Thank You Rupi, For Reminding Me To Use My Words

In writing this,

I am aware of my privilege.

That seated in front of this keyboard, 

cursor blinking,

I should be full of joy and gratitude,

and don't think for a moment I am not.

I am the Yin and the Yang, 

(You are too).

the dark and the light.

I am human and there is a deep darkness and sadness I am also carrying.

I wanted to write about the people who bring me comfort:

the 8 second hug my daughter gave me when she returned from her dad's on Christmas Day,

the witty and endless banter I share with my partner,

the warmth of a child's hand in my own, snuggling into a book before bed.

I wanted to tell you about how our pup sleeps right next to me, and his love was something I didn't expect.

I wanted to tell you about the way the snow fell in the early o'clock of the morning and I stared at stars millions of miles from me, knowing I'm alone and not alone.

But I am human and there is a deep darkness and sadness I am carrying.

It is full and it is suffocating me.

It is a cup that needs to empty,

tears that need to be cried,

Silence needs to be broken.

Sit with me, sit and weep the words,

watch wounds open and close,

gore germinate, quicksand swallow,

and hope we emerge, 

(tip the scales)

back into light,

back into peace,

back into comfort.

Bitterness in Ink, Day 1.

Thank you, blank paper,

for allowing my pen to touch you in the places that  spill my shadows.

Thank you, blank paper,

for capturing my evil twin and compelling her voice to paper.

Thank you for giving me:

fire,

a dagger,

and hiding me under your white cloak.

Thank you for reminding me:

the mightiness of this pen is only an extension of the heaviness in my heart,

that I painfully set down in your ink.

*****************************************************

She defended you

even while she talked shit about you.

She loved your Facebook posts

and then texted me the gossip.

I ate away my feelings to not feel. 

But I still felt.

I told my daughters that we are allowed one great Hate in our lifetimes:

                   I can't decide.  

I can't decide which...

                   Living in this small town 

with so many who openly carry their two faces, one for each palm,

                   (my own hands extended),

                   or your black soul.

***************************************************

I can feel the darkness in me emerge when I see your face.

I push it down, like vomit, it comes back up.

It sits, your statue,  on my chest.

I don't want it. 

I don't want to feel this feeling.

Go away.  

Please go away revulsion, disgust, resentment.

You created pain, like a God,

when you let your Pandora's box open in a room with innocent babes.

I don't want this ugly darkness manifested inside of me.  

Even though I watch only from the crack in the wall, 

a small shatter in the lining of the womb, 

 I can see how my hatred for you,

matches yours for yourself.

*********************************************************************

I can choose

not to play these games or be nice.

I can choose to block the negative feelings when I see your fawning support, 

like syrups spilling,

of the evil Queen.

I can choose to look the monster in the eyes and stomp on the money that grew 

on the trees behind her home.

I can choose not to see you pant at the picked clean bones she tosses you.

I can choose.

*********************************************************************

Suppose I told you, my friend,

that she leaves her dogs out all day in the blistering cold.

The wind whips, the ice falls.

She sweet talks them and feeds them honey and lies

to bring them in to take photos to post on her Facebook.

She gets her adrenaline rush, 40 likes! 

Almost as many as the readjusted breasts in the too tight shirt.

You say, "She's such a terrible person.

How could she?" 

And you tell me about how you've heard the pups howl 

how they bark incessantly,

how they've dug holes into the snow because their chains restrict them.

Then, carrying your other face,

you shower your sugar on her with balloons and cakes and celebratory phrases.

You, my friend,

are not my friend.

But in this small town,

I carry my other face too.

*********************************************************************

Did my words sting?

Did you feel just a little bite out of your bourgeoisie jeans?

Turn around, turn around:

Smile again, 

Your row of Cheshire cat chaos needs rearranging.

If I could fist to face,

without a fight,

I wish I could,

I just might.

I have smashed bottles and been in fights 

in bars,

stitches in hospitals at 1 am.

I have done the crazy things I am no longer known for.

It's not just your sweet tits I'd like to see deflated.

************************************************************************

My Perfect Day, Day 2

I want to go back. It's December of 2013. 

Before surgeries. 

Before weird lumps growing in places they shouldn't.

Before cancer.

 I don't think about dying.

I don't think, this could be my last:

Soak it all in;  You never know.

            My daughters get into the car and drive away,

and I don't consider the possibility of them never coming back.

