Tag Archives: marriage

Here, kitty kitty…

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Here, kitty kitty…

You fit me well
In that sinister edge your laughter keeps
Making a mockery
Better than a living
Of me, and I pretend so well to love it

You do not know me

You wear me well
But cannot keep
Me, contained
In the guilt of your smile
You poor baby; you made me
Your fix, your crutch, your reason for being
Seldom what you seem
Turning me into a joke
Some permanence of blue
In your emptiness of green

And yet I’m the one short of worthy
You deem
It wasn’t enough
For you to tie me down
A mummified queen
Of this promised forever

If simply to breathe, I should ask your permission
If I seal my lips and sell my dreams
If I spend the money to buy into your mission–the satisfying of your own sick needs
Will you then say I’ve fared well as your wife?

If I resist the urge to peel the skin off your skull, set your frame on fire, blow your brains out just to watch you bleed
Then in my book it should suffice
(trust me)
As proof I must have loved you
If only a smidgen

If I close my eyes, keep still, be quiet
Return my silence for your emotional violence
If somehow I manage
To allow you your vices
Of snapping a soul in two just to suit you;
If I rise to the top like thickening oil
On the surface, I assure you
It means that you my dear, at least married well

I didn’t marry down;
I crawled straight to hell and took the name of the biggest beggar I found

Rob Peter to pay Paul

My life is a testament
To what happens to little girls
Who are never shown how
Why does marriage still exist?
Was I born just for this?
United with a state of unobtainable bliss

I grew up too quickly
Oblivion-rich
Of societal norms
I colored my world in shades of burnt orange
Forgetting the images subsequently absorbed
Were distorted, conformed
To my inner expectations
Of very little
And very often

We always get what it is we’ve expected

For me, it’s a lifetime of hide-and-seek
Bare-knuckled scream-thinking
Bruise-inclined heart-beating
White picket fences
And hearts to be mended
With skinned-shaking knees

I believed sweet dreams are made of these
Who wouldn’t like to disagree?

The cat accomplishes nothing
Out of the bag

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However “Ever After” Goes

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However “Ever After” Goes

The excitements purge and the dust settles
Time, taking its measurements in re-runs
And the shows aren’t even worth showing
Extra loud repetitions blaring the soundtrack to life’s mediocrity
Its meaninglessness so shrill in pitch
And did you know boring yourself to death is a noisy endeavor?
The laundry’s staled. Mildewed, despite re-starting the cycle fifty-eight times over
Three days have gone by? Add soap push start and forget about it
Over and over and over
Was marriage designed to be this hard?
Does everybody do it? Do you know what I mean?
Matrimony, the eternal scream and it’s a lot like the laundry these days; a bunch of bullshit I’d rather not do
With its moldy stench of unfinished business, of apathy, of not giving a damn, of dying another pointless death every time I get out of bed
I want to see him feel empty for once, stop giving a fuck, shit or get off the pot, give the whole thing up
As masterfully as I have
In the earlier days (before the TV sets died in the permanent-seeming on position)
I was the same, yet a different person
Alive, electric
Before peace caved in and lost its spine
I was in motion
Bidding my life to the proof of my worth
(as I thought it’d need proven)
By “doing my part”
With a permanent grin
Walking in such an effortless spirit of perpetual excellence
Prune-shriveled fingers yet manicured hands
Ironic how (while feigning confused disappointment) he now likes to remind me of what a cool person I was then
Before I quit wiping his piss off the floor in my boy shorts, before I quit wearing those sexy bandanas in my hair, before I learned how to kill him with my eyes, before my imagination died and the horizon collapsed, taking me hostage by the brutalities of domesticity implicit in being the chauvinist’s wife
I was cool.
I was a prized fighting champion with manners and class on my knees and hands scrubbing my way through the American (or my imaginary) Dream

Life is divided in two, but no one ever tells you
that the middle can suck you into itself
a black hole; an anti-matter; a one way ticket to the realization that you grew up to become a nobody

There’s a red sheet whipping in the winds of change, gripped by the hands of resistance
You can’t be the bull and the ringleader too
And so I dance, I dance my midlife away
While the gringo masters the art of futility
His every breath a burning desire to see me tamed
Hopes should never be set so high; birds are not born for a cage

Something Abused Women Never Tell You

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Something Abused Women Never Tell You

I am silenced and submissive
Raging inside, where beautiful ideas go to die

I’m half of myself; fractioned
Fractures hide themselves well
Collected, I am
A cool calm collection of them
The broken bits, loose screws unwinding

He says anger looks ugly on me
I stop wearing makeup and frowning, lower my voice and say please rather than fuck you

It isn’t enough.

