I thought I knew you
but I was wrong

I wanted to know you
and I was right
for (to have) that longing

some things can only be expressed in poetry

these words are
carefully-selected pieces of
art & soul & pleasure for
performance & consumption &

it brings me joy to share them with you

that’s what this is for, right?

a thrill. adventures of a spiritual warrior.

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you told me about the void & I laughed at you.

I’m not ashamed to admit it now; it’s true.

I didn’t understand, and now I do.
I told you how much I wanted, and you apologised to me.

“sorry,” you said, and disappeared.

it’s as if every man I’ve ever known has been anonymously immortalised here. now. in this tome.

in this mini-ode to love & god knows what else.

when I was a teenager, I used to write because I wanted people to feel something.

for better or worse, I cannot sanitise myself.

sometimes I write and I can’t tell what’s real & what’s not.

this is a story, which makes it a work of fiction.

I merge & I mould & I become
a conduit for something
deeper.

you told me that you weren’t sure what you were doing here.

I smiled wryly and said, “I’m used to it.”

I got that. I saw you. I saw why you were here.
I saw your confusion. I felt your longing.
I felt your pain.

“I think pretty woman are superior,” you said. “I’m not sure if it’s a deep psychological childhood thing. who knows, and in a way— what does it matter? it’s true.”

a sigh. a shrug of the shoulders.
imperceptible. surrendered. a little sad.

I didn’t pity you, and I didn’t want to emasculate you.
I just saw you, and that was enough.

fast forward to now, and we’re sitting in a nice bar in central London.

soft booths, late night, low lighting.

an oasis from the world. and it’s as if you’re confessing to me.

neither of us know quite what you’re doing, and it doesn’t matter.

if anything, that’s what makes it safe for you to speak.

“I want to be able to get on with my life and my work and such like,” you say, “but when it comes to a relationship, eg. between a woman and a man, I think she should have the upper hand. a true confident man should be happy to worship his woman, literally.”

the waiter comes over, and I get another lemon & ginger tea.

“if that’s true,” I say, “why do you say that you are looking for needy girls? needy girls won’t let you worship them, even if you want them to. needy girls are needy not because they have big needs but because they can’t fully receive. needy girls are needy because when push comes to shove, they are emotionally shut down.”

we’ve discussed this before. you already know my opinion. you’re used to my spiels.

and, of course, you know neediness like the back of your hand.

it’s comforting to you. other people’s neediness, that is. it’s a distraction.

an escape. a place to put yourself. a space to absorb yourself in— one that’s utterly enthralling, intoxicating & frustrating in equal measure.

it makes you feel wanted.
it makes you feel needed
it makes you feel solid.

it makes you feel like you had a place & a purpose in this big, messy world.

it makes you feel something. because, my god— you’re so fucking tired of feeling nothing at all.

“when was the last time you were allowed to be needy?” I ask.

you raise a single dark eyebrow. “what are you insinuating?”

I smile, and roll my eyes lightly. playfully. lasciviously. I’m good at blurring lines without overstepping my or your boundaries. it’s what makes you trust me.

“what do you think?”

to let myself be Known

it’s almost 2 AM on a Saturday night & this is what it means to be alive

(I’m writing dumb sweet poetry)

I liked you & I’m disappointed in you
I wanted to like you & you disappointed me
I want so much that it ignites me
I want so much that it sets me free

every woman is a fucking beautiful dreamer
or she would be, if she allowed herself to [be]

your dreams are prophecies

we met & I liked you & we never met again:

I ached with hope
I forgave you
I surrendered
I went about my life

I did it all
I loved it all
I chose it all
it was all worth it

sometimes— often— I want to share my “creative process”
but I’m still growing into myself
& those kinds of words
sometimes still feel
pretentious

my creative process is my feelings & the meaning[s] I make of them
my creative process is the way I walk myself through everything

I am proud of myself for good reason

there is love in my fire, and fire in my gaze

be the kind of woman who is here to stay
be the kind of woman who takes her own breath away

I am, I am, I am
emanating

One of the downsides of connoting sex with aggression & intensity is that it's very challenging to associate these things with [a] steady, stable [sense of] love. I don't want what I used to want--sexually or otherwise. in fact, I'm repulsed by it; it’s repellent to me.

