(...or, “to Mother”)
When I removed my mask of being straight,
She removed her mask of motherly love.
How could she, seeing 17 year old me, claim to have had no clue?
How could I, seeing 50 year old her, been so intentionally ignorant?
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
I feel as if I'm
Standing with one foot
On each side
Of a dividing line.
And that I'm about
To shift my weight,
Ever so slightly.
Notice, I used the word 'line.'
Not 'chasm.'
Not 'precipice.'
Or some other dangerous thing.
It's just a line.
And death holds not it's breath,
Awaiting my step.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC
This morning,
Instead of whistling,
My teapot moaned.
What does this mean?
That today will be like all the days before?
But maybe worse?
Does it see
The darkness in my heart steeping?
That my heart is left abandoned?
In its customary place?
Filled with the bittering taste?
Of love forgotten?
Or,
Picked from a sunny hillside,
Packed in a brightly lit room,
And left to fade,
In a small paper bag,
In a small cardboard box,
In a dark, mouldering cupboard?
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC
I send forth soft touch,
Hoping to heal the damage,
Done by another,
In another time.
I dash against a hard soul,
Feel the dull edge of rock,
Rip rough gashes,
And gouge me deep.
Tear the tender fabric
Of my heart.
I retreat, bleeding,
Sorrow filling my soul
So full that I stagger,
Leaving a smeared trail
Of lost hope.
I slowly stand straight,
Anger rising,
And view the drying outline
Of the trail.
Like the ice cold barrel of a gun
Pressed to my breast
Hatred freezes me.
I stop.
The target is on my own heart,
And the finger on the trigger
Is my own.
And then I see,
That I am needed again.
Not wanted, only needed.
I feel compassion, detestable,
Well up within me.
And I return.
I send forth soft touch,
Knowing full well,
How perfectly the dull-edged rocks
Match the scars on my heart.
There is no justice.
There is no 'fair.'
There is only the return.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 10:15 AM UTC
I feel like a plum,
Beginning to ripen.
Who will pluck me
From the thorny branches
And taste me first?
Wait.
Not a plum.
I am perhaps the tree herself,
Sending forth plum after plum.
In either case spring comes soon,
And I bear buds, ready to burst into blossom.
And where there are blossoms
There will soon be tasty fruit.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 10:05 AM UTC