A little girl sits
in a tree of severed arms
dripping dark blood
on her pretty white dress
making strange polka dot patterns
not quit right
She swings her legs in a careless fashion
she smiles,
too young to know the word
"terrified"
The sinners are silent
Carrion eaters attack the limbs
that hold her world together
the lies that adults wove
pecked apart
She's mesmerized by the way
her dress floats up and down
with the beating of their
large, dirty gray feathers
Tiny hands, now bloodied, reach
for the vulture's head
that comes between her legs
It squawks in revulsion
hops down
She is still of the living
no good for eating...yet
nothing stays alive or
innocent for long
even now the tree decays
feeding darkness'
hovering wings
Her dress,
drying to brown
purity disappears
from the surface
but hope's gentle kiss
blows the dust away
there's still
the whites of
her eyes.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
A taste
Urges within
welling up
taking over
rational thought
your scent
makes
me hungry
I desire
a taste
of your
salty flesh
your maleness
driving me
mad
I need you
now
to come
and release
us both
from
lust
welling up
taking over
rational thought
your scent
makes
me hungry
I desire
a taste
of your
salty flesh
your maleness
driving me
mad
I need you
now
to come
and release
us both
from
lust
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Insanity
Your fear
of the beast within
is visible
your pupils
are dialated
your hands shake
the pulse in your neck
flutters frantically
Your fear
of the beast within
is audible
your breathe is shallow
as you feign calm
your steps light
as you back away
Your fear of the beast within
is salty
with a bitter aftertaste
dry as you try to speak
bravado, false tones deep
Your fear of the beast within
touches all
that are around you
none can miss
the cold hands
of panic
as you try to escape
your fate
instead of
embracing your
destiny
The eyes you
walk away from
reflect
the truth
Your fear of the beast within
has disabled you
and that, my love,
is insanity.
of the beast within
is visible
your pupils
are dialated
your hands shake
the pulse in your neck
flutters frantically
Your fear
of the beast within
is audible
your breathe is shallow
as you feign calm
your steps light
as you back away
Your fear of the beast within
is salty
with a bitter aftertaste
dry as you try to speak
bravado, false tones deep
Your fear of the beast within
touches all
that are around you
none can miss
the cold hands
of panic
as you try to escape
your fate
instead of
embracing your
destiny
The eyes you
walk away from
reflect
the truth
Your fear of the beast within
has disabled you
and that, my love,
is insanity.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Fighting Again...the ex landlord this time! Very Rough Draft
Mr. B.M; 10/05/10
I am very upset about the deposit I just received today on 10/05/10. I feel that I have been deceived and cheated. I did the walk-through with Mr. X (property manager) on Friday, Oct. 1, 2010 at 4:30 p.m. I was told that everything looked great, thanks for taking good care of the house and that he was sorry to see me go. I would be receiving my deposit back minus the water bill on Oct. 4th, 2010 (note date discrepancy).
I find it very shocking that you would do your own walk-through and decide without consulting me what was wrong with the property. You took action steps on items that could have easily been worked out and done for free by me, had they been legitimate damage done by me and not your previous pet owner, smoking tenants.
I am disputing the water bill, there is no way that it was that high ($121.00). I vacated the premises on Oct. 17th. I realize you and your father have access to the garage and perhaps you changed the watering system unbeknownst to me? My average water bill was approximately $75.00 over the 12 months, please see enclosed copies. Since you also never fixed the water heater for August, I was also unable to shower most of the time on the premises. There was also no point in using the dishwasher. If anything, the water bill should have been less.
I also am arguing with the pet stain on the carpet. There were no pets in the house. My cat disappeared a long time ago. Maybe it was a juice spill from my kids, this could have been cleaned by my steam cleaner for free, had you pointed it out to me during the walk-through that should have been done together. However, please remember that the carpets were done after I moved in, so they only cleaned around my furniture, not under it. As it was not noticed in the walk-through with the property manager, you have no right to charge me $85.00 for that.
I apologize for the broken light switch. I sincerely doubt that it costs $10.00 to replace. Again, I would have replaced it for the $.89 - $2.00 on my own had it been pointed out to me. I would like the receipts for everything, please.
I would also like to remind you and your property manager how filthy, cigarette-filled, dusty and spider/insect infested the house and garage was before I moved in. The carpet and floors were also fur packed and mite infested (me and my children ended up with reactions from it). My mother and I took pictures to document the work that had to be done by me, my family and friends before I could move in. This took a week that a housekeeping service would have easily charged you a $100 or more a day for.I would also liked to have pointed out that you asked me to keep the front lawn and butterfly bushed alive. I did so, at my expense.
After I moved out, you were left with an entirely clean-smelling, spotless house and garage, that anyone could have moved in the second I stepped out. I left it way better than I found it.
Please refund me the rest of my money.
Sincerely,
SMA
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Them
Don't understand why
I let you hold my hand,
dry my tears
and hold me close to your heart
I hear nothing beating there
Don't understand why
I let you abuse me
bring me down
constantly tear me to pieces
to patch me up
smaller than
the original
Don't understand why
all these people
I let in
keep hurting me
my eyes are wide shut
my ears, my mouth
I'm mute
Don't understand how
I can take much more of
the silent, empty spaces
the soullessnes
Frozen touches
my teardrops
shattering my being
It's just too much
If the truth must hurt
that you're simply
a reflection of me
A reminder of lessons
unlearned, then
I'm done.
I hurt too much.
Dear God,
I'm done.
I let you hold my hand,
dry my tears
and hold me close to your heart
I hear nothing beating there
Don't understand why
I let you abuse me
bring me down
constantly tear me to pieces
to patch me up
smaller than
the original
Don't understand why
all these people
I let in
keep hurting me
my eyes are wide shut
my ears, my mouth
I'm mute
Don't understand how
I can take much more of
the silent, empty spaces
the soullessnes
Frozen touches
my teardrops
shattering my being
It's just too much
If the truth must hurt
that you're simply
a reflection of me
A reminder of lessons
unlearned, then
I'm done.
I hurt too much.
Dear God,
I'm done.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
It's Done
Violent Screaming
Over and Over
Rage
Uncontrollable
threatens to engulf this house
of silence
and Zen
he's gone
the lone occupant
weeping
over spilled dirt
torn leaves
broken glass
drops of red
wishing
it had been me
who had left
this perfect expression
of destruction
desecration
of well-loved property
instead
I just
SCREAM
I can't anymore
No tears
why cry
it's done
clean it up
pulling out my hair
sinking to the ground
tidy it up, hide it away
the house
of silence
and Zen
returns
chaos
is
done
Over and Over
Rage
Uncontrollable
threatens to engulf this house
of silence
and Zen
he's gone
the lone occupant
weeping
over spilled dirt
torn leaves
broken glass
drops of red
wishing
it had been me
who had left
this perfect expression
of destruction
desecration
of well-loved property
instead
I just
SCREAM
I can't anymore
No tears
why cry
it's done
clean it up
pulling out my hair
sinking to the ground
tidy it up, hide it away
the house
of silence
and Zen
returns
chaos
is
done
Contract Dispute With a Franchise - Your Opinion Please
BACKGROUND
I got divorced and now I'm financially unstable. I needed out of an expensive contract that I signed with Carson ATA Black Belt Academy, LLC. I contacted the owner's wife and she told me that she would let me out of my one year contract. I got a phone call the next day on the answering machine that they could not let me out of the contract. I sent the following e-mail:
"I am very upset by ATA's decision. As stated by the divorce decree, if the second party does not agree to the children's activities/education/etc. and cost, then they do not have to support said activities. I am now a single income family that cannot support her children beyond the minimal (food, clothing, shelter). This is not the typical case of, "I no longer feel like paying". I am also in the process of losing my vehicle which I can't afford to fuel up 1/2 the time. So I cannot consistently transport them from Dayton to Carson anyway. This is also something that the ex is not required to help with.
I am extremely humbled and embarrassed by my current situation. I would love the luxury of giving my children more than the normal upbringing. But at this time, I currently, simply, cannot afford to.
I am also writing to inform you that the account the direct withdrawal was pulling from is no longer valid, there are no funds available to pay. As you had advice me, I am sending this to formally cancel the contract..."
When I went to print all the e-mails and give the answering machine message to a lawyer...well, all e-mails from both of my accounts and the message on my answering machine were mysteriously deleted.
A Bitter Life Lesson - Contracts (send to a newspaper?)
I have recently joined the ranks of struggling single mother with two children to support. I received no financial support for myself or my children in the divorce. I am still responsible for half the debt incurred while married, which includes 100% of the payments for an upside down car that consumes far too much gasoline, all medical, increased insurance rates, and now…rent. So my cost of living went up usurping my whole paycheck, and forcing the occasional need to beg for money from my parents. Naturally, trying to prove myself independent, I forced myself to adhere to a stricter budget, cutting the extras and buying nothing without a coupon or an accompanying sale. Telling your kids, “No, sorry, but we can’t afford it.” Well, it hurts at first and then less after the millionth time. Sad that my children finish my mantra before I do.
The bitter life lesson has to do with cutting one of the extras, but realizing I had reluctantly signed a contract in January 2010. I remembered questioning the owner about it, because of the impending divorce and having to move further away to find reasonable rent. I was worried about the potential loss of income and not being able to afford it. Pressured by their guilt trip on how this was good for my kids, I signed. I agreed to try for a one year. Now I am frantically trying to reconcile my memories of the verbal reassurances versus the cold unyielding print. The unyielding black ink also showed that she signed me up for 2 years and I didn't catch it. I had a bad feeling and that turned into major anxiety after a couple of phone calls and e-mails. The karate place on the south end of Carson City, Nevada has decided to paint itself into the stereotypical image of a soulless corporate America.
First, I was told that they would dismiss the contract because of my financial situation. Then I was told they would work with me. The end result was that they still want me to pay for six months of karate for two children that will not be able to attend. They will only dismiss a contract if I move out of state. They do not allow for a divorce or loss of income. They want the full $1200. A big something for a whole lot of nothing. They have broken the broken the boards over my head and now are sticking the splintered pieces into my wounds. They are adding manual billing fees and late fees. They are calling me and demanding payment. Should I waste my time with a free consultation about the contract with a lawyer that I couldn’t possibly afford? Nope! So instead, I went to a bankruptcy lawyer.
Unbelievable! Bankruptcy, in theory, would leave me with money to meet daily living expenses. I will get to keep all the things that that I was cutting down or out, that Karate for Kids is currently trying to take away from me by demanding payment for services not rendered. But still, I’d prefer not to file. It also requires more money to hire the lawyer that I don’t have, and the signing of another contract. Yes, being a single mom feels impossible sometimes and has shot my credit to hell. It is all brought upon myself through ignorance of the business world. But at least I learned, NEVER trust anyone's verbal integrity. If it’s not in writing, it’ll screw you. And if it is in writing, well, it’ll still screw you.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The Morning After
Her eyes open, a smile forms slowly and pleasant dreams fade. Consciousness slams into this reality and her laugh escapes into the ether. It worked! A quick nagging thought on the debt she's incurred darkens her mood. Then she shrugs her thin white shoulders, throws off the blue silk covers and says, "Time to play like there's no tomorrow!"
Snoring catches her attention, leaning over, she tenderly traces her husband's jawline. Gratitude fills her, for just a couple of hours ago she had awakened from an icy nightmare. She desperately needed the heat of the living. Grinning wickedly she replays all the touches and sounds. Her energy had surprised them both. Such a perfect connection, such a wonderful man.