At least at this point in my life, it reminds me of sad things.

It reminds me of how I used to use sex & romance to escape myself.

It reminds me of how I used to use my sexuality as a crutch to ensure that I was or could be wanted.

I’ve changed, and I don't want that anymore.

I would rather never be wanted again than have that desperate, grasping energy in my life. Because that's what I connote it with for myself--although I would've had too much pride to call it that.

I feel sad about how longing can be distorted.

I love how much I want[ed] to be loved.

I originally wrote this piece as a mini-thread on Twitter.

It feels good to revisit it with new eyes. Calming, even.

It feels good to free-write here in response. To riff. To jam. To cleanse myself.

Fuck Grammarly. Let’s be here now. Let’s imbue ourselves with words, and find—or forge— something beyond them.

I want to talk about the love I have been finding & the joy in my heart.

I want to talk about the strangeness of no longer being lonely. Of no longer craving a partner. Of not craving completion. More and more, I feel like me. More and more, I feel solid. There is nothing beyond me. There is a sense that I am the Universe; my own containment & sanctity. I can provide for me. I am powerful & free.

Everything I dreamed of came true.
Everything I dreamed of is coming true.

Now… what now?

This is softness too.

I want to talk about opening myself up to sexuality after years of celibacy. I want to talk about how interesting it feels to be on the cusp of a precipice; to notice, be excited, and be enticed by my newfound availability. I am discerning. I don’t need to give myself to anyone I don’t give myself to. I am my own Daddy (and more). There is security in this. It feels like home.

It feels so good to expand my horizons from a place of grounding & non-neediness. I don’t need to do this, but I want to. It feels like the right next step. I’m curious about it. I’m curious about fucking with my own head. I’m curious about going beyond my ideas of what is & isn’t okay.

I’m safe now. I’m sovereign.

Everything is good.

I’m curious about re-engaging with my conditioned tendency to “perform” [sexually] for men from a place of sovereignty. I want to experience myself with new eyes. I want to get out of my own way. I yearn for free touch & free expression. I feel the most unattached & unafraid I’ve ever felt. I’m excited about expanding my capacity to experience pleasure & aliveness in the present. I am unafraid of grief. 

This post has gone in a different direction from the headline, and I’m sitting with it. I’m sitting with that. I want to allow the erotic to be & bloom in every space— in every room— without fear. I want to allow myself to, too.

I’m almost 25.

And at moments like this, I think: fuck, wow.

What a life I’ve lived.

And at moments like this, I think: fuck, wow.

My life is only just beginning.

And it takes everything I have not to break down in tears.

And maybe I want to break down in tears.

I feel soft, and I love that.

I love feeling. I love being. I love being safe to express myself.

I treasure this moment.
I treasure these moments.
I treasure everything.

I love you.

If you want to experience what it's like to be loved by me, you know what to do….

Work with me.

I can’t stop.

I’m not angry with you anymore.

I’m not sad.

I’m not hurt.

I am free.

I am free in a way that I never expected to be.

I am free to be me.

That is everything to me.

And when I look at the world around me,
when I witness other people’s suffering,
I see & feel the extent to which
we are all crying out
for love, affection, recognition, tenderness
& it humbles me.

IT HUMBLES ME.

It reminds me that I am nothing but a symphony.

You did not understand me.
You could not, would not, did not want to.
But I did. I chose to.

I chose to want to.
I chose to want me.

And with that…

I chose to want everything else.

The heartache.
The pain.
The betrayal.
The soul-searching.
The darkness.
The shame.
The isolation.
The desolate days & nights rolling on, endlessly.

I chose to want everything.

I chose to want to feel [even] when it was breaking me.
I chose to feel even when it felt like it was breaking me.
I chose to feel even when I thought I was broken.
I chose to become unbreakable.

Because I chose to win.

I choose to win, present tense.