He wants the rush, not the victory
The squeal, not the bacon
Though he enjoys both, he is satisfied
By neither, nothing, never
He bites my head off
For the volumous chew, the ratchet twist, the wretched way my body writhes with rebellion
The texture of misery is a taste he must’ve acquired

And love, you can’t imagine
But this is also what it looks like
The kind that can’t walk away
Or be firm in the boundaries
The kind that finds its secret pleasures
In the challenge of such a twisted duel
You don’t believe it and I don’t blame you
But this is love
Too

Stranded on the Shore

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Stranded on the Shore

Still and silent, the rage-laden whispers speak
Of possibilities in the form of forth-coming terrors
The horse’s mouth, bird beak, hushed words
Tale telling of a Go-See plot
And does it, so loudly unspoken
Against lost time, better judgement, all odds
Standing to remind of a broad daylight greed
A thief I never and always saw coming

The words that want so badly to never be said

Paint a picture, spin a web
Revealing what’s taken and can’t be returned: innocence, purpose, peace
Without words the secrets see them, rumor them around
The ugly truths, hidden horrors that bring my conscience to its knees and face to face with everything swept beneath the rug
For the sake and demise, equally, of my fragile mental well-being
What will my being become, if not well?
Will I live to hunt the answers down, the knot-tying fears for which my heart is broken and breaks?
The ceaseless prayers, the Nothing that’s changed
Am I the only one? The stand-alone widow, the petrified wood
Will the hand of God reach all the sense unmade?
Intervene, explain how I came to be in this place
Negate the reasons, the wild card
Played by the King of Spades
Savage; cripple
Keeper of my gate
I look into his eyes
And all I see
Is the exchange of his name for my entire life, my dreams of a future or anything worthwhile, my every breath and every move accounted for, my soul and my sense of belonging
In this world there are winners and losers
Sometimes it’s just luck of the draw
But this, this was something I chose
For myself, my children
I look into their eyes
And all I see
Is their entire life, their dreams of a future or anything worthwhile, their every breath and every move accounted for, their soul and sense of belonging
Teetering on the verge
Between manifest and unactual; my lifelong regret in the making
Who am I to tame the darkness, yet how am I to let it live?
Woman warrior, a mother I was always
First
I’ll be damned or dead if he gets the last word

The words that want so badly to never be said

Conversations With a Crazy Person

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Have you ever had one of those moments when it suddenly dawns on you that your brain is having a conversation with itself without any conscious effort on your part?

It happens to me every time I stop and pay attention to what my mind is doing.

My thoughts think for themselves. If I don’t have something demanding my undivided attention, my attention divides itself into a million pieces and gives each piece a full inspection. I know, it sounds crazy. See what I mean though? My brain can barely finish processing one idea before it flies into an over-analyzation autopilot.

I’ve always been this way. You know the type. I’m the girl who can barely get past “How’s it going?” without a fifteen minute pontification of the potential significance of the abstract patterns the syrup made on the waffles at breakfast. I think too much about too many things entirely too deeply and it matters a lot more than it should.

As a child I would hold mock trials in my front yard. My friends never objected. You think I’m being ridiculous and I won’t argue, but yes. It really happened. Regularly, and often.

It hasn’t changed much with age, either.

I married a lunatic, which wouldn’t say much about the point I’m trying to make except that his lunacy is deeply tied to his obsessive-compulsive need for structure. Predictability. Order. Patterns. His world falls apart if he’s not at least an hour and a half early to wherever he’s going. You think I’m exaggerating; I’m not. His job requires him to be on site by eight o’clock each morning; he’s there by 6:45am every day. In all the years he’s been employed, he has never been later than 6:45am. Not once.

He isn’t paid hourly.

We’re as opposite as two human beings can possibly get. I traveled like a hippie in the gypsy-freedom of my 20’s. I stayed awake until the sun rose regardless of the day of week, sleeping the mornings away in a tent (or simply on a blanket when I didn’t plan ahead and bring the tent, which was more typical) in some various mountainous terrain, where I had intentionally gotten lost the night before, learning the basics of another language or reading an autobiography or working on a term paper or studying for a final or swimming alone all the way across the lake, drinking coffee with dinner and dancing to the silence until I had to return to work or school. Even while working full time to put myself through college, double majoring at that, I never sacrificed the opportunity to live life to the fullest.

Him? He built his credit and trained himself to become the best he could be in his trade. Made sure he kept his lawn obsessively manicured and his vehicle ludicrously detailed, spotless.

Boring.

My philosophical mind drives him batshit crazy. The more curious I am about the why of things, the more OCD he gets about the how of them. My wonder is gasoline to the furious flame of his irritated ambivalence. It might be hilarious if it weren’t so totally crazy to live out in first person.

This particular wavelength I’m riding all started after a knee-jerk reaction I had to a flippant comment he made, the last time our polarities collided in a fury of spontaneous combustion. I told him he’s miserable because he takes himself way too seriously. He told me I make him miserable because I think too much and I take my thoughts too seriously.

His ‘crazy’ has a way of rubbing off on me; I digress.

I take my thoughts too seriously? Oh please. I take them as they come: all at once, all the time, all over the place and that’s that.

But as I continued to mind-screw his mouth-garbage, processing what was actually being said, an epiphany hit me. This is why I think too much (too deeply, too constantly, about too many things): my brain is searching for patterns in a patternless insanity.

I could’ve peed my pants with a “YES!”-type “aha” feeling when I stumbled upon this video; it hits the nail on the crazy man’s head: …Madness! WATCH IT THROUGH TO THE END.

What makes us who we are? Do you see a pattern?