It was the smell of old beer exhaled from lungs passing across a dip of Skoal that brought it all back. . .
hands tightening around my throat
threatening to stop the flow of precious air
knowing that he thought so little of me
that he didn’t care whether I lived or died
and that if he killed me he would feel no remorse
because he would believe
until his last breath
permeated with the smell of Bud Light and chew
that I deserved it
It all comes back to black
the color of rot and death
and a murder of crows
and of my insides
since I came across you
I want so much to shed the cloak of it
and experience other colors again
like red
the red of your blood
flowing from your nose
as my fist connects with it
gushing from your head
as the perfectly timed swing of my bat unites with your thick skull
dropping a trail from your bottom lip
as the back of my hand meets your lying mouth
but still
the red cannot compete with the black
so I wait for a source of light
to wash over me
and dilute it
and make it gray
you’re all just smoke and mirrors
and I choke in your presence
fearing you’re
a mere reflection of the worst parts of me
and that
maybe
I’ve conjured you into being
like some sort of voodoo priestess
I have drawn you to me
by being broken and bent
and you
seeing all the worst in me
know what I will do for love
or that thing
you disguise as love
dress it up
teach it to speak more better
(the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain)
take it out on parade
regardless
it never fails to be what it is
a sick, twisted display of your narcissism
What is the flaw within us
that doesn’t believe we are good enough
for good love
Why is it easier to accept
the love
which isn’t really love
but merely sickness masquerading
We give them the benefit of the doubt
because we believe
we can see the possibilities inside them
of which there are none
and even if there were potential
it’s not up to us to nurture them
Brother of mine
do not make the same mistakes I have made
it will not get better
but only worse every time
until it will culminate
into something she can’t take back
Run away from her little brother
as fast as you can
as far as you can
It may be lonely for awhile
but not as lonely as a tomb
The knowledge of it was too much
the pain and the shame it carried with it was too much
and it was like you didn’t even care
you didn’t care because you were too much too
it was all more than I wanted to deal with
drunk
fed up
I drained the last drink from the beer bottle
and I smashed it against the sink
you did nothing
as I stood there and began cutting
with that sharp piece of brown glass
I didn’t so much want an end
to my life
as I did to the knowledge
and the pain and the shame
cut
slice the skin and make me feel
some other type of pain
the physical more bearable than the emotional
the blood ran down my hand before you noticed
there was no comfort to be found in you
since I only wanted release from you too
I will never escape what you did
no matter how much I slice off
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.
lead my parched heart to an oasis before it dies of thirst
i have sand coursing through my veins
i cough dust and choke on the inhumanity of man
as i wash down the deceit with dirt
my body an empty shell
filled with the salt of the Dead Sea
bring me water on your tongue
for my shriveled soul
pick
pick pick pick
at it
pull
pull it apart
threads woven
unraveled
destructed
ripped
yanked
frayed
tattered
holes remain
which you hope can be
patched
I learned a valuable lesson today. I will never step foot in another gun range.
I was raised in Kansas. I grew up around guns. I have enjoyed shooting guns.
I don’t enjoy it anymore.
I’ve been “on edge” since my first go-round with abuse. I don’t like people sneaking up on me and touching me. I don’t like people jumping out from places and trying to scare me.
And after being beat up this last time, I really don’t like loud noises. They make me jump. They make my heart race.
I tried to go to the gun range with some co-workers today. I put the ear plugs in. I picked up the weapon.
Someone fired next to me. I jumped.
I fired. I jumped. T
The person next to me fired again. I jumped again.
I laid the weapon down and walked quickly out the door, escaping to the street.
I’m still shaking inside. I want to go home and lay down in my bed, where I still keep a baseball bat at arm’s reach, and sleep and forget how the sound made me feel.
I don’t want to be broken. I don’t want for stupid shit like this to mind-fuck me.
But one thing I’ve learned since going into therapy is that broken can’t be fixed.
Broken can only be mended.
Photo Credit: nutracenter.com
like a broken thermometer
so many tiny balls of poison(my insecurities)
scattering
rolling
hither and yon
hurry
gather them before anyone sees
the malignancy
dividing
growing
it seems impossible to contain them
just when I think I’ve got them all gathered
the pieces shatter
into more pieces
the number seems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . infinite. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
hurry
run and fetch the eyedropper
to suck up the toxic little balls
before they infiltrate
what’s good
sprinkle the sulfur and contain
every minute trace of the
contamination
seal them all up in a bag
dispose of them
properly
like the hazardous waste
that they are
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Fat Bottom Girl Said What 