I choose to win at everything I fucking do.
I choose a life that feels like winning no matter what.
I choose that I won years ago.

I won when no one saw me win.
I won when no one understood.
I won when no one could see me, hear me or know me.
I won when only I could know me.
I won when I chose to know me.

I won when I choose to be me.

I will never regret my decision to live.

LIFE FUCKING EXCITES ME.

I hope it excites you too.

GET EXCITED WITH ME.

Fall in love with someone new this Valentine’s Day.

Fall in love with yourself.

Share

I bought you flowers
& held your hand
& you made me feel like a real man.

my yearnings are
softer now.

I feel lonely without you.

or maybe just…
no. I don’t.

I want you.
but I don’t know you yet.

I want someone who
doesn’t [yet] exist
[to me].

isn’t that
wild?

I want someone who
can hold me
too.

I want someone who
can love me
too.

I’ve never been so
heartbroken over
someone I’ve
never known
but
I know you exist

&

I know you want me too.

there is nothing else to say
but to dissolve.

we feel the gaps
between the stories

&

we rise to meet them.
we rise to feel them.

I AM A POET.

I AM AN ARTIST.

I CLAIM IT.

I CLAIM MYSELF.

I am…
not lost.

I have never been lost.

I am allowing to let myself get lost in the yearning for a beloved.

and it is…
the wildest thing.

it is
the most painful thing.

it is
the most beautiful thing.

it feels like coming home to myself
in new ways.

I like allowing myself to write in lowercase.
the smallness. the safety. I like to play.
I can be I and also me. we can co-exist. we can be.
there is so much that I cannot explain.

or maybe…
I just don’t want to,
yet.

maybe I will never want to.
that’s okay too.

I’ve never been [this] safe to be sad before.

I’ve never been [this] safe to want what I want before.

I’ve never allowed myself to feel it in the way that I do.
in the way that I can.

I’ve never allowed myself to feel my pain like this.

just feel it, without resistance.
just feel it, without judging it.
just feel it, without running away from it.

and now, sharing it?

gutsy.

and now, sharing it without the stories?

revelatory.

I want so much.
I feel with such depth.
I love with such fire.

I want. I want.

there’s not much else to say beyond…
my heart was crying out for this, too.

my heart was crying out for the space to be
truthful.

I give her what she desires. I gave her what she desired.
I let her feel. I let myself be free.

I let myself want
without limits.

this is revolutionary.

work with me

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He thought I didn’t—couldn’t—exist without him.

But really, he couldn’t exist without me.

His longings were infinite. His body was limited.

I was the missing link.

I’m sure you can tell I was angry with him. But can you blame me for it?

Read more

No matter what.
Reverberating.
I do not owe you an explanation.

Dissolving…

This post is a
projection.

It is a
piece of art,
heart,
catharsis.

Any
relationship it may
bear, true or false
real or imagined
to real people or events
is to be discarded
for now.

Can you hold
your disbelief?

Or perhaps you don’t feel
disbelief.

What do you feel, as you read this?

Tell me.

Leave a comment

Read more

Read more

Photo by Omer Salom on Unsplash

I give my best work away for free.

My best thinking will remain publicly available.

But my heart is not.

Read more

Let’s talk about liminality.

This is a space for expression,
for gospel, for heartfelt wanderings,
for wonder & to wonder at
the miracle of the world in which we live.

This is a space for
poetry & spaciousness.

Exploring the spaces in between.

This is a book of love
that I choose to free-write
with you between my thighs.

It is an ode to
serendipity.

You should sign up if you want in.

Read more

Have you ever heard that before?

How did you respond?

It’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about.
It’s something I have mixed feelings about.
It’s an adage I dislike, if I’m honest.
It feels one-dimensional.

When someone shows you who they can be, take that on board.

Take that as data.
Take that as an insight into their world.
Make whatever choices feel right for you when it comes to how YOU respond.

And…

People are multidimensional.

People can (& do) learn, grow & change.
Do you grant them that grace?

What about yourself?

I love this piece because it’s ugly & gnarly.

Like that tree.

It’s not flowing right.

