sing me to sleep
your arms wrapped around me
kiss my cheek
my brow
as passionately as you kiss my lips
show me that hands are made for kindness
and words are meant to elevate
and maybe, just maybe
my sharp edges will be smoothed
I will lay down my weapons
and allow you a glimpse inside
before you turn tail and run
apathy has settled in my heart
and in my bones
like a rare form of cancer
it eats at every cell of my being
it burrows into my marrow
consuming all I believed to be good
about you
about me
about the world
indifference is a sheath for my feelings
numbing any twinges of caring
but never halting the progression of my sickness
it will eat me up from the inside and leave nothing
but a shell
it was you
and you
and you
and even you
who gave me this disease
who left me with these symptoms
indicative of a greater malady
which left untreated
can bring about
the downfall of society
This time last year, I loved you, and thought there was still a small chance you loved me.
Now I wonder if you ever loved me, or if it was just easy to type because the words in print, held no weight.
It always seemed when we talked that you would have trouble forming the words in your mouth, and I don’t remember you ever saying it first, but only in response to my telling you.
I’m not sure what hurt worse: knowing you didn’t love me anymore, or the realization that you may have never loved me.
I hate the holidays.
For numerous reasons.
My parents divorced years ago, when I was around 12, and that is when my hatred of the holidays began.
Up until then, it had been presents, and aunts and uncles and cousins, and cinnamon applesauce salad, and grandmas and grandpa, and some damn ham, and crocheted ponchos for everyone. Except the boys, of course.
After the Big D, referred to as “A.D.” at our house, meaning “After Divorce”, everything changed.
A.D., we would spend Christmas Eve with my mom, and then my dad would pick us up on Christmas morning to take us to our grandma and grandpa’s.
I remember the sick feeling I’d get in my stomach at having to leave my mom home alone. I hated it, and would feel sad for her all day.
Even then I knew I never wanted to spend Christmas alone, while my imagined, future children went elsewhere, but oh, how things come to pass which we never expect.
Here I am, 30 plus years later, doing near the same thing: swapping holidays with my son’s father.
Every year, the closer it gets to the holidays, the more morose and irritable I seem to get. I want to skip them altogether and go straight to the New Year, because I’ve given up on trying to schedule time with my limited number of family members, whose schedules don’t ever jive, because of divorces and remarriages and extended families and step-families.
I realized this morning, I think this hatred derives from the fact I’m being eaten up with jealousy when the holidays roll around. I don’t have a husband, or a boyfriend, and my family seems scattered and all kinds of fucked up.
You sit over there with your Christmas card perfect spouse and kids, and their spouses, and maybe even a couple of grandkids running around at this point, and I hate you just a little bit.
I wonder why you deserve that family, and why I don’t.
All I ever wanted was to be a part of a big, loving family, and when I was really young, I thought that’s what I had. But then I grew up.
I grew up and discovered those types of families are mostly just myth.
Like unicorns, they don’t exist.
Families are messy.
Parents give each other the cold shoulder, or make biting comments about the others’ appearance, or sometimes have affairs they scream about during late night drunken fights, or god forbid over Thanksgiving dinner.
Siblings argue because they don’t like their sister’s choice in a mate so they refuse to sit down at the same table and dine with them, or you find out your brother had sex with your wife.
Kids grow up and are too busy to travel an hour or two to see their non-custodial parent, and when they’re forced to do it, they’re pissed off because they can’t be with their friends over Christmas break and they make everyone’s life miserable because of it.
And step-families become the first priority, and you will always have to take a back seat to their plans, and often figure out excuses not to attend combined functions because you don’t fit into their mix, and all you really want is just a few moments alone with your dad and your brother to make fart jokes and laugh.
Life in general, is messy, and fucked up, and complicated.
But right here, right now, I know this:
In 5 days I will drive to the airport to pick up my little boy, who now stands 6’2, and has a booming tenor voice, and who will soon be 15 years old, and in that moment, and the 10 days following that, I will be happy.
I will be happy because my boy is sleeping in his bed down the hall from me once again, and for 10 days, everything will be right with the world, regardless of what Christmas plans are made or kept, or how fucked up our family is.
I wish the same for you, and your fucked up family.
Peace on Earth and pass the vodka.
I hear the frantic yelling and I look up to see her attempting to usher kids out the front door, with tears running down her cheeks, and shame and fear written on her face.
An icy hand grips my intestines and squeezes because the scene is all too familiar. I have lived this life.
I ask if she wants me to call anyone for her. Does she have a place to go and take the children.
She tells me she can go to her mom’s as she tries to get a pair of socks on the bare feet of her young daughter.
I stand and I wait while she gets her purse from the house; the children’s father throws it out the door at her.
I’m ready to call the cops if I see him make any gesture towards her. He slams the door.
She leads the children down the steps to the car. Two are without coats, all are without shoes, and one is without socks.
I tell her it’s okay, I have been there. She doesn’t respond and I understand the embarrassment.
The little boy looks at me and I tell him it’s going to be okay, and he smiles.
I smile back.
