can’t

 

I can’t even enjoy the rain anymore.

I’m always pacing, reaching for the door. 

I can’t even savor my meals anymore.

I’m always eating while standing; 

hurriedly chewing and choking. 

I can’t even stand my showers anymore.

That water hurts my burgundy 

striped shoulders.

I can’t even stand to stand anymore.

The gorilla on my back just keeps 

getting older. 

I can’t even love my words anymore. 

They just sit here pretty like, 

as a constant reminder that 

I just can’t anymore.

 

 

 

float

Takes me back to that time,

watching it glide cross the

water, its dance with wind.

Gives me pause, slows my heart.

Old raft, it calls me in.

 

Takes me back to that time

when I marveled at how

the harlequin Danes roamed

on the in-between path

as we walked towards the foam.

 

Takes me back to that time

being rocked to sleep with

sand tangled in my hair.

My lips dry and salty,

back then I didn’t care.

 

Takes me back to that time

smiling across the fire,

when I didn’t fret so.

I just was, brought me back

to that time long ago.

mask

she is so perfectly agreeable

with her fading eyes and lost smile

they only see her bravery

looking past her hollow words, her slowing breaths

how she longs to not be so perfectly agreeable 

yearns to not care 

get lost in her own storm 

twirl, get tangled up with the wind

and prove you wrong

cause remember, you think she’s so strong

but if you listen, you’ll hear the subtle quake to her voice

the whispery sound of her words

she’s had lots of time to practice not being heard

cause it ends so badly, her being around

so she glides around the house

without making a sound

and she’s fed up, did you notice that?

she is so perfectly agreeable

as her antsy soul waits and waits to be born

but she wants to get lost like her smile and fading eyes

till she is no more 

gracefully, forcibly

yet unnoticeably slip away, but even in that

she would be so perfectly agreeable

the year

figurative tale of living with a beautiful soul that has a brain ravaged by tuberous sclerosis complex…

The day he turned 15, she was attacked by wolves in the parking lot of her son’s therapist.  The drive had been long, and when she looked in her rearview mirror, she found her son staring out the window, holding his hands praying.  She stepped out of her car when the wolves overtook her son.  Men were fixing tires and changing the oil in the nearby lot, but they couldn’t hear her cries over their noise.  A woman waited in her car but didn’t appear to want to help.  People were ordering their lunch in the McDonald’s drive-thru but didn’t seem to see.  

The biggest wolf, the one with the pale eyes, came from behind her and snagged her shirt while the other two clawed at her arms till she bled.  She danced around the lot for what seemed to be forever, but they had just wanted to play with her, they were bored.  Or maybe one had heard a voice and convinced the others of its scheme.  Perhaps they just had their usual bad thoughts.  

She walked into the therapist’s office holding her bleeding arms.  Her face collapsed into her trembling hands, and she cried out of exhaustion.  She left forty-five minutes later and drove north to eat crap food while her son sat next to her and turned 15.  The year where most young blossoms are getting permits and going to movies with friends.  The year of growth and possibilities.  But she sat grieving as he turned another year older yet seemed to stay the same.   

The year he turned 15 – every sound hurt her ears.  The lawn mowers, the closing of doors, that chip bag, her spoon against the bowl slurping up Rice Chex.  Even the gorgeous birds had a way of gnawing at her brain.  Some of the bird calls would make her wince and moan.  One day she chased blue jays out of the coconut palms; their territorial sounds stabbed at her eardrums.  She watched them soar up to the clouds with their excited calls.   Good riddance.  Then she’d go back to her hell to make her coffee and there she could even hear the sound of her forming tears. 

The year he turned 15 – they made it a habit of keeping shoes by their back door for sudden escapes.  Run quick, they did.  The neighbors probably thought they were playing chase, but they were running from his frenzy, his fury, his fuming, his fists.  Those fists that always landed on her arms.  Arms that became swollen and purple mixed with an odd charcoal gray.  But she had stopped reaching for the ice.  It was the year where toasters flew off the counters and where doors were torn off hinges as if by Hulk himself. 

She’d listen attentively and say all the right things, but she’d still get new marks by the end of the day.   What was wrong with her?  Would she ever get it right, this business of raising her complicated, miserable, yet beautiful son?  She still loved him though, and on a good day, she would play with the back of his hair.  Golden, wispy, slightly curled up hair.  She’d think.  Why is it dread instead of joy, looking at this man that’s still a boy?  And wonder.  Is love even enough?

And then mid-way through the year, he came after her with such rage, her arms abandoned her.  They were tired of the pain, so they just simply ran away.  It wasn’t her choice, of course, she had loved her arms.  It was all those desperate words and his sheer brute-force.  So she stood around with no arms, and when he went ballistic, he had no choice but to go for her face.  And by this point – she wished she was far out in outer space, floating about only hearing the sound of her heartbeat.  It would be a familiar sound.  

That year, she went half dead and was almost unrecognizable.  She stopped marveling at the black butterflies that slowly fluttered past.  And when the swans tried to drown each other, she didn’t interfere; she didn’t shed a tear.  She stopped buying orchids; they just didn’t take her breath away as they had.  She lost her spark – the whole damn world made her mad.  She chose to swim with the sharks than heed the lifeguard’s warnings.  Watch its shadow cruise past then place her broken hand on its fin and tell it to swim.  Look up to the blazing sun, be amazed and give everything up to Him.

 

 

sliver of something

I was raised in a field of buttercups, milk dribbled down my chin. I knew no hunger and what evil belonged to men.

I’m running through the buttercups 

chasing the light

flitting around like those monarch  butterflies

we saw way back when 

 

I’m running through the buttercups 

blinded by their strength

upright, perfect

wipe their charm from my brow

 

I’ll rely on their light

to lift me up,

brighten my mood,

those lovely, compassionate buttercups

a time ago

the glass looked divine tonight,

thank you for the suggestion

laughed at the silly pelicans scooping

at their reflection

saw my profile in the clouds,

a reminder that I’m only vapor

saw the pink streamers reach out

from the heavens

and

the black bird tried to distract my view

as I watched the seagulls get lost behind the waves

 

the glass looked divine tonight,

as the coral water sheened

looked behind the lifeguard stand,

saw the orange gulp down the white

watched you go into the water

under that sleepy light

and

it really did look divine tonight,

thank you for the suggestion

before

before

the numbness set in

she had a great deal to say

but that damn sadness crept in

sly little imp, it was

before

the crying spells set in

she had so many plans for the day

but that damn loss of hope crept in

clever little demon, it was

before

the emptiness set in

she used to pray and pray

but that damn nothingness crept in

cruel little devil, it was

and

she lost her words, lost her memory

so unfortunate,

she had so many beautiful memories

but that was

before

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?”

 

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