dear diary

why is he so sad, was he created to be so miserable

and

unknowingly, without trying

make us so miserable

it’s so boring and boring this mess we’re in

all this crying, all this striving

why does he say,

I want to go to heaven!”

does he even know what he’s

releasing out to the air

when those emotions flood him

like concrete, like stone

making him stuck, making us stuck

Why is life so unfair?” “Why does life suck?

I’m so tired and tired of being this way

I want to think about hope, think about laughter

dream about the life I want him to chase after

 

 

 

night

the way he is right now

I’ve learned to walk silently across the floor 

I’m a tall, strong woman with weary size ten feet

but I’m here tiptoeing and praying not to wake the manic beast, 

the way he is right now 

The past 2 weeks were okay

how I wish that guy could stay 

the one with the kind blue eyes 

the one that copies the clouds 

in the sky

the one who speaks gentle words 

and doesn’t wish for me to die

He doesn’t mean it, they always say 

But seriously, doesn’t dawn always beckon a new day?

Oh God, what if he means it?

These are the thoughts that make me lock my door

before I attempt to sleep

thoughts that make me say that extra prayer 

thoughts that make me easily tiptoe with my weary size ten feet 

to walk silently across the floor

begging not to wake the manic beast

hidden

there’s a suitcase in the far corner of my closet

the older one with the worn brown

checkerboard pattern and a faded luggage tag

can’t make out the name any longer

not going anywhere anyway

and if I pretend

the flattened leather handle still feels warm

probably from when you used it last

back when life was happy and our souls were stronger

sometimes when things get loud

I want to place a blanket in that suitcase,

in the far corner of my closet,

crawl inside, zip it up and lie

quietly, silently

will he find me

I want to say aloud

but I don’t dare make a sound

these days, these long days

after the first door slam, I want to bolt

run far before the terror takes hold

but no

I have to stand there and take it

stand there and stand there

stand there and fake it

place my trembling hands in my pockets

ignore my heart pounding in my ears

taste the rapid beats, choke them down

why is it getting so difficult

I’ve been doing this for years

every time I enter my closet

I give that suitcase an extra glance

maybe one day I could do it

run quick when I have the chance

when I’m first warned

place a blanket inside, make it cozy and warm

crawl inside, zip it up

lie quietly, silently battered and worn

daydream

i want to sip Rose´on the deck of a yacht,

a big yacht

wear a white dress with no bra and a gold,

a very gold anklet that jingles when i walk

wear shades so dark that i can’t see past,

have them get tangled in my black hair

play tug of war with the salty air

call out to the teasing sea, “Where am I?”

have it answer back, “Does it matter?”

dive in the green, swim through the purple,

hold my breath in the orange,

inhale, count to twenty and exhale every trouble

every trouble i’ve ever had

look down at my sun-kissed arms, my perfect hands

my turquoise nails – wearing that amethyst you gave me last

listen to Frank Ocean – every syllable making me jump

sip the Rose´ and look past the crooked sailboats

imagine i’m on the other end,

the other part of the world

say, “Where is that?” and have

it answer back, “Does it matter?”

 

i go

swept away, away i go

into his vortex, trembling…

waiting for the top to blow

first on my arms, then my nose

what he does next

well, you know

whatever is loony,

the opposite of sane,

living like this…

i’m going insane

 

somebody please stop this senseless ride

i’m getting dizzy…

i want to run inside and hide

fall asleep for a thousand years and a day

a small reprieve from

waiting, pacing…

praying, trembling…

all the while being swept away,

swept away i go

 

 

what will

What will it be

the day after tomorrow

what will the punishing be

what bad thoughts

will swim and dance in his head

what will the questions be

what will cause the train

to runaway and wreck

over and over and over again

until

we scream back, “what the heck?

what words will I say in vain

and

when he thinks we’re fake

I’ll cry and spew back,

damn you, this isn’t a game!”

what more do we have to say or prove

what magic doors do I need to

go through

Please God, say the words

and

tell me what to do

what will it be the day after tomorrow

what will my punishment be

pain and pain that will last forever

Oh God,

please tell me this isn’t forever

strings

the crescendo swept me away last night

tiny violins, mellow cellos

…my friends

the ones with the low gorgeous tones

I remember how its strings felt

beneath my fingertips

first cold, then warm

left little bite marks, they did

 

that crescendo last night

I’m surprised you didn’t hear it

what’s wrong with you?

did you fear it?

that music ran me over, made me spin

tossed me into oblivion

 

 

snippet of her

She could have been the mother of a dozen girls; all with raven hair and cheeks dusted with the pale pink sheen that left her countenance ages ago.  Lovely, airy, gentle girls with names like: Polly, Emmaline, and Mae; with giggles in the morning, books in the afternoon, and Rooibos tea in the evening.  They would love her and show her affection, and she would know they cared.  Know that she was their mother.  Unlike how she felt today: invisible, worthless, stranded, and forgotten.

She could have been the mother of an army of girls with pigtails and curls, petticoats, and dolls.  Stupid, perfect dolls with porcelain skin and fingers, so delicate she would hold her breath to touch, just to touch their dainty fingers.  She would cry herself to sleep not knowing the wedded and domestic future of her unborn, imaginary army of girls.  Cry over grandchildren she would never see, never love, never hold.  She would mourn this loss over and over until her heart broke into a million tiny pieces, scattering and chasing each other  while blaming themselves for the break.  If only her heart had been stronger, tougher, maybe she wouldn’t have failed so miserably.

This mother, this very same mother, looking past her broken son, in a puddle of his own urine, with stained straw hair and with eyes, seemingly so dark, she couldn’t see the blue.  With eyes that pained her with every blink she could scarcely look at him as he waited on what she did not know.  She could have been a good mother if only her son could have given her a chance.  But it escaped him, he was lost in his own world.  His world filled with chaos, destruction; senselessness that cruelly clashed with her idyllic, impossible thoughts.   Her impossible thoughts.  

They would never understand, she’d think.  This mother with guilt so alive it walked beside her clutching her hand, would collapse under impossible pressure countless times.  She would drown daily with not a life guard or life preserve in sight.  They would just look at her with disapproving eyes – eyes that didn’t know the story.  The story of love and hope that in one minute would turn into duty and despair.  They would not know the doctor that said her son was haunted by ghosts or know all the medicines, the little colorful pills that turned against him and caused him rage.  They would never know the pain, not ever, even if explained.  She was sick of explaining.

This mother would crawl into bed and pray for forgiveness.  This woman would dream of her army of girls, all fancy and sweet, singing lullabies.  These tiny angels would dance with ribbons of pink and peace would overcome her until she was reduced to tears.  She  would feel happiness in this dream;  this gift, this blessing of a dream.  It was always enough to give this woman a fragment, a drop of hope that the next day could be that day.  That day where she would reach her son and her son would live in her world.  That day where neither anxiety nor frustration dwelled.  That day where her thoughts were not so impossible and laughter cradled, rocked, and soothed the both of them, mother and son.

She didn’t need an army of daughters – she just needed her one son.  

My one son,” she would cry and release to the air.  That had to be enough.