A Poem about Love and Letting Go
There are moments when I just want to scream, “Please don’t love her.” Please don’t give away what I wanted so badly to someone else. Please don’t tenderly hold her hand in a darkened theatre waiting for the show to start while whispering sweetness into her ear. I beg of you, don’t give to her the kindness and attention I spend my whole life craving and hoping for.
I want to scream and cry and throw things at you. I want to throw myself down on the ground and howl in pain. I want to cry and cry and cry until all of my tears are dry. I want to rip my own heart out of my chest because the pain of it breaking hurts worse than anything I have ever felt. I want to stab my own eyes out so they will never witness love in your eyes directed at her, or again witness the smugness on your face when you describe the joy she gives you. I want to drive a stake into my own brain so that I will quit thinking of you making love to her. Clumsy disconnected limbs grunting and sweaty with the stench of over full ashtrays and booze. Her skinny, flabby corpse of a body, clawing for purchase on top of you, yellow stained sheets, and the smell of betrayal wafting through the dank, moist trailer hovel that is her lair.
I want to burn her house down, with her in it. I want ram her car with my car. I want to drag her worthless skinny putrid ass out into the middle of the road and give her a beat down for daring to put her filthy, cigarette stained claws on MY MAN! I want to rip her skanky bleached blond hair out by the roots with clumps of skin attached. I want to jerk her face very close to mine, and I will whisper quietly to her. “if you ever so much as glance at my man, if you ever so much as send him a dirty little text, I will make you wish you had never been born.” I have scrapped worthier things than you off the underside of toilet seats.
Yes bitch, you better get a Restraining Order. You better get a helmet and a fire extinguisher. Skinny bitch, you have never met the likes of me. I will fuck you up and run you down. I will make you look over your shoulder and sleep with the lights on. Yes bitch, you better keep an eye out and what you love close, because when you least expect it I am coming for you and what you love.
Do you love this MAN? He is not mine to have or hold, he is free to choose which hole he climbs into and what depth of degradation he needs to redeem himself. Don’t forget that you are just the bottom of his despair. The fetid stench of his self-loathing, reflected back to you, painted into a smile. I guess that is enough, for you, gathering up the scraps of someone else’s life. Ferret like features pinched in greedy need for what you will never really hold close.
I am over my temper now, these words typed out with the striking force of bullets, have calmed me now. My fingertips sting as my breathing slows. The green light now fading from my periphery vision, I know what it feels like, rage so deep you want to kill and set things on fire. Lucky for you, I have this ability to write this stuff down instead of coming over there where you live.
The truth is I feel sorry for you.
I won’t harm you, but he will.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
The Clock
Attention: No actual husbands were killed in the creation of this story
My husband has asked me for a divorce again. I don't blame him really, however I do blame him for making me act the way I do. I know that common psychological theory suggests that no one can really make you do anything you don't want to do, but that theory is wrong.
The question is: why does he make me do things he doesn't want me to do, and fail completely to make me do the things he wants me to do?
Likely the answer lays somewhere in the word "make." The implication is that his power over me is of such a persuasive nature, that I would want to bend to his will, just for the pleasure of pleasing him.
Unfortunately, this is not the case. His power over me is more like the ignition of spark to a large vat of gasoline, explosive. That is why when I started my clock on fire in the front yard, I used diesel not gas.
You would think with my professional background, I would take a less violent approach to solving disputes, and once again I point out that he made me do it.
My conclusion is that boredom is the stimulus for his forays into the darker side of my nature. He must tire of the way I pamper him with backrubs and pornstar sex. The gourmet meals, tidy house and lovely garden begin to seem blasé. What challenge is there to a beautiful wife who works full time, and meets all of your needs without so much as a complaint about your inability to empty the garbage or leave the toilet seat down?
It is completely understandable that given the extremely generous and loving way in which I care for my husband, he should be discontented.
