A Summer Flu

You're like a sickness that leaves me wasted,
And I'm like a dog coming back to its vomit.
It's June again.
Time to go back to the place
That keeps us from being able to begin.

With your lips on all my 'No's
And my fingertips
Caressing every doubt you have to life,
We can make it through this cycle,
More worn than before.
I can make it through at least once more,
As the corrosion seeps into my core.

It's all worth the spark-
Every wail worth the joy.
And it's fading, so we have to keep chasing it.
But the pain loses edge,
Even loss's dark sting.
And as it's fading, I'm afraid of forgetting it.

Not one ache in my stomach;
Or neurotically clawed-up arm;
Not one longing so deep
It caused bodily harm
Would I give up for the sake of being healthier.
'Cuz, for me, there's only ever been your eyes.
Like magnets - polar opposites -
The positive and the negative,
Holding my life together inbetween.

So, hurt me just deep enough that I'll feel it 'til next year,
And as the pain lingers, I'll remember all your beauty.
Come to me like lightning,
More power than I can contain.
Fry me to the point
Of barely being alive.
No one's seen more passion than an atom bomb.

Sometime's I feel like everybody knows this feeling.
And sometimes I feel
Like I'm the only one who's ever been alive,
'Cuz I'm the only one who's ever been right here.
And when I'm with you,
And I'm pouring out my life into your eyes,
I grow faint, wondering how I'll ever breathe without you.
But I've seen enough Septembers
To know these lungs will survive.

And I will survive.
And we will live on.
And I'll barely even miss you,
But wish that I did more.
I wonder if you even remember my name.
You're like a picture, removed:
The wall just looks off-colour without the frame.
Sometime's I'm not sure what's missing,
Or if you would even still fill that space,
But something belongs there.

Emptied-&-Waiting

I can't shake the desire for your strong arms.
But you have shaken off all your desire for me.
I can't help but wish that I hated you more.
That I didn't want to feel the warmth of your skin.
But I do.
I want to place my arm just close enough to your chest that my hairs tickle your skin.
I want to remember how to abandon my caution with you.
But in your wake, I am finding my scars.
I am feeling my emotional mortality.
Bricks seem strong, but over time they crumble.
And I want your lips.
I want your thighs.
I want your kiss.
I want to be the reason for your impious eyes.
Clutch me.
Know me.
No.
It's not even like wishing for the dead to rise,
but for the return of a ghost
that was never fully embodied to begin with.
I have never know rejection
so deeply
until I thought - for a moment - that I was chosen.
But I want you so badly. That truth remains.
I tell myself I don't.
I tell myself you're not worth wanting.
But it stings every time I unconsciously reach for you.
No wine makes me forget.
No laugh makes me forget.
No hours - no space impacts this feeling.
There is ebbing, but it always returns.
To have loved and lost -
leaves a chasm.
With a particular shape.
And all I can say,
is that maybe the rain will wash it,
and change its shape,
and even fill it in a bit over many, many years.
Some combination of *Your presence and my crying,
the rain will come.
Inevitable.
Drenching.
Chilling.
Revival.
Awake.
Opening my eyes, I search for *You.
I could say, *You know, due to my horrible experiences,
I do believe I deserve someone better.
Someone to be the opposite of disappointment.
And *You would give that to me, I'm sure.
But I could ask for something greater.
The truest, fullest experience.
The love that goes beyond loving
as we know it, being merely human.
I could ask for someone new to fit into that chasm and overflow my heart.
Or I could let *You do it.
It will be impossible - nearly - to overcome this longing for warm flesh.
But *You became flesh.
And in a different way, *You can be so much closer.
Present.
One.
It will be harder to wait for.
And fight for.
And the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.
But there's something to that.
*YOU are the opposite of a rebound.
*You are fullness and healing instead of band-aids.
And I love *You.
Help my pain not un-focus that for me.
I love *You.
And *You are like an encompassing warm wind
that transports me to *Your kingdom-
A wormhole whirlwind.
Touch my heart.
*You're the balm.
*You're the regeneration.
*You are life.
And something beyond life that can only be described as being more alive.
Stay.
Hold me.
Close my lips from whispering false longings.
By placing *Your lips on them.
Love me.
And the best part is that *You already want to.
But *You like it when I ask.
And now *You have me smiling my own devious smile
that is also wholesome. Somehow.
In *Your hands are the greatest pleasures, just waiting.
...but I'm so afraid