Heading down the hallway to her children's room, the sounds of sleepy voices greet her. They argue over which Bakugan is the best. Before opening the door, she reads for the millionth time, "No Grlz Alowd!" But they had amended it when she protested that she had to be able to put their stuff away. And what about goodnight stories and kisses? So they added, "Mommez okay." Her eyes well up, rapidly blinking the melancholy away, she flings the door open with, "Good morning my loves! Are you ready for a brilliant day?"
"Mommy," their eyes wide, "You're up! You're out of bed!"
Internally, she sighs at the statement. She waits, she made a promise a while ago, they will remind her.
"Mommy remember! You promised a picnic at the lake. Then you said we could get ice cream and rent movies, as soon as..." Slightly high-pitched but sweet six-year-old voices clamor excitedly. They jump off the top bunk and run to the dresser to get their clothes on.
Nodding and saying, "Yes, I remember," her voice fades as a wave of dizziness flashes over her. James and Donald's eyes widen in alarm. Straightening and in a firm, reassuring voice, "I'm getting us ready, your job is to get the toys!"
Reassured, Donald and James, race to the closet and ransack it. She chuckles as toys go flying out. Leaving their room and heading to the kitchen, she mentally lists the food needed for a whole day's outing.
Humming, "Zip a dee do da...zip a dee day, wonderful feeling, wonderful day... " Strong arms slip around her tiny waist, turn her around. A gentle kiss on her lips. Charles lifts her to the counter and stares deep into her eyes. Concern written all over his face. A flash of annoyance pits in her stomach. His treating her like a delicate china doll again. Pushing him away and hopping down, her tone light, "Honey, you're going to be late to work."
"Babe, I love you. But you can't avoid the truth." His tone gruff with hurt.
"Charlie, not now! Today is a good day, a beautiful day. The boys and I are going to have a fun day. We will discuss that another day!" She tries not to have an angry tone, but the negativity is such a mood kill. "Honey, I love you, please..." Her tone softens with pleading. His tense shoulders drop, but are not at ease. He nods, kisses her again, lightly slaps her backside. She listens to the garage door open, the engine revs. The only sign of his frustration. Carbon smell triggers an unpleasant memory from the nightmare. Her heart thumps painfully against her ribcage. Eyes see black spots and her equilibrium is off, she slumps against the cabinets, grabbing for the counter, missing she falls.
Cheerful voices bring her back, "We're ready! Can we go now?" The voices call in unison, heading way too quickly into the kitchen. She pretends she looking for something in the bottom cupboards. "Mom?"
"Yes, boys!" She pulls her head out and waves water bottles at them. "As soon as I fill these!"
Watching the boys running in and out of the water, splashing, calling, "Mommy, watch...mommy, watch me!!!!" Her soul thrashes in agony in its shell. Why can't this moment last forever? Ignoring the despair and flashes from the nightmare, she gets up to join them. Focusing solely on their glowing, living energy. Their simple joy. Their ability to be just who they are. She tries to dismiss the setting sun and the words from last night, damning her to hell, "My dear, you have died this night, what would you give for one more day?"
"Anything!" she had whispered. "Anything!"
The boys sun-touched faces sleep peacefully and barely stir when she's come in for the tenth time to check on them, touch them and kiss them. It's 11:45. Charles isn't home yet. An emergency at work. The ticking of the grandfather clock is relentless. It time to keep her end of the bargain. She studies the photos in the hallway, runs back to the boys room. Her tears fall on their pillows. Resignation sounds in her steps as she heads back to her room. Laying down fully clothed and waiting for sleep to take her, she vaguely hears the midnight chimes announcing her departure into the frozen arms of limbo.
It's the morning after and sirens fill the air.
Snoring catches her attention, leaning over, she tenderly traces her husband's jawline. Gratitude fills her, for just a couple of hours ago she had awakened from an icy nightmare. She desperately needed the heat of the living. Grinning wickedly she replays all the touches and sounds. Her energy had surprised them both. Such a perfect connection, such a wonderful man.
Heading down the hallway to her children's room, the sounds of sleepy voices greet her. They argue over which Bakugan is the best. Before opening the door, she reads for the millionth time, "No Grlz Alowd!" But they had amended it when she protested that she had to be able to put their stuff away. And what about goodnight stories and kisses? So they added, "Mommez okay." Her eyes well up, rapidly blinking the melancholy away, she flings the door open with, "Good morning my loves! Are you ready for a brilliant day?"
"Mommy," their eyes wide, "You're up! You're out of bed!"
Internally, she sighs at the statement. She waits, she made a promise a while ago, they will remind her.
"Mommy remember! You promised a picnic at the lake. Then you said we could get ice cream and rent movies, as soon as..." Slightly high-pitched but sweet six-year-old voices clamor excitedly. They jump off the top bunk and run to the dresser to get their clothes on.
Nodding and saying, "Yes, I remember," her voice fades as a wave of dizziness flashes over her. James and Donald's eyes widen in alarm. Straightening and in a firm, reassuring voice, "I'm getting us ready, your job is to get the toys!"
Reassured, Donald and James, race to the closet and ransack it. She chuckles as toys go flying out. Leaving their room and heading to the kitchen, she mentally lists the food needed for a whole day's outing.
Humming, "Zip a dee do da...zip a dee day, wonderful feeling, wonderful day... " Strong arms slip around her tiny waist, turn her around. A gentle kiss on her lips. Charles lifts her to the counter and stares deep into her eyes. Concern written all over his face. A flash of annoyance pits in her stomach. His treating her like a delicate china doll again. Pushing him away and hopping down, her tone light, "Honey, you're going to be late to work."
"Babe, I love you. But you can't avoid the truth." His tone gruff with hurt.
"Charlie, not now! Today is a good day, a beautiful day. The boys and I are going to have a fun day. We will discuss that another day!" She tries not to have an angry tone, but the negativity is such a mood kill. "Honey, I love you, please..." Her tone softens with pleading. His tense shoulders drop, but are not at ease. He nods, kisses her again, lightly slaps her backside. She listens to the garage door open, the engine revs. The only sign of his frustration. Carbon smell triggers an unpleasant memory from the nightmare. Her heart thumps painfully against her ribcage. Eyes see black spots and her equilibrium is off, she slumps against the cabinets, grabbing for the counter, missing she falls.
Cheerful voices bring her back, "We're ready! Can we go now?" The voices call in unison, heading way too quickly into the kitchen. She pretends she looking for something in the bottom cupboards. "Mom?"
"Yes, boys!" She pulls her head out and waves water bottles at them. "As soon as I fill these!"
Watching the boys running in and out of the water, splashing, calling, "Mommy, watch...mommy, watch me!!!!" Her soul thrashes in agony in its shell. Why can't this moment last forever? Ignoring the despair and flashes from the nightmare, she gets up to join them. Focusing solely on their glowing, living energy. Their simple joy. Their ability to be just who they are. She tries to dismiss the setting sun and the words from last night, damning her to hell, "My dear, you have died this night, what would you give for one more day?"
"Anything!" she had whispered. "Anything!"
The boys sun-touched faces sleep peacefully and barely stir when she's come in for the tenth time to check on them, touch them and kiss them. It's 11:45. Charles isn't home yet. An emergency at work. The ticking of the grandfather clock is relentless. It time to keep her end of the bargain. She studies the photos in the hallway, runs back to the boys room. Her tears fall on their pillows. Resignation sounds in her steps as she heads back to her room. Laying down fully clothed and waiting for sleep to take her, she vaguely hears the midnight chimes announcing her departure into the frozen arms of limbo.
It's the morning after and sirens fill the air.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Sweet and Bitter Drinks
I sip my Merlot slowly. Savoring the flavor and the now. He knows my shoe fetish. I smile at the box. The right dimensions for a pair of size 7 Jimmy Choos. It's my birthday and our first year anniversary. One year of being an older man's mistress. Still not sure how it happened... not even sure if I am a mistress. It's a technicality that I find amusing. He's been separated the entire time I have known him. He just refuses to get a divorce.
The wine swirls seductively and dangerously close to the crystal rim. My blurry eyes meet his drowsy ones. Work exhausts him. He owns and works at a construction company, 12 to15 hours a day, not to mention weekends. He's not handsome, just magnetic and very good in bed. His body is to die for. I met him at the gym.
The gift inches towards me. I carefully set the glass down and reach out. My hands caress the smooth sides of the silvered wrapping paper. Then I tear in, throwing shreds of paper in the air and tossing the lid after them. He chuckles appreciatively at my enthusiastic oohs and aahs. The way I reverently hold them up to the chandelier's minimal light. Their apple red sheen and chaotic straps have me wet between my bare thighs. I'm suddenly still and it alerts him instantly.
His low, slightly accented voice demands that I put them on now. I wiggle my purple, expensive toes at him and sigh with a slur, "I don't know if the red matches..."
A growl and a chair scraping wood floors makes me laugh and I quickly slip the heels on my feet. Just quickly enough to run around to the other side. He's after me, lust replacing drowsiness. My negligee catches a corner and tears. Strong, tan arms pick me up, gasping for air, I kick the table.Wine glasses topple, spill. We watch, frozen, as dark red soaks, spreads, staining the white tablecloth. There's something arousing in watching sinful color overtake purity. He groans into my neck and throws me on tabletop. Wine glasses roll off, shatter. We ignore it as he spreads my legs wide and takes me on the table. Merlot sticks to my back. It is an unfamiliar feeling amid a familiar one. I sip it slowly.
***
The coffee percolates as I stare at a blank screen. Flavors of yesterday hiding words of anger. It is the day after my birthday and I am still writing a story in my mind. One that is a lie. I want to write on the page. The page won't let me hide. It will show me I am lying. Like shoes on toes that lead to sex, words from fingers lead to truth.
Writing to release the fear and excitement caused by balancing on the edge of life's wine glass. I want the protective balance that I stand on to tip. I'm not even sure that I care which way it falls. To the right or to the left? Either one has an unknown abyss. Well, what's at the bottom is the unknown. The fall would be the question. If I were to label the directions, then perhaps the right would be, "To be alone?" and the left would be, "To continue and with whom?" You might want to think that the latter question would have to do with where I am at now on that precarious lip, but it's not, because the balance has been in me as one trying to live two deceptive lives. I am ready to fall.
But even that requires commitment. Something I am truly afraid of. Committing to be alone? Committing to be with whom? I have never been alone and I was with someone for almost 17 years. Then I became a mistress. It's apparent that I do not know what's best for me. The faith to trust the universe to take of me is also sadly lacking. Perhaps that also leads to the pathetic fact that, in my whole life, I have never trusted myself, the world or other people. I was taught not to trust, that it's all a battle, that they are all out to get me. Being one that lacked strength of character, confidence it was easy to manipulate me into a Yes-girl and I'll-hide-in-here-(usually a book)-girl.
The coffee is bitter today. I've made it too strong and let it sit too long. Just like the past and present relationship. It's no good. I've got to do it now and today. I pour the brackish down the drain. The burned coffee splashes and stains the sink. Like a Rorschach blot obscuring what should be a clean white page. Liquid images drying to stainless steel walls. For a moment the randomness reveals only what I want to see. And then I stop. This has been my curse my entire life. Eyes open, inebriation fading away, I turn on the faucet and enjoy a profound clarity as pure water washes it all away. My mind is free and made up. I reach for the phone.