I don’t like it.

And I like that I don’t like it.

A part of me kind of gets off on it.

There’s an absurdity to it that I find relaxing.
There’s a truth to it that allows me to centre & drop deeper into my body.

I like that I can be honest about that.
I like that I can be honest about THIS.

And hey, maybe it will become one of my best.
And maybe it is one of my worst.

But either way, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
And that doesn’t mean that nothing matters.

It just means that THIS doesn’t.

RIP.

Read more

When you break rules, you create new paradigms.

That’s the first bit.
That’s the first thing.

The second bit is that no explanation is required.

You know what I’m referring to.
That’s the point.

my skin
glistens for you
we do what lovers do
I feel no
awkwardness around you
these words are
tentative, sweet, glorious, settling

I see through you,
& that’s the first thing.
I see through all of us.
I see through me & my silly little yearnings.
I love it.

he wants to be free 
& he feels free with me 
& that means everything to me.

your jealousy is confusing for me.

I’m torn between
taking care of me & taking care of your feelings

I’m torn between
taking care of us & taking care of you
& I want to get a look-in too

I want you to see me.

I feel like you can’t see me.

Read more

If you think you don’t know how to think what you want, read this.

I’ve been thinking about what the point of Erotic Capital is for me.

And really, it’s these 3 things…

I don’t have to be perfect.
I don’t have to get it right.
I get to BE.

All I need to do is BE.

I teach with the clarity of my example.

And when I do that…

I am big, I am bold, I am fearless…

And I am free.

I choose hope.
I choose love.
I choose to have it all.

I am so fucking proud of myself.

I hope you are too.
I love me, and I love you too.
I love us all.

I love every single person on this Earth.

And I want you to feel it.

I hope you can feel it.

I hope you [can] feel my love.

And I hope it makes you feel…

Strong.
Brave.
Powerful.

• I want to feel safe with them

• I want to feel safe to be myself with them

• I want to feel safe to express myself with them

  Adventures of a Spiritual Warrior is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

I am that person.

I could cry right now.
I am almost crying right now.
I realised.
I realise.
I understand.
I am.

That’s the gift. That’s the magic. That’s the medicine.

This is why healing is relational.

Relationships as spiritual practice. 

Love as a mirror & gateway to the Divine. 

These words are a prophecy. 

"I think, therefore I am”… or will be. 

I’m not in this for the fame, or even the money. 

I’m in it for the Truth. 

And the glory of Being. 

Being alive is its own reward. 

The sweetest victory of them all.

I want more. 

And… I have it all. 

Rest in peace.

I was wrong.

Our stories do not define us.

You are not your story. You are not your stories.

• There is nothing better than being able to admit when you’re wrong without shame

• There is nothing better than being able to be wrong without shame

• There is nothing better than not making yourself wrong for anything

I am right, I was right, and I will always be right….

Not just because I’m self-righteous…

But because I’m free.

I want to talk about the tenderness of being alive.
I want to talk about the tenderness of being a deeply-feeling human being.
I want to drop all pretences.
I want to drop all Performance Artist-y tricks.
I am dazzling, and I am not smoke & mirrors.
I am human, and I am wretched.

And it is beautiful.

This is love, to me.

Being with, on this journey.

I know, I trust, I savour
& I CHERISH
that I will always
have me.

No one else can understand* this gift.
I don’t need them to.

*And maybe this is wrong, too.

It probably is.
I just haven’t experienced it yet.
And that feels interesting to acknowledge.
Tender. Fun. Funny. Experimental.

What do I want to share?
How do I want to share it?
How deeply can I allow myself to be met?

I have to meet myself first.
I know this intuitively.

(Or at least… I have to be willing to)

I get it now. I feel it.
Or at least… I think I do.

And that’s enough.

I want to be wrong.
I enjoy being wrong.
It’s exciting for me.
It’s revelatory for me.

What next?

You tell me.

Let’s stop pretending to be anything other than joy, love & peace.

I love you so much, and I’m frustrated.

I’m sad. I’m hurt. I’m angry.