"And even while *You're waiting, I'm just shivering and fading..." -9days (capitalization mine)

Prince Waldo

He comes in the door, and I make a conscious effort to put my thoughts behind me. I remind myself: you can do this. Just a few more days. And then a few more days after that... It's always just a few more days. Just a few more lies. Just a few more times I pretend not to be grieved by his words or the absence of them. Just a bit more.

The look in his eyes speaks of numbness and ignorance. He stopped noticing there were any problems a long time ago, and he stopped caring long before that. Love, crusted on the outside and rotting within. That's the left-over casserole that we call our marriage these days.

Not that I haven't contributed anything to the decay. Not that I haven't found my own ways to cope. He thinks I'm just this tiny little neglected damsel, and that I willingly accept my role. He couldn't be more wrong. I don't hate myself enough to stay in this farce without receiving my own benefits.

His name is John. Not my husband, John. And he doesn't love me, either. I used to think that he did, but I realize more and more everyday that genuine affection of any sort is as endangered as the rhino. My mom cares for me just enough to keep her guilt at bay. My brother, Tyler, thinks that as long as he sends Christmas cards with lengthy letters, that means the family bond is kept in tact. It's all a show put on to satisfy our own vanities. Nothing deeper.

But here I am, getting some kind of high from knowing he believes me when I tell him I spent the day reorganizing the refrigerator. He'll open its door, and every item will be in exactly the same place as when he last saw it. But he won't notice. He never did notice those things. If I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees for three hour because a jar of honey had been shattered on it, he wouldn't even lift his head to give an appreciative nod. It's not that he's incapable of caring. There were things he cared about once, even more than polishing and rebuilding his cars. But it's easier for him dwell low in the same lulled state, day in and day out. Expecting the same from me. Not thinking that I'm plotting a way out of here.

But its been years now. It's been years, and everything is still the same. I used to think my husband, Brian, was my knight in shining armor, ready to sweep me off my feet at even the hint of trouble. Then I realized like an alarm clock crashing you out of a dream that he wasn't. For a good long while, though, I still waited for him to transform into my Prince Charming. But he proved to me over and over again that he had no interest in transforming at all into anything - ever. So I sought Prince Knight else where. I went through a lot of Prince Charmings in those first five years of wandering. The retail agent, the carpenter ... the teenage. I mean, he was nineteen, so I was perfectly within my legal limits, but still. I was thirty at the time. We used to listen to country songs about wild affairs and then do our best to re-enact them. But I was seriously deluding myself to imagine that was going anywhere. It was fun, but possibly the most heart breaking tryst of them all. I'll never forget those blue eyes. They were alive with light - the kind of light that I used to kid myself into thinking was inside of Brian. If it ever was there, that light was smothered long before we even met. All I was ever exposed to was its ghost, and even the ghost is long-gone now.

The nineteen year old, though. He had something. He looked out at the world like it was looking back and speaking to him, and he would crane his neck, trying to take in the things it said in wordless expressions. He wasn't a painter or a poet, but those blue eyes were worth more than murals or stanzas. They spoke the languages that are spoken deep inside of hearts and tucked in between the folds of memories. And what I hoped for, when I looked into those young fiery eyes, was that I could speak back to them. That I had the capability of communicating the same kinds of utterances. That my fire hadn't died just as my husband's had.

It didn't end well. One night, getting lost in the imagined worlds I stared into with him, I broke down and exposed myself. The tears poured, and I confessed all the horror I had been through in my marriage. All the hurt I had internalized. I released the grief that bent me double. And I told him about my hope. My ever expectant wait for the Alabaster Prince. And I asked him if he would be that for me - if he would carry me away on his white horse, away from danger. Then, as I continued speaking, I realized something. While he was completely taking in everything I was telling, the look he was projecting back to me wasn't of wonder and hope and mutual excitement. It was of confusion, every second mingling more and more with that of fear. He stuttered ...