His discontentment usually begins slowly; small things begin to annoy him. The silverware is not shiny enough, the hot tub is too hot, he wanted something else for dinner, I let the fire go out....
Oh yes and then there was the chiming noise coming out of the spare bedroom where he discovered the clock! A large walnut Victorian wall clock, all decked out with finials and gingerbread trim, a veritable whorehouse of a clock. I admit the clock was over the top, but I loved it and I knew he would too, once he got to know it.
His discovery of the clock was not as I had hoped, he seemed angry and paranoid. My husband seemed jealous of the clock, as if the clock had become my secret lover. He shouted about the clock and accused me of being "sneaky." He grilled me about why I had hidden the clock. He lectured me on the uselessness of the clock and my heinous despicable omission of not informing him about the purchase of the clock. He clearly did not want me to own this clock, if this clock had a name it would be "Chucky." The importance of the clock began to take on epic proportion in his mind. Everything that was wrong with his life and our marriage could be faulted to Chucky the clock. If there was going to be a hill to die on that hill would be named Chucky the clock. At some point, the ticking and chiming of the clock in his head became so great, that he began to devise a plan to murder the clock. My husband is no one's fool, he knew that any overt attack on the clock would be seen as insanity on his part. He knew that if he was going to get away with the dastardly deed of erasing the clock into extinction, he would need a partner in crime. Who better to commit the act than the "sneaky", clock buying wife. This is how it came to pass that I burned my very own Walnut Victorian Wall clock, drenched in diesel under a clear winter moon.
My husband has asked me for a divorce again. I don't blame him really, however I do blame him for making me act the way I do. I know that common psychological theory suggests that no one can really make you do anything you don't want to do, but that theory is wrong.
The question is: why does he make me do things he doesn't want me to do, and fail completely to make me do the things he wants me to do?
Likely the answer lays somewhere in the word "make." The implication is that his power over me is of such a persuasive nature, that I would want to bend to his will, just for the pleasure of pleasing him.
Unfortunately, this is not the case. His power over me is more like the ignition of spark to a large vat of gasoline, explosive. That is why when I started my clock on fire in the front yard, I used diesel not gas.
You would think with my professional background, I would take a less violent approach to solving disputes, and once again I point out that he made me do it.
My conclusion is that boredom is the stimulus for his forays into the darker side of my nature. He must tire of the way I pamper him with backrubs and pornstar sex. The gourmet meals, tidy house and lovely garden begin to seem blasé. What challenge is there to a beautiful wife who works full time, and meets all of your needs without so much as a complaint about your inability to empty the garbage or leave the toilet seat down?
It is completely understandable that given the extremely generous and loving way in which I care for my husband, he should be discontented.
His discontentment usually begins slowly; small things begin to annoy him. The silverware is not shiny enough, the hot tub is too hot, he wanted something else for dinner, I let the fire go out....
Oh yes and then there was the chiming noise coming out of the spare bedroom where he discovered the clock! A large walnut Victorian wall clock, all decked out with finials and gingerbread trim, a veritable whorehouse of a clock. I admit the clock was over the top, but I loved it and I knew he would too, once he got to know it.
