I am worthless trash. misused potential, and lost chances
fat and ugly and old
But she gave me a tin heart filled with mints.
So I guess maybe I don’t suck too bad.
His lips tell me everything I need to know.
I can’t even hear what he’s saying, staring at them.
I can see the skin re-knit in a blur, the blisters healing
a fast forward time capture of his skin, his immune system
I imagine myself as my mother’s unwilling inheritor
kitchen witch, aura reader, potion maker, ghost talker
unsatisfied in my own skin, running away every time things get
that close to the center.
So what if it’s true.
My son’s lip is healing
and I know that means his sickness has receded
his immune system, the tiny soldiers within
taking orders from me at last.
I have learned to run without leaving,
wrapped in silent self loathing
and he can inherit love and loyalty instead,
become a kitchen witch
and heal his own children.
2am, and I obsess over these fictional men
wrapped around each other in never ending bromance
reading fiction by women like me
like I did when I was young
But then it was published with the Great Bird’s blessing, and now
we can reach out through the void
and write about our favorite men peeling off each other’s carefully constructed
We can be heroes
to each other.
I have no time to write a poem
I have to get the boy to class
I want to die,
but I thought I’d say,
I thought I’d say it to the inky black void of the internet
because saying it to people
means I have to explain.
But if you’re reading this,
if you’re nodding, and
rooting for me to make it to the end of the day
with as few wounds as I can,
then I don’t need to explain.
While everyone was sneaking out behind the school where the woods were
I was tripping over myself, shyly laughing at his jokes and wondering
what was wrong with me.
Caught in my crush’s vice like grip I was unable to make a move
While everyone was smoking pot and buying condoms in packs
I was shyly learning how to kiss, wrapped up in a much older man in the front of his shitty car.
Balancing on the knife’s edge, because
when everyone else had already had one or two breakups,
when everyone else was buckling down, graduating, learning, getting A’s..
I was having the life squeezed out of me over and over
reconsidering leaving the psych ward
opening my body for any man or woman
evil enough to catch my eye
Now, while everyone else is watching their kids graduate high school, thinking about what to do now with their lives,
I have my first best friend.
My second kid is going to preschool,
we are buying a house.
I can’ t help but hope that when
everyone else is in their graves,
I will be learning how to fly a balloon,
or taking my first trip abroad,
opening my mind to any beautiful city
vital enough to catch my eye.
It’s the last year here.
A free pool. We can shuffle down in our sandals.
The sun bearing down, but such lovely heat.
Stay in the pool all day long.
But I sit and look outside, and despair.
Because it isn’t raining.
And I’m too afraid to go outside.
Even though the sun on my skin is a balm
Even though the kids are dying of boredom
hours of their lives ticking by
We’re going out today, I have decided
like a blitzkrieg
rushing out the door and into danger
we’ll stay out and get burned and laugh and splash
and then I’ll shake myself apart in the shower later
killing myself a little for them
I saw you in the store
angrily stuffing bagels in a bag
you were not five inches from me
I could have punched the back
of your ugly head.
I could have flayed you with words
for what you did to my boy.
I could have tripped your clueless ass
and hoped you broke your nose.
Instead I pulled up my hood,
I turned away and waited.
Helpless with anger and fear
losing breath, losing dignity.
I pray for indifference.
Been forever. I wrote a bit on tumblr.. I’ll repost it here. I also wrote some seriously bad fanfiction, but we gotta start someplace, right? I am thinking of challenging myself to write something every day and see if I stop being utter crap, or what.
Sitting to write about pain makes me so stupid
I sit to write about loneliness, how even though he sits right beside me, we are separated by a live wire cage of tendons, running red hot through me, and branding each thought with lightning; quick ceaseless impulses that tell me to stay quiet, because what can he do anyway.
I sit to write about being tired, how there are days when every movement, down to the smallest lifting of a glass or fork is planned.. how I have become a strategist and waste no gesture, lest I be set on fire from within, and lose track of the time while I sear.
I wrack my brain for adjectives and nouns, and clever metaphors, but everything I can say sounds like it comes from the brain of a black-clad time traveler from the 90s. I stay silent, as silent as I can, and instead hope to sleep.