Marriage Song

Uncertain.

I can’t make you.
I can’t save you.
I can’t see the boy you were.
I’ll never know the man you will become?

Because it’s not certain,

not in-sight.

Tired of being the bitch-wife, bitterly

you look at as mom.

Tired of “being” right and being told I’m “wrong”
Such a tired Wedding Song.

My Tears Hide In Strange Places

harm like a baby
guilt like an adult
cut open gashes
fluttering lashes
romantic clashes
mental rashes
circumstance slashes
religion trashes
decision collapses

cut me beat me fuck me up

Slime Trail

you have
such a tendency
to poison the air

under the dome alone

some people are mirrors

you just dont want to look into

but hand me down
sunshine and I’ll start
flirting with goodbye
you cant nod into the sky

the giantest wake up

simultaneous sighting of
future past and present

its obvious you are dealing death
if I hate you, I hate myself
loitering slime trail
your failure never dries

just because you got right
and now cant get unwrong

there are bizarre shapes of survivors

Seventeen

It hasn’t been the same since they changed therapy rooms. She hasn’t been able to be anonymous and obsessively poet doodle, short tight bunches of truncated prose, ugly word combinations uttered in her head as the energy from the room swirls and colors and dissipates. She is afraid that she says too much. She is afraid she doesn’t say enough. She realizes talking is granting help just as much as listening. She makes the ugly brave request to talk about the abuse. To try to actively get to that part of the gigantic sore in the innards of her mind.

Do they always say innards? Never outards?

The week she asks for this discussion she leaves group shakily optimistic and somewhat regretful. While driving someone honks at someone and she is now in an aggressive driving situation. And that settles it. She has asked for trouble. She is now under attack. You see, he even controls the cogs of the universe, weaving the very loom of the fabric of fate itself.

Don’t tell, he knows, he knows. He keeps his promises.

He even finds a way to affect her lover’s behavior. She cleans up other messes too. She is the master of cleaning up messes, of walking on eggshells, even tap dancing on them. But the bad things keep multiplying and threatening to topple all her safe towers.

She is aware she shouldn’t need towers. But now, all her stuff is here.

A reprieve is granted and she gets another week to avoid the talk, avoid her own bringing on of pain, she has scraped herself till her ions are charged and magnetic, bringing the bad with her every attempt to be safe in a world she feels can only be UNSAFE, dragging around floating space garbage-like woe.

***.

The talk goes worse than she ever thinks it could go. The expected number when thinking about HIM, but an unexpected number for her lover.

This cannot be so and she is angry. She is not still a victim she is wrong and she is angry and the woman is wrong and group is wrong.

She thinks she can tell her lover, to prove them wrong. That his reaction would not be the angry unsure reaction of an abuser. She doesn’t think this man is an abuser. He is the abuser. She means was, she thinks to herself.

Unlucky seventeen.

Concordant

I don’t have trauma,
I have history.
Protection is suffocation,
perfection too hard to keep.
I’ve buried my treasure too deep,
forgotten the veritable weep.
When I regain my true self,
I wont be afraid to use words.

This Is Why We Say Good-Bye

Im not teasing. Im frustrated. Its hard for me tolerate so much negativity and self pity. Im sorry but thats just the person I am. Im sorry youre having a rough life. I cant help much.

A Slide

You wont play rushes with my stocking feet,
ravenous for a road song.

Only pressing dress buttons,
delicate back of the sky.

Apex (just how you picture my insides)
curtains, a tea set with shy ruby flowers,
each lecherous cup winking at the pot.

You say “Draw your curtains then.”
But you stole my ink.
Flash to your forward,
prurient your walk.
Soul storm pattering, bandying about
mental pictures, cantaloupe squeezing,
organs give.

Beyond is the horizon,
a moving train under a blue dome,
with dissected you,

the center is a BrokenGirl
with a squiggle leaf pattern of vein and bone.

Desensitizing

I will not miss you
of winsome wine and velvet
roses will be planted
ivy intertwined

I wrap myself in books
’cause others
may look like me
wilting epiphanies

I cultivated her
purple pointed, lingering green
she was seen dancing
at the tree line in the sun

there comes a time
for concentration or distillation
in my cups, my ground
a drop on my tongue

home-brew
I’ll watch for you

Rule Fucker

I miss him and his body.
I only saw pictures. I only saw words. I only heard voice
of everyday prattle. Design
but so divine, so MINE.
The rules always fuck me.
One time, they will protect me.
Farcical fantasy,
man for me,
destiny.
The builder has been deconstructed.

No end to those who can live without me,
lonely little fuck rule
squeals me. Build me…

I want to say
what to the men who seem to know me…
Don’t desert me,
bereft please be
due to lack of me.

Something essential: fuck me or leave me.

Wish He Would Too

I guess because I can’t say no. Is that why? my mouth is always full and my eyes always dry…is that why I cry? Why I can’t see the top of a hill from the lowest dark little valley. Is that why I feel it’s so hard to be me? Why I can’t stop medicating my pain, why I can’t sit with it a while, get used to its sting? Because I’m a nicer mom, when I’m sober and a smarter wife and maybe even a better person so I wish I’d stop filling my mouth and my body. And I wish he would too.