His discovery of the clock was not as I had hoped, he seemed angry and paranoid. My husband seemed jealous of the clock, as if the clock had become my secret lover. He shouted about the clock and accused me of being "sneaky." He grilled me about why I had hidden the clock. He lectured me on the uselessness of the clock and my heinous despicable omission of not informing him about the purchase of the clock. He clearly did not want me to own this clock, if this clock had a name it would be "Chucky." The importance of the clock began to take on epic proportion in his mind. Everything that was wrong with his life and our marriage could be faulted to Chucky the clock. If there was going to be a hill to die on that hill would be named Chucky the clock. At some point, the ticking and chiming of the clock in his head became so great, that he began to devise a plan to murder the clock. My husband is no one's fool, he knew that any overt attack on the clock would be seen as insanity on his part. He knew that if he was going to get away with the dastardly deed of erasing the clock into extinction, he would need a partner in crime. Who better to commit the act than the "sneaky", clock buying wife. This is how it came to pass that I burned my very own Walnut Victorian Wall clock, drenched in diesel under a clear winter moon.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Impossible Traverse
Impossible traverse of distance and understanding
We trudge through inconsistent jabbering ghosts
Reminding the wounded places of tenderness
Not yet healed or transcended into conviction
Beheld in awkward trust
Hopeful reconsideration
What kind of sweetness needed, to be worthy of kisses
Given without the expense of time and expectation
Just tasty morsels of delicious lips pressed together in tongue and teeth
Wanting for nothing but knowing
That this person is connected to me for this moment
In this lonely existence of distance and confused bliss
We trudge through inconsistent jabbering ghosts
Reminding the wounded places of tenderness
Not yet healed or transcended into conviction
Beheld in awkward trust
Hopeful reconsideration
What kind of sweetness needed, to be worthy of kisses
Given without the expense of time and expectation
Just tasty morsels of delicious lips pressed together in tongue and teeth
Wanting for nothing but knowing
That this person is connected to me for this moment
In this lonely existence of distance and confused bliss
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Book
I sat by the fire contemplating what I was about to do, hands resting in my lap, eyes set upon the flames. My decision was galvanized by the smell of smoke and the illumination of wood. A choice thoughtfully made, now executed. This relationship spanning some twenty-years, forever changed me.
I received a blank book for my sixteenth birthday from my mother. At first, being like most teenagers. I was a little perturbed by the gift.
Why couldn’t she just buy me something like a new shirt or some records, I wondered? As I carefully unwrapped the book, I noticed an urgent, sort of pleading look in my mom’s eyes.
“You like it don’t you?”Speaking rapidly, as if she wanted to get the explanation out faster than I could unwrap the book itself.
She said, “I bought it at the Renaissance Faire. It’s handmade and leather bound. Those pages are parchment, and look at the binding, hand stitched!” My mother was obviously infatuated with the book.
I, on the other hand did my best to fake it.
“It’s beautiful,” I replied as I held it up to my nose to smell the leather binding.
It was a beautiful book. As I turned the pages, I began to appreciate her adoration for the object. The pages looked stiff and new, made out of a buttery velum with an uneven golden color to them. The brown leather felt soft and smelled rich.
My mom let me bond with my book for a minute or two and then she said,
“I thought that you could use it for a journal or a diary or maybe to write some of your poems in.”
I looked at her and our eyes met. I smiled again and now with truthful words I said, “thank you, I love it.”
As the years passed, the book and I traveled some painful highways together. Later that sixteenth year when I packed my bag and left my mother’s house for the last time, the book was the one gift I did not leave behind. I wrote often through those years. Looking back on those pages I can see the reflection of my life through those young eyes. I wrote my poems, secrets and adventure. I wrote of my friends and boyfriends. I wrote about my first sexual experiences and my dreams. I would read my past pages over and over. It was like a mantra. This is where I’ve been, this is where I’m going.
I wrote when I feel in love, and then I quit writing. I can tell you now about that time, but I have no resource to back up these memories. I only have the memories. I felt totally immersed in my love for this man. There was no room for writing, only the love. I was content to stare into my lover’s eyes and read them; he was my book. I told him everything. I had no secrets. He knew them all. We talked and planned. Our life was my poetry. We married and had a daughter.
When my daughter was born, I wrote in the book. Again I was in love and I wrote about it in exactly that way. Physically bonded to a beautiful little human being, I filled pages with my fascination and adoration. Then my life ran away with me. Once again I quit writing and the turbulence and chaos of the motherhood years began. More babies came, I worked and cleaned.
My lover was now gone, replaced by someone I didn’t know and didn’t like. Feeling stranded on a deserted island of hatred, I began writing once again.