* This took place last night as I left my mother’s house. It brought back too many memories. It left me with a huge rush of adrenaline–fight or flight terror. It left me grateful I am no longer living that life, and even more grateful my son never saw the really bad stuff. It also left me knowing she would go back to him, and I was right, her car was there this morning.
I can’t take it. . .I can’t take one more day of it. . .people and their righteousness. . .believing their way is the only way and their ideals should be everyone elses. . . and morals where did the morals go. . .you said you’re a Christian. . .that’s what you claim to be. . . that’s what all those fucking memes you post say. . . and you lecture Christianity and “God’s love” only to turn around and judge and judge and judge. . . your fear is showing. . .your dirty, disgusting fear. . . turned outside in you feel the need to ejaculate your fear on everyone. . . you think you know so much. . . your anger drives you to a place you might not recognize. . .you think keeping them all at arm’s length will save you. . .how foolish of you to think the enemy doesn’t walk among us already. . .just send them there or there or anywhere but here. . .I’ll send money or clothes or anything but just don’t make me face my fears. . .but you don’t send money and you don’t send clothes. . .and you continue to live in your little house of fear while expecting the sons and daughters and mothers and fathers to keep your doorstep safe. . . to cast themselves upon your purported enemy. . .never once considering the fact they might not withstand what is dished out. . .to shine a light so you can try to block out the dirty filthy truth. . .which is that Americans aren’t all so nice and kind. . .and look closely because how many of you would turn a blind eye to murder and rape and the destruction of cultures. . . just because it might keep the wolf of fear at bay. . .look in the mirror and try to see the person you really are. . . try to see the person you might be if wars of religious righteousness were being fought on this red white and blue soil of ours. . .what would you do to protect the child you pushed from inside of you. . .where would you run when all doors close in your face. . . because you my dear are a filthy American and you are guilty by association
*The recent attacks on Paris and the plight of the Syrian refugees weighs heavy on my mind. My Facebook feed has been bombarded with it, and people have sickened me with their rhetoric. I spoke to a friend about it this morning, and walked away from the conversation more emotional and confused than I was before. There are so many aspects of these issues, and conversations regarding them could go on forever. I felt the need to write this and release some of the thoughts and feelings in me. It’s not meant to be anti-American, or pro-Obama, or to enrage or incite. It’s just meant to help me deal with the fact I must learn to live in a world, surrounded by people who can’t place themselves in another’s shoes, because they’re too angry and frightened to allow it.
3:30 am – sling tits over side of bed, step on tit getting out of bed, sling tits over shoulders
3:32 am – dip tits in toilet while sitting down for the morning pee
3:35 am – get on treadmill for morning jog, try to hold tits up, but trip over tits and bang face on treadmill resulting in 2 black eyes
4:00 am – shower, put on makeup to cover up 2 black eyes, and try to decide on outfit that camouflages tits minus bra
4:30 am – make breakfast, burn nipple on burner
4:40 am – sit down to scrambled eggs and cheese, burn other nipple in hot cheese
5:00 am – stop at convenience store for gas, get out of car, slam tit in door, remove tit from door, attempt to pump gas and get other tit caught in squeeze handle, finally get tit loose when tank is full
5:15 am – go back home and put fucking bra on, because what’s the fucking point of this day?
I wrote this, obviously, with my tongue in my cheek. Breast cancer is a serious thing, but I don’t for one second believe that walking around all day with my tits drooping is going to bring awareness to breast cancer, anymore than guys walking around with their bollocks hanging out would bring attention to testicular cancer.
Honestly, I feel #NoBraDay is merely another way to sexualize boobs, and cloud the issue.
Men get to grow their facial hair to bring awareness to men’s cancers, but women should run around with their nipples showing to remind everyone that boobs can kill?
Boobs are many things—they’re sexual, they’re functional, they’re beautiful. They come in many shapes and sizes. And they can be deadly, just like so many other areas on a woman.
Ladies, be kind to your body and yourself, and get regular check-ups and mammograms. Guys, remind your ladies to take care of themselves because you want them around not only for the long haul, but to run their fingers through your beard during #Movember.
I knew the minute you held my hand
your fingers didn’t intertwine with mine
you didn’t grab it like you never wanted to let it go
it felt awkward
uncomfortable
like it was difficult for our palms to be touching
foreign and out of place
your hand was an intruder
it didn’t belong
after all that time
months spent loving your from afar
I knew the minute you held my hand
you didn’t really love me
Coffee cups stained from daily use
and the passage of time
minute cracks of the porcelain surface allowing the
infiltration of the smoky dark liquid
So much meaningless discourse meaning everything,
shared while clutching these cups
now warming arthritic fingers, tangled by tasks and touches
and years which have slipped by, often without notice
How many more times
will we fill the cups before one morning
One shall remain empty
*Posted originally on The Fat Bottom Bard.
I drink the wine
straight from the bottle
because there’s no need
for niceties anymore
No reason
to put on airs and pretend I’m sexy
So I don flannel pants and an oversized shirt
for comfort
Why do I allow you to take
all the good parts of me
when you go
*Originally posted on The Fat Bottom Bard.
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