Seven numbers are hard to dial. I hate myself for that. I tell him that I love the shoes. I enjoyed our Merlot. But I need to make a new pot of coffee.
Yes, I dumped him like I dumped that coffee down the drain. Carefully placing the grounds in the compost. I muse how I'll use it, and him, in the future. It's a relief to finally tell him it's over for now, but there can still be a later. I told him he can come back when he's finally divorced. If it's done before the Choos wear out and before I manage to find a new wine and perfect my coffee making technique. The Choos are still new, but I don't think he'll make it before I invest my money in a vineyard and figure out the perfect balance between grounds and water.
I'm drunk on the left. I'm awake on the right. Who, what, shall I sip in the middle?
The wine swirls seductively and dangerously close to the crystal rim. My blurry eyes meet his drowsy ones. Work exhausts him. He owns and works at a construction company, 12 to15 hours a day, not to mention weekends. He's not handsome, just magnetic and very good in bed. His body is to die for. I met him at the gym.
The gift inches towards me. I carefully set the glass down and reach out. My hands caress the smooth sides of the silvered wrapping paper. Then I tear in, throwing shreds of paper in the air and tossing the lid after them. He chuckles appreciatively at my enthusiastic oohs and aahs. The way I reverently hold them up to the chandelier's minimal light. Their apple red sheen and chaotic straps have me wet between my bare thighs. I'm suddenly still and it alerts him instantly.
His low, slightly accented voice demands that I put them on now. I wiggle my purple, expensive toes at him and sigh with a slur, "I don't know if the red matches..."
A growl and a chair scraping wood floors makes me laugh and I quickly slip the heels on my feet. Just quickly enough to run around to the other side. He's after me, lust replacing drowsiness. My negligee catches a corner and tears. Strong, tan arms pick me up, gasping for air, I kick the table.Wine glasses topple, spill. We watch, frozen, as dark red soaks, spreads, staining the white tablecloth. There's something arousing in watching sinful color overtake purity. He groans into my neck and throws me on tabletop. Wine glasses roll off, shatter. We ignore it as he spreads my legs wide and takes me on the table. Merlot sticks to my back. It is an unfamiliar feeling amid a familiar one. I sip it slowly.
***
The coffee percolates as I stare at a blank screen. Flavors of yesterday hiding words of anger. It is the day after my birthday and I am still writing a story in my mind. One that is a lie. I want to write on the page. The page won't let me hide. It will show me I am lying. Like shoes on toes that lead to sex, words from fingers lead to truth.
Writing to release the fear and excitement caused by balancing on the edge of life's wine glass. I want the protective balance that I stand on to tip. I'm not even sure that I care which way it falls. To the right or to the left? Either one has an unknown abyss. Well, what's at the bottom is the unknown. The fall would be the question. If I were to label the directions, then perhaps the right would be, "To be alone?" and the left would be, "To continue and with whom?" You might want to think that the latter question would have to do with where I am at now on that precarious lip, but it's not, because the balance has been in me as one trying to live two deceptive lives. I am ready to fall.
But even that requires commitment. Something I am truly afraid of. Committing to be alone? Committing to be with whom? I have never been alone and I was with someone for almost 17 years. Then I became a mistress. It's apparent that I do not know what's best for me. The faith to trust the universe to take of me is also sadly lacking. Perhaps that also leads to the pathetic fact that, in my whole life, I have never trusted myself, the world or other people. I was taught not to trust, that it's all a battle, that they are all out to get me. Being one that lacked strength of character, confidence it was easy to manipulate me into a Yes-girl and I'll-hide-in-here-(usually a book)-girl.
The coffee is bitter today. I've made it too strong and let it sit too long. Just like the past and present relationship. It's no good. I've got to do it now and today. I pour the brackish down the drain. The burned coffee splashes and stains the sink. Like a Rorschach blot obscuring what should be a clean white page. Liquid images drying to stainless steel walls. For a moment the randomness reveals only what I want to see. And then I stop. This has been my curse my entire life. Eyes open, inebriation fading away, I turn on the faucet and enjoy a profound clarity as pure water washes it all away. My mind is free and made up. I reach for the phone.
Seven numbers are hard to dial. I hate myself for that. I tell him that I love the shoes. I enjoyed our Merlot. But I need to make a new pot of coffee.
Yes, I dumped him like I dumped that coffee down the drain. Carefully placing the grounds in the compost. I muse how I'll use it, and him, in the future. It's a relief to finally tell him it's over for now, but there can still be a later. I told him he can come back when he's finally divorced. If it's done before the Choos wear out and before I manage to find a new wine and perfect my coffee making technique. The Choos are still new, but I don't think he'll make it before I invest my money in a vineyard and figure out the perfect balance between grounds and water.
I'm drunk on the left. I'm awake on the right. Who, what, shall I sip in the middle?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
It's Time
"It's time," I tell my reflection. My image is blurred in the steam, distorted. It's accurately reflective of my state of mind. I shrug the negative judgment off and reach for the gun, flicking the wet, recently used toothbrush away from it. Growling at their dampness, the trivial things are important to bitch about now. "Where's the damn towel?" I frantically search, shaking my head in frustration. But it can't stop the pictures dancing incessantly across my mind. Twirling flashes of red-black flecks...white skin...metal...gray skin...bark...I gag and grab the slippery sink edge.
The heat...the humidity...too much...the air, pressing down on me. I feel panic's tentacles spreading from my chest reaching to latch on to my memories of that crime scene. Razor-sharp suckers, grasp the past forward, slicing away my ability to think clearly. Straightening abruptly, "Focus!" I shout at myself, shoving the gun into my back holster. Quickly grabbing a dirty t-shirt, I swipe the concealing condensation away, with my other hand, I fling the door open. A welcome breeze from the open bedroom window lifts it all away. Breathing deeply, I calmly say to my clear image, "It's time."
An impatient honk from my partner outside makes me turn towards the sound. But my feet stubbornly refuse to move. The peace in my heart is a fragile thing, one clumsy bump will shatter it like a running child, arms spread wide, in an aisle of glass. Either I, or those closest to me, will inevitably fail to observe the "Careful - Breakable- Do NOT touch" signs. My thoughts often intrude, acting illiterate. And no one, especially not me, can afford to buy after it's broken. The narrow, long, deep valley of my depression...there seems to be no way to climb up, no gentle slope up and out with sunlight to greet me. But I have to continue to fake it, the same way I fooled the department psych into letting me back into active duty.
Another blast from the horn. I slide into my tan blazer, grateful that it covers my wrinkled white dress shirt. My toned legs, smooth and long, flatter the navy knee-length skirt. Gently touching my badge, then pulling out my ID and clipping it to my belt turns out to be soothing ritual. I head out to the unmarked patrol car. Boring, inconspicuous black. So the department thinks! It stands out, people have an instinct when it comes to authority. Grateful at the amusement entering my being, I hope to hold onto it.
But my partner, how I dread his voice of late, ruins it. His clumsy attempts at sympathetic lying for something he will never personally experience from my end. Or his forced attempts at normalcy, "nothing happened, if we deny it!" So fake. Today is going to be a "false-positive" day. I could tell by how he reaches over and flings open the door. Dentist-bleached teeth blinding me.
"'Bout time Dominique! Sheesh, you'd think all the time you spend in the bathroom that there'd actually be make-up on your pretty face!" Tim's overly-jovial tone grates on my nerves. I feel like I should shoot him then and there. But, it's not time. . .nor the correct place. On purpose, I hike up my skirt to mid-thigh, as I sit down. I sense the heat from his stare. He leans in and reaches for a piece of trash, an excuse to touch my leg. His hand lingers over-long, insidious in its upwards ascent.
"Tim," I banter back with a husky, sexy voice while I remove his hand with an encouraging squeeze. "Ever the gentleman, but you'd think that you'd at least shave that damn shadow during the time you were waiting for me to come out. I know the Norelco is in the glove box."
He chuckles, not offended in the least. "If I shave to the smoothness of your legs, will you do me? The condoms are in there, too!"
I smile, turn to face him, glad that he's so easy. I laiugh, "I know you have one ready in your wallet...hopefully, not expired?"
The buttons, I deliberately left undone, work their magic. My laciest cleavage-enhancing bra on. His black eyes drawn in, hopelessly lost in the pattern, traveling up and down my pale breasts. Reaching for his dark hair, I yank him back hard and force his gaze up. Rumors has it that he likes it rough. I place my other hand perilously close to his manhood. It shifts towards me. In response, I squeeze his thigh hard. His gasp of pleasure nearly undoes my resolve.
"Tim, baby, I want..." my voice trails off, as I try to feign desire and deny my urge to flee to a seven day shower.
"Oh, Dom... really. . .I've wanted you since the day we became partners," I nod, dropping my lashes, not trusting my eyes and my voice to keep the hatred out of it.
But I have to talk, keeping my head down, I touch him and stroke him harder through his jeans. I have to get him to the right place. "Tim, the little lake, the one up the mountain path, by Jensen's farm. It's private, no one. . ."
"Yes, yes!" He eagerly agrees. My green eyes drown into his. Then I turn and look out the window when he starts the car and peels out to get on the highway. Of course, he doesn't remember. Doesn't phase him, so insignificant the event was to him. No association to. . .I stop the thought. No panicking, no rage. I'll make him remember. . .every detail. The winding road into the Eldorado Range and the speed he takes the corners scares me, all this for sex in the woods. Arriving alive and unclenching my fist from the "Oh Shit" handle hurt. We park at the National Park entrance. Ours is the only car in the lot. Soon though, it would be full of hikers that swarming the mountainous forest, lost in the vegetation, stumbling on water flowing or still, in all of nature's forms.
I intertwine my fingers through his, tugging him forward. Acting eager to be alone. The hard-packed dirt deadens the sounds of our hurried steps. The shade of the pine trees welcome in the June heat. The path is steep. His mindless chatter of what he wanted to do to me stops. I try to play the accommodating whore, but the sudden look of recognition plastered to his sweaty face makes me realize the hour is near. Carefully, stepping back, I observe his reaction.
"Dom. . .maybe we should go elsewhere. . . ." He looks frantically around. My gun is out. He left his back at the car. He never could follow protocol.
"Keep going, Tim. You can rest at the top," I pause, making my voice neutral, "At the scene."
The pleading begins as the realization and connections begin to form, "Dom, I'm sorry! I didn't know that was your daughter. .I'll make it right...I'll ..."
"Shut it, Tim. I look just like her. You knew." The summit's still gorgeous with the mule deer daisies, bright yellow near the clear,blue lake. The tall, green, wild grass waving acknowledgment, nodding in agreement with my quest. "We're here."
Ordering him to strip, I chain him to the lightning-struck tree that he had chained Samantha. Its jagged edges, charcoal and gray. No evidence of the violent colors from before. I have no idea of the expression on my face. My body felt cold, leaden and purposeful. The depths of my despair lessening, my spirit raises itself above the darkness. Tim's futile attempts at threats begin.
Toneless, I replied to his verbal abuse. "She's dead you bastard. You can never make it right."
Glancing around, I spot a branch about the same size and length as the one he used on her, my darling 18 year old daughter. She would have graduated today. I don't have the luxury days that he had in his torture of my miracle child. But I would do right by her memory in the short time that I had. Yes, he has one less opening than a female, but I could fix that.