     I don't worry about whether I will wake up when I close my eyes.

I sleep soundly through the night, without waking up in a panic, unable to fall back asleep,

just to know my heart still pulses.

    I look at the wrinkles and think about the wisdom it shows,

not the grave.

     I feel the peace of the moment and not wander-mind where time will take me.

     There is no horror, no tension, no anguish.  

    My stomach isn't aching already, mourning the moments I will miss.

I'm not thinking about the memories made without me,

Not seeing the birthdays and graduations, or

Not meeting my grandchildren.

I imagine I live a long life and know I stopped to pick the roses, but the roses didn't haunt me.

My children will outlive me.

I don't think about hospital beds or endings.

I don't need to be reminded to live every day like it's my last.  

I have since June 10th, 2014.

****************************************************************

You don't know.  

You can't know, 

unless you know,

how soft the wind blows at 2 am,

the whisper of death.

****************************************************************

Chain smoking,

Tequila at 2 am, 

little hills of dust.

Why does God let you have your health?

I envy.

I envy.

Angry at God.

I eat.

I eat.

I look in the mirror at the girl who used to win the awards for being athletic.

She doesn't look back.

I weep.

I weep.

I roll out of bed. 

Plant my feet firmly.

Limp walk to the bathroom.

My back, a burning knot,

my hands numb,

my feet pins and needles.

My body betrays.

I'm angry.

I hate you God. Spirit. The Unknown. Is this my Karma, 

the trauma I am carrying in my DNA.

God, why have you  set a fire to my temple?

Even when I painted it, fixed the plumbing,

replaced the roof and windows.

I've planted flowers, trimmed the hedges.  

I watered the plants.

Why?

You, spirit creator, who lets the other pain-free play in the snow,

rolling in dust, wiping their noses,

while I wait,

wait,

waiting,

watching,

seeing the "good people" of Christ's Church wish them luck on Facebook,

share pleasantries,

even when the good people know about the mountain mounds of deadly desires they pile around their throne.

****************************************************************

Day 3: Coping

When I deactivated my Facebook,

it asked me, Why?

I chose "Other": and in the blank typed Mental Health.

My last great trial was many years ago.

Learning to curb my negative thoughts,

I searched for answers.

Like a Pavlovian response,

I wore a the old fashioned classic tan rubber band on my wrist.

Each time I experienced a negative thought,

I snapped it.

You may think this was desperate.

Maybe it was. 

But it worked.

I feel only serenity about the man who caused that pain.

Deepak Chopra also speaks to me,

I listen as I shower,

as I stare through a windshield,

As my soapy hands scrub the dishpan.

Sat Chit Ananda.

If you see my struggling,

if you see my rubber band snap,

If you hear me repeat the mantra,

please choose:

 nod in acknowledgment,

offer a kind word,

or mind your own business.

***************************************************************

     Day 4: Still Coping

I won't apologize for the way I feel.

I won't apologize for creating boundaries. 

I don't care what people say: They want to talk, they can talk.

I've always wanted to please people, make them happy.

I blame it on growing up the oldest in a dysfunctional family: Anything to sidestep the conflict.

But as I'm reaching away from the old me, I'm leaving that girl behind.

I won't stand for the people I love to hurt.

I won't act like it doesn't hurt me too.

I'm in a weird place, a space empty,

I emptied it because you held out a cup, 

then a bucket, and quickly I saw an ocean of my own tears.

I chose to compensate for your downfalls.

I chose to feel guilty because of your poor decisions.

I chose to nail my own self to a cross to be the person I wanted you to be.

I gave part of myself away because I loved the people you said you loved.

No child should be 24 before they're 14.

I believed wrongly that bad people were in places not close to me.  

Bad people were serial killers on tv.

Bad people were invading countries and bombing villages.

Bad people were terrorists, thieves, rapists.

But bad people are people we see every day.

They look us in the eye.

Bad people are self absorbed and self consumed and they wrap it up in a pretty package they call

"Self Care"

and I'm "Finding Myself"

and they sell it with lipstick and cleavage

slits in dresses and nipples peeking through lingerie.

I wish this could be different, but wishing won't change it.

I won't look away and I won't lie.

What I understand now more than ever is how Emily Dickenson became a recluse.

What I understand now more than ever is her question, "I'm nobody, who are you?"

(Dear Emily, I'm a nobody, too.)