"Um, uh . . . I'm sorry. I mean, you're amazing to be with, but I can't... I can't be that for you. I mean, I have things I want to do with my life and places to go, and... I'm sorry. This was absolutely amazing, but I guess it's probably meant a lot more for you than it has for me."

"Oh my god, please don't go. You're the closest I've ever come to having hope."

"I can't be your hope, Marva. You have to find that inside yourself."

And he drove away.

See, that's the thing. That's the whole reason behind me looking for Prince Charming. The whole reason for my self delusional belief that Brian could be that. I don't have that hope. Not a lick of it. All I have is the desire to look for it in someone else. How is that supposed to work in the first place, HOPE? As if I'm really supposed to believe that all this can get better? Sure. Sure it will. Tomorrow will hurt less than today and more and more offences piled up upon an already wounded heart will help. Sure. I do have hope that it will never get better - is that hope?

So, my answer is just trying to numb the pain with whoever may be available and mildly interesting. Preferably something that will last for a while, even if there's not much value in it besides the value lent to it by the forbidden fruit of deception and adultery.  But here's the problem:

The problem is, no matter how much I repeat over and over to myself that this new relationship is only temporary and I'm only using it as a high that doesn't get me all that high, I still wonder if maybe, just maybe, this one could be the real Prince I've been looking for.

And the biggest problem comes into play when I look at my husband, Brian. Because even though I know that I won't ever see my Rescuing Princely Knight in his eyes; even though I know that all I will ever see is callousness and bitterness and resentment; even though I know I will never find my hope there - I still look.

Dave's Confusion

He slams his glass down, spilling water out onto the kitchen table.

And I use my tongue to fiddle at the swatch of beef wedged in-between my molars.

His mouth gapes, and his words smother me like stepping out into glaring sun on a 90 degree day.

But I don't hear them.

I watch his mouth move, and wait for him to stop. Then I can finally speak.

"I'm sorry-"

He's unswayed. He never believes my words are genuine anymore. Why should he? I've been ambivalent enough to prove that they are inconsistent at best.

He's asking me something about Why didn't I just tell him I wasn't going to pay the electric bill so he could have done it himself instead of getting late fees and a shut-off notice. Exactly. There it is.

He waits for me to answer, and his face reddens when I refuse to.

I rise from the table and walk over to his side where he's standing. I put my hands on both of his shoulders. I look into his face, arms-length away. Tormented confusion.

I hug him.

He's stiff.

A few moments, then he pushes me away.

The tears spring instantly, though I knew this was coming.

"Look, Beth, why can't you just be responsible?"

"Because I'm not," I try to reply without whining.

"I know. That's the problem."

"I'm never going to be something I'm not, Dave. You knew who I was when you married me."

"That's not exactly true."

"What?! What are you trying to say?" He better not say it.

"How could you possible know someone completely in only a year and a half? We've been married for eight more. I didn't know most of the things then that I know about you now."

"Go ahead. Say it. If you'd known all this about me, you never would have wanted to marry me!"

"You're putting words in my mouth."

"No! I'm pulling them out of your brain."

"Huh?" He tilts his head, and brings his thumb up to his chin, the way he always does when he's contemplating something. Why is he playing dumb?

"I know that's what you're thinking. You wish you hadn't married me. Well, tough luck. We're stuck with each other. I'm not going anywhere, and I know you sure as hell aren't. So we're trapped in this with each-other, no matter how much we both hate it. Enjoy."

Dave drops his arms, and his mouth hangs open for a moment before he finally asks, "You hate being married to me?"

"I didn't say that."

Barbie Shoes

I was never really Daddy's Little Princess, even though he bought me pink, sparkly shoes. They were high-heeled plastic Barbie slippers, and I was eight. Mom was amazed by how a tomboy who ran around in the woods and loved splashing through mud puddles on her mountain bike could take so naturally to walking in high heels. 