"It's time."
The heat...the humidity...too much...the air, pressing down on me. I feel panic's tentacles spreading from my chest reaching to latch on to my memories of that crime scene. Razor-sharp suckers, grasp the past forward, slicing away my ability to think clearly. Straightening abruptly, "Focus!" I shout at myself, shoving the gun into my back holster. Quickly grabbing a dirty t-shirt, I swipe the concealing condensation away, with my other hand, I fling the door open. A welcome breeze from the open bedroom window lifts it all away. Breathing deeply, I calmly say to my clear image, "It's time."
An impatient honk from my partner outside makes me turn towards the sound. But my feet stubbornly refuse to move. The peace in my heart is a fragile thing, one clumsy bump will shatter it like a running child, arms spread wide, in an aisle of glass. Either I, or those closest to me, will inevitably fail to observe the "Careful - Breakable- Do NOT touch" signs. My thoughts often intrude, acting illiterate. And no one, especially not me, can afford to buy after it's broken. The narrow, long, deep valley of my depression...there seems to be no way to climb up, no gentle slope up and out with sunlight to greet me. But I have to continue to fake it, the same way I fooled the department psych into letting me back into active duty.
Another blast from the horn. I slide into my tan blazer, grateful that it covers my wrinkled white dress shirt. My toned legs, smooth and long, flatter the navy knee-length skirt. Gently touching my badge, then pulling out my ID and clipping it to my belt turns out to be soothing ritual. I head out to the unmarked patrol car. Boring, inconspicuous black. So the department thinks! It stands out, people have an instinct when it comes to authority. Grateful at the amusement entering my being, I hope to hold onto it.
But my partner, how I dread his voice of late, ruins it. His clumsy attempts at sympathetic lying for something he will never personally experience from my end. Or his forced attempts at normalcy, "nothing happened, if we deny it!" So fake. Today is going to be a "false-positive" day. I could tell by how he reaches over and flings open the door. Dentist-bleached teeth blinding me.
"'Bout time Dominique! Sheesh, you'd think all the time you spend in the bathroom that there'd actually be make-up on your pretty face!" Tim's overly-jovial tone grates on my nerves. I feel like I should shoot him then and there. But, it's not time. . .nor the correct place. On purpose, I hike up my skirt to mid-thigh, as I sit down. I sense the heat from his stare. He leans in and reaches for a piece of trash, an excuse to touch my leg. His hand lingers over-long, insidious in its upwards ascent.
"Tim," I banter back with a husky, sexy voice while I remove his hand with an encouraging squeeze. "Ever the gentleman, but you'd think that you'd at least shave that damn shadow during the time you were waiting for me to come out. I know the Norelco is in the glove box."
He chuckles, not offended in the least. "If I shave to the smoothness of your legs, will you do me? The condoms are in there, too!"
I smile, turn to face him, glad that he's so easy. I laiugh, "I know you have one ready in your wallet...hopefully, not expired?"
The buttons, I deliberately left undone, work their magic. My laciest cleavage-enhancing bra on. His black eyes drawn in, hopelessly lost in the pattern, traveling up and down my pale breasts. Reaching for his dark hair, I yank him back hard and force his gaze up. Rumors has it that he likes it rough. I place my other hand perilously close to his manhood. It shifts towards me. In response, I squeeze his thigh hard. His gasp of pleasure nearly undoes my resolve.
"Tim, baby, I want..." my voice trails off, as I try to feign desire and deny my urge to flee to a seven day shower.
"Oh, Dom... really. . .I've wanted you since the day we became partners," I nod, dropping my lashes, not trusting my eyes and my voice to keep the hatred out of it.
But I have to talk, keeping my head down, I touch him and stroke him harder through his jeans. I have to get him to the right place. "Tim, the little lake, the one up the mountain path, by Jensen's farm. It's private, no one. . ."
"Yes, yes!" He eagerly agrees. My green eyes drown into his. Then I turn and look out the window when he starts the car and peels out to get on the highway. Of course, he doesn't remember. Doesn't phase him, so insignificant the event was to him. No association to. . .I stop the thought. No panicking, no rage. I'll make him remember. . .every detail. The winding road into the Eldorado Range and the speed he takes the corners scares me, all this for sex in the woods. Arriving alive and unclenching my fist from the "Oh Shit" handle hurt. We park at the National Park entrance. Ours is the only car in the lot. Soon though, it would be full of hikers that swarming the mountainous forest, lost in the vegetation, stumbling on water flowing or still, in all of nature's forms.
I intertwine my fingers through his, tugging him forward. Acting eager to be alone. The hard-packed dirt deadens the sounds of our hurried steps. The shade of the pine trees welcome in the June heat. The path is steep. His mindless chatter of what he wanted to do to me stops. I try to play the accommodating whore, but the sudden look of recognition plastered to his sweaty face makes me realize the hour is near. Carefully, stepping back, I observe his reaction.
"Dom. . .maybe we should go elsewhere. . . ." He looks frantically around. My gun is out. He left his back at the car. He never could follow protocol.
"Keep going, Tim. You can rest at the top," I pause, making my voice neutral, "At the scene."
The pleading begins as the realization and connections begin to form, "Dom, I'm sorry! I didn't know that was your daughter. .I'll make it right...I'll ..."
"Shut it, Tim. I look just like her. You knew." The summit's still gorgeous with the mule deer daisies, bright yellow near the clear,blue lake. The tall, green, wild grass waving acknowledgment, nodding in agreement with my quest. "We're here."
Ordering him to strip, I chain him to the lightning-struck tree that he had chained Samantha. Its jagged edges, charcoal and gray. No evidence of the violent colors from before. I have no idea of the expression on my face. My body felt cold, leaden and purposeful. The depths of my despair lessening, my spirit raises itself above the darkness. Tim's futile attempts at threats begin.
Toneless, I replied to his verbal abuse. "She's dead you bastard. You can never make it right."
Glancing around, I spot a branch about the same size and length as the one he used on her, my darling 18 year old daughter. She would have graduated today. I don't have the luxury days that he had in his torture of my miracle child. But I would do right by her memory in the short time that I had. Yes, he has one less opening than a female, but I could fix that.
"It's time."
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Live Today
She eyes him contemptuously. His need to constantly worry about tomorrow still pisses her off. She impatiently shoves the steaming mug at him. Of all the customers to have to deal with today. Her own pain in the ass soon to be ex-husband! Mr. Live Like There's No Tomorrow.
"Why are you here?" She can barely keep her tone civil. His clothes are starched and ironed, reflecting his anal retentiveness. His black hair slicked back, wind will not make one hair move out of place, rigid. Like the extra long re-bar stuck up his . . . She sighs and tops off his coffee. Notices his manicure and curls her fingers in securely around the coffee pot, tucking the other hand in frilly apron pocket.
"Meredith, I told you, I can't pay you this month. I had to buy new tires for the bike. . .and my kids need haircuts, school clothes. . ." He stops his whining to stare hopefully in her wintry blues and then grimaces as he accidentally brushes against her swollen belly.
She steps back, feeling sickened that she ever let him touch her. Meredith avoids his amber eyes and concentrates on the weak, starting to double-up chin. "Look, Jake, I don't give a rat's ass about any of your expenses. You made a promise, it's also court-ordered. Give me the check now. Let's keep the lawyers out of this one. Or you'll really be broke." Jerk was never broke, he was the Assistant D.A. for cryin' out loud! He's also going political, wants to be Mayor.
He pouts unbecomingly and pulls out the checkbook. "Let me write it for a thousand less. Please Mere, I still have to. . .:"
A hiss of pain escapes her lips as the Braxton-Hicks contractions hit. He scoots back in alarm. A laugh and gasp all in one at his reaction. You would think she is carrying Satan's child. Of course, he kept denying it was his, protesting that he's fixed. Until the DNA test, that is. Take that Mr. Mayor Wanna-Be!
He hands her the hastily scrawled check and flees the diner. Crumpling the offending rectangle, screaming after him that it's not the right amount. Flipping her off, he gets into his charcoal gray Mercedes S-Class. Pulls out of the handicap parking space and hits the cop car behind him. The customers' swiveling heads and expressions. . .priceless. Sitting down triumphantly and beaming at her friends, now walking towards her from all corners. They wave the camera phones back at her with matching smiles. This'll be on YouTube in a couple of minutes.
She smiles, muttering, "Nothing like planning revenge for tomorrow and getting it today."
"Why are you here?" She can barely keep her tone civil. His clothes are starched and ironed, reflecting his anal retentiveness. His black hair slicked back, wind will not make one hair move out of place, rigid. Like the extra long re-bar stuck up his . . . She sighs and tops off his coffee. Notices his manicure and curls her fingers in securely around the coffee pot, tucking the other hand in frilly apron pocket.
"Meredith, I told you, I can't pay you this month. I had to buy new tires for the bike. . .and my kids need haircuts, school clothes. . ." He stops his whining to stare hopefully in her wintry blues and then grimaces as he accidentally brushes against her swollen belly.
She steps back, feeling sickened that she ever let him touch her. Meredith avoids his amber eyes and concentrates on the weak, starting to double-up chin. "Look, Jake, I don't give a rat's ass about any of your expenses. You made a promise, it's also court-ordered. Give me the check now. Let's keep the lawyers out of this one. Or you'll really be broke." Jerk was never broke, he was the Assistant D.A. for cryin' out loud! He's also going political, wants to be Mayor.
He pouts unbecomingly and pulls out the checkbook. "Let me write it for a thousand less. Please Mere, I still have to. . .:"
A hiss of pain escapes her lips as the Braxton-Hicks contractions hit. He scoots back in alarm. A laugh and gasp all in one at his reaction. You would think she is carrying Satan's child. Of course, he kept denying it was his, protesting that he's fixed. Until the DNA test, that is. Take that Mr. Mayor Wanna-Be!
He hands her the hastily scrawled check and flees the diner. Crumpling the offending rectangle, screaming after him that it's not the right amount. Flipping her off, he gets into his charcoal gray Mercedes S-Class. Pulls out of the handicap parking space and hits the cop car behind him. The customers' swiveling heads and expressions. . .priceless. Sitting down triumphantly and beaming at her friends, now walking towards her from all corners. They wave the camera phones back at her with matching smiles. This'll be on YouTube in a couple of minutes.
She smiles, muttering, "Nothing like planning revenge for tomorrow and getting it today."
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Beguiled by Night
I wait, barely containing my excitement. I realize in amusement that I'm holding my breathe. I must be turning blue! I release the air slowly, watching the vapors of my exhalation rise in the dim light of the street lamp. Idly, wondering if my spirit would look the same to my loved ones as I die.
Cancer infests my body. The doctors attempted every treatment known to man and for whatever reason, I just couldn't go into remission. I had seven years of torture and only three months free. I can feel it now. The cells that turned Benedict Arnold are back with a vengeance, a bigger invading army, and this time, they are on the winning side. I decided, tonight, no more. I will live until I could live no more. I had 29 good years in, before my body betrayed me.
In the deep dark, recesses of my pocket, my gloved hands crumple the "Kick the Bucket" list I had made when first diagnosed. I originally had refused treatment then, but my family pleaded that my passive aggressive suicide was a sin and the ultimate selfish act. I didn't think so. I justified it with the idea that before there were doctors people died from cancer, so why couldn't I? But I caved and began treatments that made me wish I were dead.
