April 14, 2013 § 2 Comments
I rocked as a mom today.
I say fuck you laundry.
I can do dishes tomorrow…
February 16, 2013 § 1 Comment
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.
December 31, 2012 § 1 Comment
your rape palms give you away.
your palms. how’d they get so fucked up?
None of your fucking business.
yea, yea, like I said…
I wasnt raped.
Oh really? Ok. Then you are in the wrong wing of the nut house, uppity bitch…and I suppose, those are just shaving accidents? hairy wrists?
what the fuck do you care?
Dont. Just making conversation.
That’s all we got plenty of here.
December 22, 2012 § 2 Comments
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.
December 5, 2012 § 5 Comments
She makes me a promise
she knows I need. She knows
I won’t hold her to it
if it’s not meant to be.
There, a dancing in the place
where we are dilapidated falling down
houses of a ghosted neighborhood.
In a deserted thicket of forest
we run and get out of breath
as we chase each other and play
with our skirts bunched up and scrunched
by childish fingers gripping convention.
She knows how I get there.
She knows how I came.
She knows how to get there
and how to remain.
In comfy grass, heat bug symphony
notes tickle her nose.
I will join her with clean
feet and leave her dirty.
Buried there, by our roots
a treasure of two.
A measure, a brew of all
that is true.
November 27, 2012 § 9 Comments
Is the point really in all this talking?
This question in demon times
to scarlet sun baths.
how long haven’t I talked about it?
what’s the relevance
when the words are gushing from all directions?
Palm cramming and finger diking fails
there is no end and I say it’s all been said before.
Is the point really in all this talking?
Yak your words and grab someone else’s.
You take mine and it babbled,
you, an ear to a shell
catching ocean words seductive and desert words dehydrating
my way of saying:
Cant there be any way,
the newest say of my ways?
But still leave. Or still grieve, or still kill. And still tear asunder.
What about logic and reason,
their neighborhood here
with block party assertions
within grammatical nations.
You objectify my tale
and straighten to my wail.
You can seek to set me free
to fix my sad and lonely
where I’m home and sorry.
Lets go down in shame flames,
causing explosions and rains.
Press this broken heart under
unrequited language cider.
Exercise my foolish word fish
You are so expressive,
she said and tho expensive,
the words mean nothing
November 26, 2012 § 1 Comment
Normal Joe, I love you so
precisely for the dirty reasons,
the uncomfortable reasons like
your sometimes sad and sometimes
simple existence, I want it with you
and is that because its simple, it may
have started like that but, please
Plain Joe, you have to know it’s because
I love you too, because there. See that?
It’s my soul and it sings to attract you
like a fluttery winged bird.