The writing looked different now and so did the book. The soft brown leather now stained by oatmeal and squashed bananas. Some of the pages were carefully taped back in place after being torn out by small eager hands. Unexpected artistic interpretations scribbled by crayons and blue ink pens now decorated the pages. The additions delightful and yet they saddened me.
Nothing was mine. “I can’t have anything for myself!” I shouted at the man.
“Why won’t you help me?” I begged, demanded and screamed for him to see me, comfort me, and love me. He could not, so I screamed, “I hate you.”
I wrote! The self-pity and resentment ran onto the pages in rivers. I had it all right there on paper, the documentation of his failings and mistreatment of me. Every wrong would send me to my book to write. After reading back several pages, I would begin with renewed rigor. Yes I was right; he was wrong. I knew no other side, just my side.
His cruelty seemed incomprehensible. In my book he was a monster. He was responsible for all of my misery. He was the cause for my insecurity and my shortcomings. I hated him on paper and the reasons were plentiful. Eagerly I penciled in the exact date of every transgression. He grew to be a very powerful figure in my book. Someday I would run, someday I would cheat, someday I would divorce that worthless bastard. In my book I would eventually kill him.
Life on the other hand, progressed differently than my book. We raised our children, celebrated our life and mourned our losses. We clung to each other in hard times and loved each other through the good ones.
As time crept by I began feeling distressed about the book. My concern grew into fear. What if someone were to read the book? The words so purposefully placed now seemed crazy and scary.
Without realizing it, I had matured. I understood the book and my need for it. The book saved my life, my marriage and my sanity. I hadn’t written in the book for some time and the need for it had passed. I pondered giving up the soft brown friend, moving on from it. I was ready to leave the past behind and forgive the man for being human.
One day in September after reading the length of it, cover to cover, I burned the book in the fireplace. I watched it curl and flicker, worn and comforting pages a blaze. I resisted a panicky urge to retrieve it from the pyre. It was gone.
I never regretted the decision I made that fall morning. I can’t remember which birthdays he forgot or what particular insults he imparted; or those very painful years when I was young and overwhelmed, unable to deal with my own anger. It is over, the book and me.
I did enjoy the look of disappointment on my youngest daughter’s face when she unwrapped her birthday book instead of new CDs.
I received a blank book for my sixteenth birthday from my mother. At first, being like most teenagers. I was a little perturbed by the gift.
Why couldn’t she just buy me something like a new shirt or some records, I wondered? As I carefully unwrapped the book, I noticed an urgent, sort of pleading look in my mom’s eyes.
“You like it don’t you?”Speaking rapidly, as if she wanted to get the explanation out faster than I could unwrap the book itself.
She said, “I bought it at the Renaissance Faire. It’s handmade and leather bound. Those pages are parchment, and look at the binding, hand stitched!” My mother was obviously infatuated with the book.
I, on the other hand did my best to fake it.
“It’s beautiful,” I replied as I held it up to my nose to smell the leather binding.
It was a beautiful book. As I turned the pages, I began to appreciate her adoration for the object. The pages looked stiff and new, made out of a buttery velum with an uneven golden color to them. The brown leather felt soft and smelled rich.
My mom let me bond with my book for a minute or two and then she said,
“I thought that you could use it for a journal or a diary or maybe to write some of your poems in.”
I looked at her and our eyes met. I smiled again and now with truthful words I said, “thank you, I love it.”
As the years passed, the book and I traveled some painful highways together. Later that sixteenth year when I packed my bag and left my mother’s house for the last time, the book was the one gift I did not leave behind. I wrote often through those years. Looking back on those pages I can see the reflection of my life through those young eyes. I wrote my poems, secrets and adventure. I wrote of my friends and boyfriends. I wrote about my first sexual experiences and my dreams. I would read my past pages over and over. It was like a mantra. This is where I’ve been, this is where I’m going.