The street lamp flickers, I can hear the buzz off the electrical poles. There's a faint smell of ozone in this cool spring night. I'm giddy with excitement. Something so simple, something that I had never allowed myself to do because of the Southern Baptist faith. God is watching you. God will reward your good behavior, your faith. Good ol' guilt factor. Pray to be healed child. . .sick again. . .well pray harder.
Checking my watch, it's time. I can see the people filing in. Bouncers clicking the numbers. The music starting, bass throbbing its promise of orgasmic pleasures. I swallow the bluish-white powder. Taking my place in line, and loving the anonymity. For tonight, I plan on ending it well.
I did! I look down, smiling at myself. Sprawled out on the smooth, cool dance floor. Memories of disco ball colors flashing, lighting up the glitter across so much bare skin. The close contact of grinding, bumping bodies, male and female arousing each other to desperation. My stranger that I allowed myself a quickie with in the bathroom stalls was leaning over me, screaming for help. I almost feel sorry for him, but I knew he'd get over it, after all, he didn't know me.
I feel a lessening of pressure. The silver cord connecting me to my body severs. I float gently untethered into the night, then vanish like the vapors of my exhalation, once beguiled by the night.
Cancer infests my body. The doctors attempted every treatment known to man and for whatever reason, I just couldn't go into remission. I had seven years of torture and only three months free. I can feel it now. The cells that turned Benedict Arnold are back with a vengeance, a bigger invading army, and this time, they are on the winning side. I decided, tonight, no more. I will live until I could live no more. I had 29 good years in, before my body betrayed me.
In the deep dark, recesses of my pocket, my gloved hands crumple the "Kick the Bucket" list I had made when first diagnosed. I originally had refused treatment then, but my family pleaded that my passive aggressive suicide was a sin and the ultimate selfish act. I didn't think so. I justified it with the idea that before there were doctors people died from cancer, so why couldn't I? But I caved and began treatments that made me wish I were dead.
The street lamp flickers, I can hear the buzz off the electrical poles. There's a faint smell of ozone in this cool spring night. I'm giddy with excitement. Something so simple, something that I had never allowed myself to do because of the Southern Baptist faith. God is watching you. God will reward your good behavior, your faith. Good ol' guilt factor. Pray to be healed child. . .sick again. . .well pray harder.
Checking my watch, it's time. I can see the people filing in. Bouncers clicking the numbers. The music starting, bass throbbing its promise of orgasmic pleasures. I swallow the bluish-white powder. Taking my place in line, and loving the anonymity. For tonight, I plan on ending it well.
I did! I look down, smiling at myself. Sprawled out on the smooth, cool dance floor. Memories of disco ball colors flashing, lighting up the glitter across so much bare skin. The close contact of grinding, bumping bodies, male and female arousing each other to desperation. My stranger that I allowed myself a quickie with in the bathroom stalls was leaning over me, screaming for help. I almost feel sorry for him, but I knew he'd get over it, after all, he didn't know me.
I feel a lessening of pressure. The silver cord connecting me to my body severs. I float gently untethered into the night, then vanish like the vapors of my exhalation, once beguiled by the night.
Sister's Piano
In the dark
you sway
sister
fingers caressing
commanding
eyes closed
soul open
aura flames
candles flicker
unearthly
inspiration
moves the world away
music
possessing you
sister
listen for
the pain
the joy
feeling
overwhelmed
sounds
vibrate
truth
of who
you are
acceptance
and
understanding
all
you sway
sister
fingers caressing
commanding
eyes closed
soul open
aura flames
candles flicker
unearthly
inspiration
moves the world away
music
possessing you
sister
listen for
the pain
the joy
feeling
overwhelmed
sounds
vibrate
truth
of who
you are
acceptance
and
understanding
all
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Happy
Happiness is now
framed by golden light
an ebony cat sits still
in front of
spring rain
splattered windows
Silver clouds leave
leisurely over
the Pinion Range
Mother Nature
beckons
come outside
baby blue skies
moss brown hills
young sprouts
cautiously peeking
checking the chilled,
clean air
My cat lightly pads to the door
Looks expectantly at me
yellow eyes gleaming
how can you ignore
these summons
so out we step
together
into the Happiness
of Now
framed by golden light
an ebony cat sits still
in front of
spring rain
splattered windows
Silver clouds leave
leisurely over
the Pinion Range
Mother Nature
beckons
come outside
baby blue skies
moss brown hills
young sprouts
cautiously peeking
checking the chilled,
clean air
My cat lightly pads to the door
Looks expectantly at me
yellow eyes gleaming
how can you ignore
these summons
so out we step
together
into the Happiness
of Now
Christmas Eve Expectations
Christmas Eve Expectations
I watched my children pass out Christmas Eve gifts to the children in the terminally ill ward. We had bought them the day before. We wrapped them in colorful paper this morning, complete with ribbons and bows. Both my kids were excited to help the community in someway. It had been their idea planted by the pastor at church last Sunday and unintentionally by a story I had told them of my childhood. So they reminded me of a promise I had once made with my brother. I had been more than happy to help fulfill their giving spirits and placate my past ghosts. Now listening to the excited voices that reflected joy and no pain from their illnesses, I was very glad again and fell into reminiscing. . .
It took Johnny and me longer than usual to arrive at the train station. The snow had fallen silently, but fast last night. There was only a thin hard crust on top and it couldn’t hold us up. I had sunk knee-deep and struggled to get out. It left me with souvenirs of clingy, balls of ice on my boot laces, dark grey wool skirt and the edges of my matching jacket. I’d semi-grumpily decided that it was pointless to pick them off. If the ice remained the same consistency, then I’d only collect more on the way home. Plus my gloves were too thin to handle getting any wetter. Sighing forcefully enough to see my breath, I focused on the fact that Johnny and I were in the same spot as last year. I could tell because of the weirdly bent nail. It reminded me of a hunched over old gnome. Glancing around, I wondered if everyone was in the same spot as last year. I could see that the Murray twins were across from us, just like previous time. They were staring hard down the tracks. I followed their gaze down the endless black line. The frosted rails seem to shiver in cold excitement with me. Soon the train would rush toward us, spraying ice and snow into a thick mist. We would scream in delight knowing when it settled, the most important car, the one in last place, would appear. The Red Caboose that contained the rich man and his overwhelming generosity.
My brother, Johnny, causally chatted with his friend, Ryan. They were both older by five years. This would be their last year to receive the gift. I checked to see if they were sad. But their faces were a study of feigned indifference. The only thing giving them away was when their eyes darted furtively down the line. Then they would mask it with a look of contempt if anyone intercepted their glance.
Ignoring them, I decided to imagine how the big the shiny silver boxes would be this year. Would they be small enough to fit one hand? Two? Would it be too big to hold like last year? I had trouble walking home because I couldn’t see over the top. I contemplated if I wanted, when the package was shaken, for it to jingle or sound muffled? This year I was hoping for muffled!
Oh, how the air bit at my nose and snuck into the openings of my old clothes. However, sensing the time was at hand, I refused to let it dampen my spirits. Yanking my coat down, and rubbing my hands up and down my arms I smiled joyfully at the noon day sun. It made the glittering, white snow twinkle and tease, “Soon, soon!”
My ears perked up, I turned my head and strained my neck to look down the thousand miles of steel. I could see it, the black-gray smoke signaling the engine’s efforts in its rhythmic approach! I yelled ecstatically with all the others, “I see it, I see it!”
Eagerly pressing forward with the crowd, my arms outstretched. We all were reaching for the carousel ring. Some of our arms were longer, some shorter, but all were the same length in desire. I wondered if he thought we looked like a horizontal forest reaching for a tilted sky. Our limbs waiting in catch positions, for the silver rain to fall!
There was organization to the chaos. For we all knew the routine. Grab it and move out of the way! I could hear paper ripping behind me already! My body tingled as my turn came, “Don’t miss!” I prayed silently through my frosty breath.
The man in the navy wool coat looked directly at me. My dancing eyes followed his lift and strong toss. He grinned widely as I barely caught the package and then pulled it in tight. I shouted my thanks and hurriedly moved out of the way. The other noisy, scrambling children surged forward to replace us. I searched for my brother behind the throng. He was holding his package, gently turning it this way and that, savoring every minute of his last one. I walked slowly and thoughtfully toward him. I was not in a hurry to invade his moment. Lifting my box to my ear, I shook it carefully and then harder, when I decided it wasn’t fragile. There was a satisfying sound of muffl-i-ness.
I reached Johnny and his eyes met mine and we answered the age old question, “Yes, we will wait until Christmas morning to open them!” We walked back home in silence. So I took the time to study my box thoroughly. The silver wrapping paper was crumpled from where I caught it. The blue velvet bow was crushed from my hug. But I didn’t care that it wasn’t in perfect condition. I was content with the knowledge that I got two gifts, today the receiving and tomorrow the opening.
We returned home, chilled from the setting sun, but warm with gratitude. Johnny and I place our presents in front of the fireplace. We rushed to bed, but we made sure we thanked God that there was someone out there who cared enough to make our lives a little bit better simply because they had so much. We also vowed out loud that someday, we would do the same.
Startled out of my memories by the loud chorus of, “Thank you, Dr. Jenny Upton, Johnny and Mary! Merry Christmas!” I responded with, “You’re welcome and may we all have many more!” Now misty eyed, I tried not to remember too hard that Johnny joined the army and died in the war. He never got to fulfill his promise and I almost forgot to fulfill mine. I whispered to him, “I swear I will do this every year from the both of us.”
sma
smg
(a writing assignment for a class that was inspired by Cynthia Rylant's, Silver Packages)
I watched my children pass out Christmas Eve gifts to the children in the terminally ill ward. We had bought them the day before. We wrapped them in colorful paper this morning, complete with ribbons and bows. Both my kids were excited to help the community in someway. It had been their idea planted by the pastor at church last Sunday and unintentionally by a story I had told them of my childhood. So they reminded me of a promise I had once made with my brother. I had been more than happy to help fulfill their giving spirits and placate my past ghosts. Now listening to the excited voices that reflected joy and no pain from their illnesses, I was very glad again and fell into reminiscing. . .
It took Johnny and me longer than usual to arrive at the train station. The snow had fallen silently, but fast last night. There was only a thin hard crust on top and it couldn’t hold us up. I had sunk knee-deep and struggled to get out. It left me with souvenirs of clingy, balls of ice on my boot laces, dark grey wool skirt and the edges of my matching jacket. I’d semi-grumpily decided that it was pointless to pick them off. If the ice remained the same consistency, then I’d only collect more on the way home. Plus my gloves were too thin to handle getting any wetter. Sighing forcefully enough to see my breath, I focused on the fact that Johnny and I were in the same spot as last year. I could tell because of the weirdly bent nail. It reminded me of a hunched over old gnome. Glancing around, I wondered if everyone was in the same spot as last year. I could see that the Murray twins were across from us, just like previous time. They were staring hard down the tracks. I followed their gaze down the endless black line. The frosted rails seem to shiver in cold excitement with me. Soon the train would rush toward us, spraying ice and snow into a thick mist. We would scream in delight knowing when it settled, the most important car, the one in last place, would appear. The Red Caboose that contained the rich man and his overwhelming generosity.