He was always a part of my life, but always arms-length away. I can't remember him ever really putting me down or calling me a failure, like I know some people have heard from their fathers. He wasn't absent, but he wasn't there. 


I never danced on his feet at a wedding.


He never picked me up in his arms to kiss away the bruised after I crashed my bike and skinned my.


He wasn't there to protect me when my older cousins threw rocks or attacked me with balls of ice.


He always said, "I love you. You're amazing. I believe in you." 


He was at almost every play or ball game. 


We went out every weekend to go to the movies or the arcade. 


But I always went home without him.


Sometimes I could almost wish for more of the negative father experiences, if only it meant that he had been around more. 


I have this one, very distinct memory of being at his house when I was probably nine or ten. I had accidentally spilled Mountain Dew on the rug while trying to pour myself a drink. I remember exactly what the cup looked like. It was white on the outside with ridges around it, and green on the inside. I remember that there was ice in the cup, the kind you get from an automatic ice maker that's built into a refrigerator. And I remember him shoving napkins toward me and screaming at me, asking, why would I spill soda all over the rug? I remember him yelling at me more because he said I was doing it wrong and I needed to hurry up. I was crying and wailing, but he just kept yelling, and I guess I just kept making it worse until he finally let me stop trying. It was terrorizing. It's ingrained in me, probably forever. And that's the most "normal, father-daughtery" interaction we've ever had. That's sad, and perhaps even more terrifying. 


I became strong and independent, because my defense rested on my own shoulders. 


I became competitive and hardened, keeping others at a distance, and forming friendships in which any close bond was developed because of the other person's vulnerability, and never mine. No one person knew my whole story. I kept myself as fragmented as our impostor of a family was.


So, here you are, trying to know me. And you think that if you ask questions, I'll just answer them and let you in. 


You think that you can learn my nature simply by observing me, but you have no idea how conscious I am of your efforts or how thoroughly I'm prepared to act a part. I've been in character my whole life. 


Do you think I'm a nut you can crack or a puzzle you can solve? Or am I a bomb you are trying to defuse? 


I know what you want. You want to look at someone who looks back at you with curiosity and interest. But I look back at you with fear, hesitation, and doubt. 


You want to get a glimpse of my soul, but you're only pulling off veil after veil like never-ending layers of an onion, never revealing anything except vapor. 


But, no. There's more. 


I know what you really want. 


You want me to let you protect me. 


You want to be there for me and be close. 


You want me to dance on your shoes. 


I'm not ready for that yet. But I guess I could try to start by answering some questions. So there you have it. You asked my why I started crying and sobbing when you called me "Princess."

elia's mascara

<in a room that has seen much of the same in the few short years it's been decorated in this fashion>

characters:

one man [robert] - brown hair - skittish eyes - voice trembling under the weight of frustrations he never succeeds in holding back, but none-the-less keeps attempting to 

one woman [elia] - blonde - crying - open tube of mascara in one hand with its wand in the other

elia: I don't even understand why you're screaming at me right now. Why are you shaking? Are you going to hit me?

robert: When have I ever hit you, El? Did I hit you when you ruined my interview with the bank because you spilled coffee all over my suit? Did I?

elia: [calmly] No.

robert: Did I hit you when you insisted on bringing Brian over to meet my parents because it was more important to you to make a statement than to enjoy a nice holiday with my family?

elia: [still calm] It's not okay that your parents are racist.

robert: Did I hit you?!

elia: [still calm] No.

robert: And what about when you quit your job to pursue some childhood dream that lasted for a week and left me picking up overtime for a year? What about then?

elia: [starting to raise her voice in fear] Why are you bringing all this up?

robert: [yelling] Did I hit you?!

elia: No!  

[a beat of silence between them]

elia: Did you want to?

[heavy breathing and from robert with set jaw]

[elia begins applying mascara to her right eye]

robert: Why the hell are you doing that?

elia: It's waterproof.

robert: What?

elia: It's waterproof. It won't run when I cry. Which I am.

robert: I know that, Elia. I can see you. But why are you putting on mascara right now?

elia: I want to look pretty.

robert: What does that have to do with anything?