I wrote when I feel in love, and then I quit writing. I can tell you now about that time, but I have no resource to back up these memories. I only have the memories. I felt totally immersed in my love for this man. There was no room for writing, only the love. I was content to stare into my lover’s eyes and read them; he was my book. I told him everything. I had no secrets. He knew them all. We talked and planned. Our life was my poetry. We married and had a daughter.
When my daughter was born, I wrote in the book. Again I was in love and I wrote about it in exactly that way. Physically bonded to a beautiful little human being, I filled pages with my fascination and adoration. Then my life ran away with me. Once again I quit writing and the turbulence and chaos of the motherhood years began. More babies came, I worked and cleaned.
My lover was now gone, replaced by someone I didn’t know and didn’t like. Feeling stranded on a deserted island of hatred, I began writing once again.
The writing looked different now and so did the book. The soft brown leather now stained by oatmeal and squashed bananas. Some of the pages were carefully taped back in place after being torn out by small eager hands. Unexpected artistic interpretations scribbled by crayons and blue ink pens now decorated the pages. The additions delightful and yet they saddened me.
Nothing was mine. “I can’t have anything for myself!” I shouted at the man.
“Why won’t you help me?” I begged, demanded and screamed for him to see me, comfort me, and love me. He could not, so I screamed, “I hate you.”
I wrote! The self-pity and resentment ran onto the pages in rivers. I had it all right there on paper, the documentation of his failings and mistreatment of me. Every wrong would send me to my book to write. After reading back several pages, I would begin with renewed rigor. Yes I was right; he was wrong. I knew no other side, just my side.
His cruelty seemed incomprehensible. In my book he was a monster. He was responsible for all of my misery. He was the cause for my insecurity and my shortcomings. I hated him on paper and the reasons were plentiful. Eagerly I penciled in the exact date of every transgression. He grew to be a very powerful figure in my book. Someday I would run, someday I would cheat, someday I would divorce that worthless bastard. In my book I would eventually kill him.
Life on the other hand, progressed differently than my book. We raised our children, celebrated our life and mourned our losses. We clung to each other in hard times and loved each other through the good ones.
As time crept by I began feeling distressed about the book. My concern grew into fear. What if someone were to read the book? The words so purposefully placed now seemed crazy and scary.
Without realizing it, I had matured. I understood the book and my need for it. The book saved my life, my marriage and my sanity. I hadn’t written in the book for some time and the need for it had passed. I pondered giving up the soft brown friend, moving on from it. I was ready to leave the past behind and forgive the man for being human.
One day in September after reading the length of it, cover to cover, I burned the book in the fireplace. I watched it curl and flicker, worn and comforting pages a blaze. I resisted a panicky urge to retrieve it from the pyre. It was gone.
I never regretted the decision I made that fall morning. I can’t remember which birthdays he forgot or what particular insults he imparted; or those very painful years when I was young and overwhelmed, unable to deal with my own anger. It is over, the book and me.
I did enjoy the look of disappointment on my youngest daughter’s face when she unwrapped her birthday book instead of new CDs.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Beginning
I have rejoiced in the written word most of my life. From my first love, reading, I escaped chaos and transported myself to other places. As soon as I could read I became insatiable, reading constantly, one book after another. I almost had to repeat the third grade because I refused for one whole school year, to do anything but read.
Ever since I was old enough to compose a small story scribbled out by thick pencils on lined paper, I have been writing. Beginning as a small child, I wrote stories. I escaped from my real world by making up a more pleasant new world.
My journey of reading and writing probably saved my life on many levels. The ability to gain another perspective through reading someone else’s words helped me to gain understanding when I was unable to see past my own pain. The ability to write out what I was unable to articulate with spoken words gave me a private voice to speak my mind, even if my expression was not pretty.
I have written many pages of anger, frustration and fury, only to burn them in the fear that someone reading the expression of my soul on paper would think I was crazy.
I have used my pens and pencils to carve out some peace in my inter-world.
As I continue this journey of self expression I am taking the next step of sharing it, putting it out there in the world.
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