My brother, Johnny, causally chatted with his friend, Ryan. They were both older by five years. This would be their last year to receive the gift. I checked to see if they were sad. But their faces were a study of feigned indifference. The only thing giving them away was when their eyes darted furtively down the line. Then they would mask it with a look of contempt if anyone intercepted their glance.
Ignoring them, I decided to imagine how the big the shiny silver boxes would be this year. Would they be small enough to fit one hand? Two? Would it be too big to hold like last year? I had trouble walking home because I couldn’t see over the top. I contemplated if I wanted, when the package was shaken, for it to jingle or sound muffled? This year I was hoping for muffled!
Oh, how the air bit at my nose and snuck into the openings of my old clothes. However, sensing the time was at hand, I refused to let it dampen my spirits. Yanking my coat down, and rubbing my hands up and down my arms I smiled joyfully at the noon day sun. It made the glittering, white snow twinkle and tease, “Soon, soon!”
My ears perked up, I turned my head and strained my neck to look down the thousand miles of steel. I could see it, the black-gray smoke signaling the engine’s efforts in its rhythmic approach! I yelled ecstatically with all the others, “I see it, I see it!”
Eagerly pressing forward with the crowd, my arms outstretched. We all were reaching for the carousel ring. Some of our arms were longer, some shorter, but all were the same length in desire. I wondered if he thought we looked like a horizontal forest reaching for a tilted sky. Our limbs waiting in catch positions, for the silver rain to fall!
There was organization to the chaos. For we all knew the routine. Grab it and move out of the way! I could hear paper ripping behind me already! My body tingled as my turn came, “Don’t miss!” I prayed silently through my frosty breath.
The man in the navy wool coat looked directly at me. My dancing eyes followed his lift and strong toss. He grinned widely as I barely caught the package and then pulled it in tight. I shouted my thanks and hurriedly moved out of the way. The other noisy, scrambling children surged forward to replace us. I searched for my brother behind the throng. He was holding his package, gently turning it this way and that, savoring every minute of his last one. I walked slowly and thoughtfully toward him. I was not in a hurry to invade his moment. Lifting my box to my ear, I shook it carefully and then harder, when I decided it wasn’t fragile. There was a satisfying sound of muffl-i-ness.
I reached Johnny and his eyes met mine and we answered the age old question, “Yes, we will wait until Christmas morning to open them!” We walked back home in silence. So I took the time to study my box thoroughly. The silver wrapping paper was crumpled from where I caught it. The blue velvet bow was crushed from my hug. But I didn’t care that it wasn’t in perfect condition. I was content with the knowledge that I got two gifts, today the receiving and tomorrow the opening.
We returned home, chilled from the setting sun, but warm with gratitude. Johnny and I place our presents in front of the fireplace. We rushed to bed, but we made sure we thanked God that there was someone out there who cared enough to make our lives a little bit better simply because they had so much. We also vowed out loud that someday, we would do the same.
Startled out of my memories by the loud chorus of, “Thank you, Dr. Jenny Upton, Johnny and Mary! Merry Christmas!” I responded with, “You’re welcome and may we all have many more!” Now misty eyed, I tried not to remember too hard that Johnny joined the army and died in the war. He never got to fulfill his promise and I almost forgot to fulfill mine. I whispered to him, “I swear I will do this every year from the both of us.”
sma
smg
(a writing assignment for a class that was inspired by Cynthia Rylant's, Silver Packages)
Let the Past Go
I'm supposed to
let the past go
It's so hard
It tempers every decision
every knee-jerk reaction
All become suspect
because of one
abuser
So my now, my future
though innocent
'til proven
guilty
gets blamed
anyway
for shades of meaning
I attach to words
which
are simply
and
exactly
what you say
nothing more
nothing less
But I fear
imaginary hurts
and condemn you
my soul-mate
to be hanged
and me to
live in pain
for I cannot
let the past go
Revenge
I will
trust you
until you hurt me
and then
you will wonder
what happened
to my innocence
as I pull
your shallow knife
from my back,
hand it back to you clean.
For I will not turn the other cheek,
but I will not sink to your level.
Be wary of me
for when I strike,
it will be justfied
and it will have been you
who have sunk the knife
into yourself
by your own actions.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
A Shot in the Dark
The abyss is
so very dark
and deceptive
hiding death
beneath its
liquid surface
an accumulation of
all negative emotions
Reflectively alive and
waiting expectantly,
patiently
for the ones
who think
they are above
such things
the ones
who lived
using others' pain
as their
foundation
for their houses
of evil
even in the face
of the Reaper's
impartial grin
and beckoning
skeletal finger
hovering above
midnight stillness
of the infamous
lake of time
they deny it
evidence
bloody flesh,
ground up bones,
broken dreams
embedded in their feet
dripping from
outstretched hands
pleading their guilt,
their sociopathic
behavior away
Its hollow voice
reverberates
through their souls
indifferently asking
To Heaven
or to Hell?
Pray mortal
for what
made you think
you
could walk on water
could walk on water
on the way to eternity
frozen eyes reflect
the cool blue sky
a contrast to
their terror
rising as
they are
rising as
they are
sinking
below
into
mercury-like tar
below
into
mercury-like tar
oozes around
naked ankles
pulling them down
no time to drown
realization hits
too late
the first shot
the one that
damned them
to be one
with the shadows
was when
they took their
the first victim -
themselves
The metallic tones
of the Reaper
vibrates with their body's
violent shivers
It laughs
So, do you still think
you're above all these
emotions
Especially now
you're alone
with the karmic bullet
traveling toward you
in the dark?
you're alone
with the karmic bullet
traveling toward you
in the dark?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Don't Block the Sun
"It was colder than. . ." I stop my complaining and stare at my companion. Realizing sadly, I have had nothing but complaints since arriving in San Fransisco two days ago. Perhaps I should compare the weather to my heart. Dead heavy like Alcatraz.
She looks at me questioningly from under the straw hat I got her from Chile. I shrug and point to a pelican effortlessly skimming the cat paws. She's temporarily distracted. We lean over the pier railing and watch its progress towards the beach. Both of us smile as it lands, stretches it wings in a blanket of white, neatly bringing them into settle.
The buzzer in my pocket tells me the table is ready. We head into the restaurant and the tiny waitress bobs her head in welcome. She reminds me of a sand piper as she skirts between the tables, her bare legs moving to the rhythm of the search. I acknowledge her triumph for seating us at a prime spot. She beams at me and flourishes the menus. Her voice high as she quickly rattles off the specials. Thanking her, I scan the choices. Nothing appeals to me, hunger seems to belong to the past. I impatiently shove the sticky plastic to the side while listening to my friend moan and groan in delight over the numerous seafood dishes. Normally, I feel amusement and pleasure in treating her to a lifestyle I take for granted.
Sitting by the window is a huge relief. I can feel panic rise at being indoors with so many around. These walls slant too much. I feel like they could fall any second. Looking out to the sea, the far horizon has my complete attention. I attempt to slow my breath. Sunset takes over, happening in its typical Hollywood cliche. That thought does nothing to calm me. I scoot my chair back involuntarily, rising abruptly until my ice blue eyes meet two chocolate brown ones with ridiculously long lashes. Why don't I feel relief that these are alive and well, and telling me that reprieve from the inquisition is now over. I reluctantly sit.
"Miri," her voice concerned and firm. "I order you, as your best friend, to tell me what happened last week."
My voice catches. "Cassie!" Shake my head in denial. Images flash insistently across my mind. I can't stop the ticker tape alerts that want their information known. I want to be able to have her reach in and tear the lifeless, joyless weight from my chest. Expose it to the world and maybe there would be someone who could fix it. Or at least bury it. The words are not forthcoming.
Her voice soft, "I know I wasn't there, but reading an article on you . . . the lousy explanation they gave!" The tears coming down her face, leaving trails, pushing the powder to the edge of her chin, reminds me of. . .
The mud and debris doesn't hide everything. The slide shoved everything together. Jumbling living and non-living together. Giant bulldozer run by Mother Nature's' indifference. Everyone's dirty grim faces try not to imagine what pieces of cloth showing through might still be attached to.
I stand on top of what I think is the crumpled remains of one of the many touristy shops I was in yesterday. My news crew and I carefully pick our way across the devastation. No one wants to add to the noise. Sounds of workers, wailing, dogs barking, boats, and various vehicles all blend to the background.
Uneasy, I turn to face the ocean. Intuition leads me to a spot in the middle of the street. Something catches my ear. I think I hear a small voice, muffled under two walls. A rescuer is walking lightly across the top of the leaning one. I could see the one caving under his weight. Plaster raining down. The voice in my soul urges haste. Hurrying over, I yell in Spanish, "no se muevan la pared va a caerse!" The worker stops and inches his way back down. In my limited Spanish, I frantically point under the wall. He gets that I heard a voice. Yelling for more help. We all begin to move what we could. Sounds of pain reaches us. We cheer and begin shouting reassurances.
I find the body of an adult male first. Rolling him out of the way, I find her. Maybe six years old? I recognize her. She was in the same shop, yesterday, with her dad. They were buying her big brother a gorra azul. His old baseball cap was too dirty. I happened to be buying my best friend a Chupallas to use as a beach hat. We talked briefly. Both her and father teasing me for being country.
"Me llamo Miri. Me recuerdas? Como te llamas?" She grins and winces. Her front teeth are missing. I wonder if she'll get them for Christmas. I try to smile, realizing that's an American thing. Then my tears threaten to come. Her legs are wrong. She's broken, barely alive. I doubt she'll see tomorrow. I want to move her, but I'm afraid until she whispers, "Por favor, queiro ver el sol."
A rescuer taps me on the shoulder. Our faces show our agreement of the situation. I lift her, she whimpers a little in pain, her legs dangle useless over my arms. Her chest doesn't rise much with breath. She raises her hand, in it is her brother's blue baseball cap. I remember, they were to give it to him when they returned home. . .today! My tears fall freely now, I have my gift safe in the van.
I walk her to the place in the road where I first heard her. The afternoon sun is brillant. My crew has been filming the whole time. I feel rage at the intrusive cameras. Turning my back to them. I sit with her in my arms. Eyes flutter open, hazel, fringed with black. Eyes that will soon see God. I tenderly stroke her face, moving her hair off her face. Her parched lips move, I lean forward, she presses her brother's cap into my hand. At her last whisper, I lean back and let the sunlight touch her face. She sighs. Happiness, relief and stillness become her death mask.
"She never gave me her name." Cassie grabs my hands across the table. We're both weeping, my heart melting into emotion. "She said, as she handed me the hat, 'Gracias, Senora, no quiero morir en la oscuridad. Thank you, I didn't want to die in the dark.'"
She looks at me questioningly from under the straw hat I got her from Chile. I shrug and point to a pelican effortlessly skimming the cat paws. She's temporarily distracted. We lean over the pier railing and watch its progress towards the beach. Both of us smile as it lands, stretches it wings in a blanket of white, neatly bringing them into settle.
The buzzer in my pocket tells me the table is ready. We head into the restaurant and the tiny waitress bobs her head in welcome. She reminds me of a sand piper as she skirts between the tables, her bare legs moving to the rhythm of the search. I acknowledge her triumph for seating us at a prime spot. She beams at me and flourishes the menus. Her voice high as she quickly rattles off the specials. Thanking her, I scan the choices. Nothing appeals to me, hunger seems to belong to the past. I impatiently shove the sticky plastic to the side while listening to my friend moan and groan in delight over the numerous seafood dishes. Normally, I feel amusement and pleasure in treating her to a lifestyle I take for granted.
