they were looking for. 
Told we aren’t smart enough, 
fast enough, 
strong enough, 
sexy enough. 
We start to feel like a culmination of all the things we are not until 
we don’t quite know what we are- products or people.

So, who are you? 
And, who are you despite all of that?
Where do these expectations end and we begin? 
At what age were we first told what girlhood should look like?
How does femininity feel in a body grounded in itself, 
and not others’ expectations of it?

I want wild and messy femininity. 
I want explorative femininity. 
I want it to look like anything I want it to be. 
It can be staggering leather, lace, combat boot wearing, 
hardcore, truth-shouting, sharp wit, 
intelligent mind, sun-loving, sand-dancing, 
warmth to the touch, soft skin, 
thick thighs, unshaven, a thundering voice
with a clack of lightning across the sky, 
the gentle lift of a chin. 

Femininity can root itself into the earth to sway amongst the trees; 
it can be the scent of pine needles on the ocean's tongue. 

It can be everything your mother taught you, 
and all that she could not, 
every piece of love you’ve received and have yet to give.
It can be a home where you can rest and know you will hold yourself in validation,
a self-worth worthy of yourself.

May it be as courageous as you.
May it burn in righteous fury. 
May it whisper to you warmly, 
‘you belong here.’
And may you believe it when it calls.
May your voice shake, and your heart pound, 
in a demand to be heard:
‘Witness me.’

Or, like me, you’ll say it with a knot in your throat 
because you never thought that you would ever be able to say it to yourself
and mean it. 

It is an act of rebellion,
As it is an act of love

This is not a life sentence for you to live out.
It is a legacy without expectation
Femininity looks like you- it always has-
it is an energy, a force,
to be explored, nurtured, and loved, 
because that is what you deserve.
And you do deserve it. 

Please,
let us witness you.

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