Words

Let me drown in your essence

And become part of you.

Wholly.

The expectation to keep it all hidden.

To live on like nothing ever happened.

I'm so tired of everything being placed on the victim.

On the survivor.

Never the doer.

We are the ones who have to change.

We are the ones who have to put in the work.

We are the ones burdened with so much.

While they are free to do it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Until one time they finally kill someone.

And then that's also thrown on us.

It's our fault.

No matter what we did.

No matter who we told.

We should have done more.

We should have been better.

And I'm just so fucking tired.

How loud must you yell and plead before you get the help you need?

How long must you scream before you finally succeed?

It seems all those cries fall upon deaf ears.

Except mine.

I hear you.

I hear all your pleading and yelling.

Your memories dance before my eyes.

I can still hear your voice.

Like a siren song.

So lovely, so beautiful.

When it's itching for destruction?

You don't want that you may tell your brain.

But it does not care. It does not listen.

Destroy! It cries in a roaring rage.

No! You cry back through choked words.

And what do you do when your brain is stronger than your will?

When you start running out of energy to stop it?

And I know I'm the reason it never worked out.

And I know I am selfish by wanting you again.

I know we are on very different paths.

And I know it's so wrong of me to dream of you.

And I know I never believed in the one who got away.

But I can't help to imagine what life would be like with you.

Maybe it's because I can't have you.

Maybe it's because I'm always drawn to the forbidden fruit.

Maybe it's because I know it would never work.

I also love poetry books that leave you feeling so light and happy that you believe life is meant to be lived again. That life is a magical and wonderful gift.

To the water

The sea

The rain

The lake.

I see my belly softened with age and my legs that touch.

And in them I used to store my hatred for myself and my body.

Now I see Aphrodite. The goddess of beauty and love. I share her belly. I share her thighs.

And like her I can run through a battle to hold those I love as they bleed.

Like her, my blood can stain roses for a thousand years blood red with my sacrifice.

The bartender, my confessional.

Childhood friend.

Holder of secrets.

He probably knows more about me than anyone.

Even myself.

Does he remember my drunken words?

Or does he just choose to pretend.

Why is it easier to confess to him,

A dying man,

Than it is to confess to anyone.

Anything.

Why is it that I feel safer at that bar

My whole world, really.

I'm just so captivated that I have no choice.

I just stare longingly.

Hopefully.

Wistfully.

How many years has it been?

But I can wake her up in the morning with a hot breakfast and cut up fresh fruit and she knows.

I can sneak a little chocolate in her work bag to find later on in the day and she knows.

I can order her favorite drink at the bar without her asking and she knows.

I remember her favorite snacks from when she was just starting to talk and I remember her favorite color at 8 years old.

I know just how to make her smile when she's crying heartbroken on her bed and I know just how to make her cry when she needs to let the tears go.

About being silent and all smiles and laughs.

About being a decoration.

It's about being a consumer.

Buy this cream because aging is the biggest sin of all.

Buy this skin tight dress to make yourself an object.

Buy this makeup because you aren't good enough.

It's about crying in bed just wanting to go back to being a girl.

Wanting to be seen as a person and not an object.

But then again, were you ever seen that way?

How old where you when you were first catcalled by a grown man?

How old where you when you were first told to have certain skills to be a good wife?

Were you ever you?

I'd sit as she painted or braided my hair and spun a tail of a spider.

One who spun a beautiful web in a home while a woman was cleaning.

She would take little breaks and watch the spider spin her web and admire the hard work.

The woman's husband came home and wanted to kill the spider and the wife kicked him out after a fight.

She wept in bed as the spider continued to weave.

But this time, the web was magic.

She wove a web to protect the woman from the bad and the evil and would bless her with beautiful dreams for the rest of her life as long as she slept under this web.

The woman thanked the little spider and fell into the best sleep she ever had.

And now I feel blessed when a spider spins a web in my home.

She picks the best fruit from the market in the mornings and cuts it up exactly how I like it.

I love her.

She always has an extra jacket in the car just for me because she knows I get cold so easy.

I love her.

She makes my coffee with extra creamer and sugar with a smile on her face because life could always be sweeter.

I love her.

She washed my hair and scrubs my scalp and brushes deep conditioner and fancy oils through my hair.

I love her.

She makes me the best pasta sauce from scratch by getting up early to cook down fresh tomatoes and basil on a low simmer all day.

I love her.

Even on her bad days she makes sure to do something special just for me because we all need something special.

I love her.