Sitting by the window is a huge relief. I can feel panic rise at being indoors with so many around. These walls slant too much. I feel like they could fall any second. Looking out to the sea, the far horizon has my complete attention. I attempt to slow my breath. Sunset takes over, happening in its typical Hollywood cliche. That thought does nothing to calm me. I scoot my chair back involuntarily, rising abruptly until my ice blue eyes meet two chocolate brown ones with ridiculously long lashes. Why don't I feel relief that these are alive and well, and telling me that reprieve from the inquisition is now over. I reluctantly sit.
"Miri," her voice concerned and firm. "I order you, as your best friend, to tell me what happened last week."
My voice catches. "Cassie!" Shake my head in denial. Images flash insistently across my mind. I can't stop the ticker tape alerts that want their information known. I want to be able to have her reach in and tear the lifeless, joyless weight from my chest. Expose it to the world and maybe there would be someone who could fix it. Or at least bury it. The words are not forthcoming.
Her voice soft, "I know I wasn't there, but reading an article on you . . . the lousy explanation they gave!" The tears coming down her face, leaving trails, pushing the powder to the edge of her chin, reminds me of. . .
The mud and debris doesn't hide everything. The slide shoved everything together. Jumbling living and non-living together. Giant bulldozer run by Mother Nature's' indifference. Everyone's dirty grim faces try not to imagine what pieces of cloth showing through might still be attached to.
I stand on top of what I think is the crumpled remains of one of the many touristy shops I was in yesterday. My news crew and I carefully pick our way across the devastation. No one wants to add to the noise. Sounds of workers, wailing, dogs barking, boats, and various vehicles all blend to the background.
Uneasy, I turn to face the ocean. Intuition leads me to a spot in the middle of the street. Something catches my ear. I think I hear a small voice, muffled under two walls. A rescuer is walking lightly across the top of the leaning one. I could see the one caving under his weight. Plaster raining down. The voice in my soul urges haste. Hurrying over, I yell in Spanish, "no se muevan la pared va a caerse!" The worker stops and inches his way back down. In my limited Spanish, I frantically point under the wall. He gets that I heard a voice. Yelling for more help. We all begin to move what we could. Sounds of pain reaches us. We cheer and begin shouting reassurances.
I find the body of an adult male first. Rolling him out of the way, I find her. Maybe six years old? I recognize her. She was in the same shop, yesterday, with her dad. They were buying her big brother a gorra azul. His old baseball cap was too dirty. I happened to be buying my best friend a Chupallas to use as a beach hat. We talked briefly. Both her and father teasing me for being country.
"Me llamo Miri. Me recuerdas? Como te llamas?" She grins and winces. Her front teeth are missing. I wonder if she'll get them for Christmas. I try to smile, realizing that's an American thing. Then my tears threaten to come. Her legs are wrong. She's broken, barely alive. I doubt she'll see tomorrow. I want to move her, but I'm afraid until she whispers, "Por favor, queiro ver el sol."
A rescuer taps me on the shoulder. Our faces show our agreement of the situation. I lift her, she whimpers a little in pain, her legs dangle useless over my arms. Her chest doesn't rise much with breath. She raises her hand, in it is her brother's blue baseball cap. I remember, they were to give it to him when they returned home. . .today! My tears fall freely now, I have my gift safe in the van.
I walk her to the place in the road where I first heard her. The afternoon sun is brillant. My crew has been filming the whole time. I feel rage at the intrusive cameras. Turning my back to them. I sit with her in my arms. Eyes flutter open, hazel, fringed with black. Eyes that will soon see God. I tenderly stroke her face, moving her hair off her face. Her parched lips move, I lean forward, she presses her brother's cap into my hand. At her last whisper, I lean back and let the sunlight touch her face. She sighs. Happiness, relief and stillness become her death mask.
"She never gave me her name." Cassie grabs my hands across the table. We're both weeping, my heart melting into emotion. "She said, as she handed me the hat, 'Gracias, Senora, no quiero morir en la oscuridad. Thank you, I didn't want to die in the dark.'"
Your Band
Music takes you away from me
the louder it plays, the further you go
When it ends. . .what then?
You return, content
reeking of smoke, stale sweat
other girl's scent
And I'm at home alone
babies asleep
tears unshed
sleepless in a huge bed
The times you return
are never the same
But you return
eventually
to me
my eager embrace
inspite of an accusatory face
I welcome you
love, relief and now
I can sleep
feel safe
until the next time
you go
and then once again
I'll
grieve
Saturday, March 6, 2010
All the Same
It all sounds the same
in the end
upon
serious reflection
the stylized retell
the vocabulary
may differ
but
the stories are mine
and they are yours
how you know me so well
I am you or are you me
time will show
as we end
our lives
in the same way
taking our last breath
of Earth's
atmosphere
Thursday, March 4, 2010
No Corruption of Evidence
I wait
patiently
a bullfrog
submerged
in pond muck
clear golden eyes
unblinking
I know
he's the fly
drawn to death's
silence
to prove life
he buzzes close
loudly
tempting fates
air currents
alert the prosecuter
the defendant
is guilty
The stillness
of stagnant waters
breaks
bubble gum pink
lashes out
lightening quick
delivers the sentence
effectively
timely
life for a life
and no
corruption
of evidence
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Agony
Your rage
injures me
my pain
poisons you
We shouldn't
be together
I cry constantly
you leave
instantly
The knife
is buried
deep
My rage
injures you
Your pain
poisons me
We shouldn't
be together
You snarl
viciously
I weep
incessantly
The arrows
gone
straight through
We killed
so slowly
Love died
so ugly
and yet,
we stayed
together
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Lady
Lady,
I don't know you
but
I can tell
you have a story
it's written all
over you
your face
young
bruised
and make-up
can't hide
what's on the outside
nor does it disguise
what's radiating
from within
you're marked
a victim
does he hit you when he's sober
and excuse it 'cuz he's drunk
you'll say
with downcast eyes
"I caught my sweater
on the banister
and tripped"
You're
carrying your
10th load
of laundry
containing the stains
of an afternoon
of misery
Lady,
why do you stay?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Still I Stay
The dark circle showing nights
of not knowing
exactly why things
come about
the way they do
I wonder who it is I married
I wonder if he'll notice
I didn't greet
his staggering steps
this time
I watch
shaking hand pour another
tender feelings I once felt
spill to the floor
with the rhythm
of overflowing foam
I cloak myself
in the darkness
of the dead-end stairway
I step out to ask, "Why?"
Only to encounter
eyes
red
like the soda and wine
he's now drinking
His anger rises with the bubbles
exploding words
Whore. . .bitch,
you cold-hearted. . .
he slurs
Does he mean it?
He's drunk, he can't know
A flicker of mean intelligence
emerges
pin-point pupils
He knows.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Cinnamon Mist
Home alone, heavy silence. Dawn, yet to show her colors. The weight of my sins leave me plastered and numb to the chair. At least my eyes could stare out the window. Thank heaven, the strength to open the blinds in the living room hadn't deserted me before grief came kicking its way in and knocking me on my ass. The phone call was like a sword used to cut out a splinter instead of a needle carefully coaxing the pain out. No sympathy exists for either of the conversants. Both rise, weapons drawn and ready to wound. The brutal surgery leaves my heart slowly beating on the dark wood surface. My body, waits patiently to shudder with its last breath, imagines the timing would be with the last weak beat of my broken soul, the accompanying words, "It's all your fault." Horrible thinking I can die, un-absolved.
The rosy fingers of morning peek over the hills. I want to feel the wonder, the miracle of birthing a new day. Instead I close my eyes against the positive, allowing the tears to well over for my losses and forcing myself into realizing the undeniable. It is and always will be a two-for-one deal. Sobs wrack my body, while indulging in self-pity, for how long was unknown? The sun, pierces my personal darkness, orders me to view the invading light. It was like the voice on the other end of the line. He is cold and righteous while informing me of my treason. The reasons for the end. How I caused the death of all that was good in the world.
Suddenly, the sun is above the hills, journeying west across the high desert. Is it really the afternoon? The birds flit hungrily between the yards. While chattering away their complaints, rabbits timidly creep into the yard, looking for the scraps of compost I deliberately dropped on my way to the worm bin. I want to feel guilt for not fulfilling my daily duties. Instead, I wonder if I was alive, for hunger did not wake my belly. The heart barely pulses against its current position on the floor. Instead words, like the air, invade my space, pulling, demanding to be examined. Beating against my mind.
I left a message last night. It severed all claims he had on me and I on him. Freedom was given on both ends. My inner peace was restored. I was simply to spend the next few weeks in recovery. That it was shattered so easily by my enemy lover was a sour defeat! Relief was supposed to be his to cherish. The asshole was successful in making it all my responsibility. Bitterly deciding that it was easy to win when attacking a person who had been asleep at four in the morning! Dreaming of a future unhindered by the unwanted. His accusations of murder. Yet, he had been the one to attack me recently, causing injuries to two.
As I try to follow his train of thought that he had after the witching hour, and my pathetic agreement to his logic, the sky begins darkening. A howling wind tears through my backyard, the animals vanish in minutes before. Slam! Slam! The old fence on both sides violently fall, raising reddish sand. The dirt gathers in cyclonic fashion turning the clear day into a cinnamon haze. The dust devil dances toward the house. I remain sitting, frozen. Somehow my heart fearfully returns, thumping against my chest. Then I stand, mesmerized, lethargy gone, meeting Mother Nature's wrath. Whispering to the pitted glass that I am sorry; I never meant to be out of control with that man; I never meant to destroy two families; I never meant for the baby to die. The tornado charges the window. Shattering flying shards forcing me back. Tripping over my blanket-tangled feet, I fall, raising my arms futilely against a glass rain. Abruptly as it appeared, it is gone. Eerie stillness reigns, the rose brown still shading the skies above my house. I murmur a prayer of grief and gratitude. A faint voice in the settling mist responds, "You'll join your baby later." On my knees, head lowered, youth's arrogance humbled, I kept repeating my words. And I know, as dusk slips in, that somehow I am forgiven.
The rosy fingers of morning peek over the hills. I want to feel the wonder, the miracle of birthing a new day. Instead I close my eyes against the positive, allowing the tears to well over for my losses and forcing myself into realizing the undeniable. It is and always will be a two-for-one deal. Sobs wrack my body, while indulging in self-pity, for how long was unknown? The sun, pierces my personal darkness, orders me to view the invading light. It was like the voice on the other end of the line. He is cold and righteous while informing me of my treason. The reasons for the end. How I caused the death of all that was good in the world.
Suddenly, the sun is above the hills, journeying west across the high desert. Is it really the afternoon? The birds flit hungrily between the yards. While chattering away their complaints, rabbits timidly creep into the yard, looking for the scraps of compost I deliberately dropped on my way to the worm bin. I want to feel guilt for not fulfilling my daily duties. Instead, I wonder if I was alive, for hunger did not wake my belly. The heart barely pulses against its current position on the floor. Instead words, like the air, invade my space, pulling, demanding to be examined. Beating against my mind.