And I’m not “crazy” for it.
I’m not “crazy” at all.

I am ruthlessly, relentlessly truthful.

Sometimes I wonder whether I’m the only one who will not lie to you.

I don’t want your words. I want your action.
I want your advocacy. I want your allyship.

I desire more support.
I deserve more support.
I deserve & desire to be more supported than I am.

And it hurts (not to receive this from you).

It hurts not to feel supported by you.
I am hurting without you.

What I Want:

I want you to proactively take it upon yourself to take actions that support me & other women.

And if you don’t know how to do this, I want you to admit it.

I don’t want you to take it upon yourself to work it out by yourself— or by consulting other men.

There is no shame in not knowing, let alone not understanding something.

• I want you to be able to ask for help.

• I want you to be able to ask us for help.

I want you to be able to ask women for help & guidance.

I’m Rachel, and I’m also Every Woman.

I am every woman who’s ever been hurt by a man.
In practice… that’s every woman.

Just like every man has been hurt by at least one woman.

I am every woman who has ever been let down by a man.

Every woman who has ever been gaslit by a man.
Every woman who has ever been used by a man.
Every woman who has ever been abused by a man.
Every woman who has ever been betrayed by a man.

I am every woman. And I need you to see that.

I am not “special”. I am not “different”.
I am not the Other Woman.
I am like every single other woman.
When you hurt her, you hurt me too.

Will you support me with this?

I want this to be a place for myself to
ground.

I want this to be a place for us to
be.

I have written 3 drafts
& none of them felt quite right
so I didn’t click
“publish”.

The ground beneath our feet is
solid.

Tell me about the
foundations
you’ve built.

Let’s not pretend we
know one another
better than
we do.

We don’t know each other at all
& we don’t need to.

There is a deeper Truth
& a deeper Knowing.

You know more than you think you do.

Squirm.

In your arms, I.

The victim of
my own
relentlessness.

Death by
self-compassion.

I told myself I would fucking do this
& I already “missed a day”
& I just want to be seen.

Chide.

It’s so easy to criticise, isn’t it?

This silly little vacuum-cleaner.
This silly little fountain of Knowledge.

I’m never sure quite how much to share. But maybe that’s the point.

Poetry is
the perfect decoy
suggestible, regrettable, digestible, confessable.

What are your secrets?

Maybe I don’t have enough.

And that feels strange to admit.

Right now,
today,
I’m in a funk.

This feels strange to admit.

My nervous system is on overdrive.

My body is inflamed.

I feel it. And I feel myself wanting to jump out of it.

I feel myself wanting to jump out of my skin.

And I feel myself sitting in it.
Sitting with it.
Enmeshing myself within that discomfort.

WHAT DO I WANT?

Because it is.

Except….

I’m not performing.
This is real.
This is the most real I can be.
This is the most real I can be with you, with me.

I want to be able to be real.

This is my space. My grace. My example.

I want to be able to be real.
I owe it to my children & my children’s children & everyone I’ve ever loved.
I am not a preacher.

I’m fucking messy & real & raw like every other human being & I want us all to be able to be.

Because this doesn’t hurt. It heals.

Join me.

Our secrets are what keep us stuck.

When I write these posts
as an opportunity to share
— just share—
& feel
—just feel—
they feel cleaner.

In that order.

Share & feel.
Share & feel.

Catharsis, embodied.

Fuck.

I feel accosted with myself every time I see this page. And yet, it’s all I want.

What an erotic metaphor. And what a metaphor for the erotic itself.

… And what a metaphor for most people’s patterns in relationships.

(Wink wink, nudge nudge)

So, I’m here.

So, I stay.

Because it’s important to me.

Because these feelings will not— & do not— destroy me.

In fact…

They’re beautiful too.

They’re the most beautiful thing that is.

I have my Sensate around my neck.

It whirrs comfortingly like a kitten, but without the weight of an animal.

I feel my body soften. I am so grateful.

I get to design my life the way I want to.

I get to live like a revolutionary.

I get to live like the revolutionary that I am. Because I am a fucking revolutionary.