I left a message last night. It severed all claims he had on me and I on him. Freedom was given on both ends. My inner peace was restored. I was simply to spend the next few weeks in recovery. That it was shattered so easily by my enemy lover was a sour defeat! Relief was supposed to be his to cherish. The asshole was successful in making it all my responsibility. Bitterly deciding that it was easy to win when attacking a person who had been asleep at four in the morning! Dreaming of a future unhindered by the unwanted. His accusations of murder. Yet, he had been the one to attack me recently, causing injuries to two.
As I try to follow his train of thought that he had after the witching hour, and my pathetic agreement to his logic, the sky begins darkening. A howling wind tears through my backyard, the animals vanish in minutes before. Slam! Slam! The old fence on both sides violently fall, raising reddish sand. The dirt gathers in cyclonic fashion turning the clear day into a cinnamon haze. The dust devil dances toward the house. I remain sitting, frozen. Somehow my heart fearfully returns, thumping against my chest. Then I stand, mesmerized, lethargy gone, meeting Mother Nature's wrath. Whispering to the pitted glass that I am sorry; I never meant to be out of control with that man; I never meant to destroy two families; I never meant for the baby to die. The tornado charges the window. Shattering flying shards forcing me back. Tripping over my blanket-tangled feet, I fall, raising my arms futilely against a glass rain. Abruptly as it appeared, it is gone. Eerie stillness reigns, the rose brown still shading the skies above my house. I murmur a prayer of grief and gratitude. A faint voice in the settling mist responds, "You'll join your baby later." On my knees, head lowered, youth's arrogance humbled, I kept repeating my words. And I know, as dusk slips in, that somehow I am forgiven.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Heartbreak
You kill me. You're the second person to throw me away. I am the trash that you took out and left, forgotten, on the curb. Why think of me anymore, someone will make sure I'll be seen no more. Your rough hands clean of any crime. So I sit, devastated with my secret. Heartbreak sets in. For you are not discarding one, but two.
How happy your reunion must be with the woman you told me you divorced! Back to normal is what you think. Back to an old woman you can control, hit, kick, grab and shake. Sad, to learn she takes you back with gratitude for the familiar routine of the machismo male, telling her how to live, look, and love. Has she not lived in America long enough to have learned? But no, she will take the money that you will give her, as long as she complies. She will obediently be deaf, mute and blind to your indiscretions. She will smile with unshed tears in her eyes to all your lies. I realize that you love to hurt others by trying to make them the fool, to deceive, to prove you are on top, warranted or not. You love your ego to be inflated, especially when you do it yourself. I will wait patiently for karma to knock you down.
I can't live that way, my children will not live that way. This baby will never know you for a father. I will not be thrown away. I stand and remove myself from the dirty edge. Determination and self-love kick in! Confidently I step away from the black bags. I dumped your ass and for good reason. The abuse, the inability to keep up with me in bed, your pathetic income, lack of education and the Napoleon complex! Obviously only one of us can handle the truth. I am better than you. I am beautiful and I am back in control. That is why you left, for I am the queen and you are the serf. Tenderly, I touch my belly. Into the world I will bring a strong-willed child that will not be taken in by others' bullshit. I am the one with the power to show her, for I learned the hard way. That, I can and will thank you. And now, walking back to a clean world, I am over my heartbreak, for you are not worth being broken for.
How happy your reunion must be with the woman you told me you divorced! Back to normal is what you think. Back to an old woman you can control, hit, kick, grab and shake. Sad, to learn she takes you back with gratitude for the familiar routine of the machismo male, telling her how to live, look, and love. Has she not lived in America long enough to have learned? But no, she will take the money that you will give her, as long as she complies. She will obediently be deaf, mute and blind to your indiscretions. She will smile with unshed tears in her eyes to all your lies. I realize that you love to hurt others by trying to make them the fool, to deceive, to prove you are on top, warranted or not. You love your ego to be inflated, especially when you do it yourself. I will wait patiently for karma to knock you down.
I can't live that way, my children will not live that way. This baby will never know you for a father. I will not be thrown away. I stand and remove myself from the dirty edge. Determination and self-love kick in! Confidently I step away from the black bags. I dumped your ass and for good reason. The abuse, the inability to keep up with me in bed, your pathetic income, lack of education and the Napoleon complex! Obviously only one of us can handle the truth. I am better than you. I am beautiful and I am back in control. That is why you left, for I am the queen and you are the serf. Tenderly, I touch my belly. Into the world I will bring a strong-willed child that will not be taken in by others' bullshit. I am the one with the power to show her, for I learned the hard way. That, I can and will thank you. And now, walking back to a clean world, I am over my heartbreak, for you are not worth being broken for.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Dirty blood
"I hate you," my voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. I didn't recognize myself. Just so fucking exhausted, tired of pretending to feel. The rage was down to an ember. No energy to fuel it, to make myself fight back.
His old black eyes glittered contempt. "There's no escaping me." The mocking voice that was once so sexy and deep made me shudder now.
My shoulders barely shrugged in response to his apparently factual statement. He was convinced he owned me. I could barely remember how I got trapped by the bastard in the first place. Had it been five years? It felt longer, forever trapped in quicksand. Lured by the seemingly solid surface, beautiful warm beach sand, gently sinking ever more surely to the death of my soul. I remembered once, that I tried to reach for the thin tree branch that grew over the pit. My hand tried to work its way back up, then paused, wondering if it was still afraid of freedom.
"Darling, I want you to leave and be on time. . .please." I tried to sound like I was pleading. "Honey, don't you need to go to work?" Of course I failed miserably. He came toward me anyway. "Lila, darling, I took the day off for you, just for you." He was drooling poison, his grin and movements were that of the Komodo dragon. Slow deliberate, then lightning fast. I wished I could run, but he'd broken my leg with one well placed hammer blow. The cast was heavy and he had deliberately placed the crutches out of range. I had left the house last week without his permission. But, if I hadn't gone to get milk, he would have beat me for not going.
He told the cops that I fell of the ladder. I obediently nodded. The younger cop didn't believe me. Officer Johnson kindly tried to speak to me alone. The cop gently said that the x-rays told a different story. Dr. Rainey was concerned. Then he told me about his poor abused mother. I simply responded that I had fallen, foolishly trying to clean the rain gutters on my own. The sorrowful look on his face almost overpowered the threatening one of Daemon's through the grided glass of the hospital room.
I closed my eyes to my stupidity. The young cop would have saved me. But I had no interest in saving myself. Sick, mentally sick, that's what I am. The bed sank w/ Daemon's weight. A calloused hand with slender fingers caressed my face. Oh, I remembered when that hand could bring me to my knees with desire. Now I was trained to expect pain. I flinched when the touching stopped. He laughed, for he knew my expectations.
"Not today Lila, my little love, I brought you a present." Quickly I opened my eyes and feigned surprise. It would help me postpone the beating, if I could fake excitement well enough. He waved a pregnancy test at me. That's why the birth control had been withheld from me.
"It's time to have a child." His pants were already undone and placed on the seat. He kept his fucking socks on. The box was carefully set down on the nightstand. Then shirt was pulled off, showing his six pack. He folded it carefully over the chair back. In the mirror he flexed and admired himself. I used to help build that ego.
Watching him in his never changing routine, caused my charcoal rage to glow. As my imagination began to churn, sparks began to appear. If I had a daughter, what would he do to her? I don't want her to grow up weak like me. Sparks became flames. If I had a son, how would he be turned against me? I didn't want him to turn out like his father. I begin to scream over and over again, "NO!" Daemon grabbed the covers roughly off of me. He hit my cast, punched me in the stomach. The shock of pain, caused me to whimper. It turned him on. Quickly he was on top, pulled my pj's off. Then I hyper-focused, turned inward, and turned my fury cold. Can't burn the branch from the tree that had been growing down and thick toward the quicksand just for me. Like a banshee bent on vengence, my spirit rose from its sandy grave. "NO!" tore through the air to save the unborn souls, I reached under the pillow for the butter knife I had originally reserved for myself and began to stab him in the back, again and again and again. When all went still, I realized I had glorious red all over me. Somehow, he was lighter. Hopefully, because he went to hell. I shoved him off and called 911 and waited, while his dirty blood caked itself, his last chance to claim me.
His old black eyes glittered contempt. "There's no escaping me." The mocking voice that was once so sexy and deep made me shudder now.
My shoulders barely shrugged in response to his apparently factual statement. He was convinced he owned me. I could barely remember how I got trapped by the bastard in the first place. Had it been five years? It felt longer, forever trapped in quicksand. Lured by the seemingly solid surface, beautiful warm beach sand, gently sinking ever more surely to the death of my soul. I remembered once, that I tried to reach for the thin tree branch that grew over the pit. My hand tried to work its way back up, then paused, wondering if it was still afraid of freedom.
"Darling, I want you to leave and be on time. . .please." I tried to sound like I was pleading. "Honey, don't you need to go to work?" Of course I failed miserably. He came toward me anyway. "Lila, darling, I took the day off for you, just for you." He was drooling poison, his grin and movements were that of the Komodo dragon. Slow deliberate, then lightning fast. I wished I could run, but he'd broken my leg with one well placed hammer blow. The cast was heavy and he had deliberately placed the crutches out of range. I had left the house last week without his permission. But, if I hadn't gone to get milk, he would have beat me for not going.
He told the cops that I fell of the ladder. I obediently nodded. The younger cop didn't believe me. Officer Johnson kindly tried to speak to me alone. The cop gently said that the x-rays told a different story. Dr. Rainey was concerned. Then he told me about his poor abused mother. I simply responded that I had fallen, foolishly trying to clean the rain gutters on my own. The sorrowful look on his face almost overpowered the threatening one of Daemon's through the grided glass of the hospital room.
I closed my eyes to my stupidity. The young cop would have saved me. But I had no interest in saving myself. Sick, mentally sick, that's what I am. The bed sank w/ Daemon's weight. A calloused hand with slender fingers caressed my face. Oh, I remembered when that hand could bring me to my knees with desire. Now I was trained to expect pain. I flinched when the touching stopped. He laughed, for he knew my expectations.
"Not today Lila, my little love, I brought you a present." Quickly I opened my eyes and feigned surprise. It would help me postpone the beating, if I could fake excitement well enough. He waved a pregnancy test at me. That's why the birth control had been withheld from me.
"It's time to have a child." His pants were already undone and placed on the seat. He kept his fucking socks on. The box was carefully set down on the nightstand. Then shirt was pulled off, showing his six pack. He folded it carefully over the chair back. In the mirror he flexed and admired himself. I used to help build that ego.
Watching him in his never changing routine, caused my charcoal rage to glow. As my imagination began to churn, sparks began to appear. If I had a daughter, what would he do to her? I don't want her to grow up weak like me. Sparks became flames. If I had a son, how would he be turned against me? I didn't want him to turn out like his father. I begin to scream over and over again, "NO!" Daemon grabbed the covers roughly off of me. He hit my cast, punched me in the stomach. The shock of pain, caused me to whimper. It turned him on. Quickly he was on top, pulled my pj's off. Then I hyper-focused, turned inward, and turned my fury cold. Can't burn the branch from the tree that had been growing down and thick toward the quicksand just for me. Like a banshee bent on vengence, my spirit rose from its sandy grave. "NO!" tore through the air to save the unborn souls, I reached under the pillow for the butter knife I had originally reserved for myself and began to stab him in the back, again and again and again. When all went still, I realized I had glorious red all over me. Somehow, he was lighter. Hopefully, because he went to hell. I shoved him off and called 911 and waited, while his dirty blood caked itself, his last chance to claim me.
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