I get to have so much fun & so much joy & so much magic right here, right now, every day… as silly old-young-little me.

I am so lucky. So exquisitely lucky.

I melt deeper.

My self-consciousness is adorable.
My discomfort is adorable.

All those times when I’ve tried really hard & it hasn’t “worked” whatever reason… they’re all adorable.

All those times when I’ve said or been too much for someone else… when I’ve shown my cards… when I’ve let myself be my most adorable self & it was like coming face-to-face with a Truth that was too terrifying to handle… it’s all adorable.

Every time I am misunderstood, it’s adorable.
Every time I am unwanted for who I am, it’s adorable.

Because everything is about me is adorable.

Everything. Absolutely everything.

Especially the sweet, lovely inner child that’s playing peekaboo— and gently poking through— right now.

Hi, little one - I see you! How are you today? What do you need right now? Do you want to play? I’m here. I’ve got you. We’re going to go on an adventure today. Did you know that you’re adorable just as you are? Yes you are! Yes, yes, yes you are…!!!! Little Rachel is adorable. You, Little Rachel, are adorable. Little Rachel, I love you!

And as soon as I wrote that, I thought…

Wait, Rachel.

You’re breaking rule number one.

Yes, this is your blog.

Yes, this has your name on it.
But they don’t want to read about you.

Who do you think you are… to write on your blog… about you?
This is so banal & stupid.

A few people subscribe to this, you know.
You’re writing daily now, for some 100-day challenge.

They don’t want to read about YOU.
They want to read something interesting or titillating or insightful or meaningful.
They want to read something that’s actually USEFUL to them. Or inspires them.
Not this. Provide them with some actual value.

What the hell is this, anyway?

You started so well & now you’re going into existential kink (er, sort of, maybe, if you talk about how this gets you off, which it doesn’t, FAKER FAKER FAKER) & this is going to be waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too weird for most.

And you’re a shitty writer. Or at least… your writing is a mess right now & you haven’t even put this through Grammarly.

And you don’t intend to. You don’t intend to?

You’re telling me you don’t intend to?

Wow, OK.

What the hell is this? What the hell are you doing?
Are you on a one-woman mission to destroy your reputation or something?

Oh wait. I forgot. LOL.

You don’t have one.
Shame you can’t even do a good job at that.

Well, well, well.

That went…

Kinda dark & interesting.

But we’re here now.

So let’s stay.

(That was real, by the way. I didn’t engineer that. I can fuck with myself on demand, but it turns out that I don’t need to… Are you the same? ;))

I think we’re back to the erotic.

Do you understand now?
Do you understand why the erotic is so fucking crucial?
Why the erotic is so fucking sacred?
Why the erotic is what will actually fucking save us all?

Because it’s life. It’s alive.

It does nothing. It requires nothing.
It asks for devotion, but it doesn’t demand it.
It knows you will come back begging for more anyway.

It simply reminds us of what is.

Another flash.

Another state-shift.

I feel disappointed right now.

I want to name it.

I don’t need to talk about the what.
The story is unimportant.

I need to talk about the feeling.

The feeling is…

I had hope, and now it’s gone.

The feeling is…

My hopes are dashed.

I don’t care about terminology here.

I don’t want to be precise or polished.

I want to shit on this idea that we need to be a certain way to be legible (understood with precision).

Because, in fact, the opposite is true.

You understand exactly what I mean.

The above experiences are all FEELINGS we can relate to.

The above phrases are more relatable than me using words like ‘disappointment’ or ‘grief’. The above phrases are more relatable than me using flowery words to make it SOUND BEAUTIFUL & in doing so diminish the ESSENTIAL, INTRINSIC BEAUTY of humans connecting in, through & DESPITE pain.

You don’t need to know exactly what I mean to be able to feel me.

I don’t need you to know exactly what I mean to be able to FEEL YOU feeling me.

I don’t need questions, GPT-3 aided responses or intellectual enquiries.

We’re all STARVING for something real.

Fuck it. Fuck me.

Truth is love. Love is truth.

That’s why, at the end of the day…

Love really is all we need.