The laundry needs done.
And I'm in my bed.
Laying, sobbing, and mourning;
A life that will not come to pass.
Despising a body born more than imperfect.
Preparing to force a certain brightness to the surface.
Questioning, what else can be done?
The laundry.
The laundry needs done.

The cornfields whirred by, as your voice droned, monotone in my ears. This fifteen minute drive was the longest of my life; every Wednesday, always twice. To the Church of the Immaculate Conception, where sinful women would teach me about my own impurities– before handing me off to the demon who dropped me off. She would ask me what I learned. I could never muster the enthusiasm to prevent the lecture. Now, she's angry at her ex-husband, shrieking at me because I clench my jaw the same way he does.
The ritual ends as we pull into the driveway. The house and the church smell the same to me. Incense smoke coils near the high ceilings. My bottom bunk greets me as the pillow begins soaking in tears of defeat.
“God, I've prayed in your house. I've prayed in my own. I keep calling out. You keep leaving me alone.”

I learned how to be the cool girl
Because I wasn’t cut out to be a school girl.
Meditated on being the chill girl,
Because nobody likes the high-strung girl.
Tried out being the party girl.
I can’t swim, so I never was a beach girl.
Always making friends, so I’m not the hard-to-reach girl.
I like being the artsy girl,
The make anything she sees girl,
The changes her mind about who she wants to be girl.
I don’t think I’m a 9-to-5 girl,
But I think I’m an eating berries in the forest girl,
A singing music in the park girl.
Saw darkness but overcame it, girl.
An obstacles never stopped me, girl.
Enforces her will on the world girl.
A love you for your whole life girl,
A couldn’t hate you if I tried girl.
I learned to be the cool girl
By just being my own girl.

My personal orator,
tell me a story with profound meaning.
Spin the tale of the abrasive man
who grew from a silent boy.
Feed me you unmistaken eloquence.
Let me drink in your vocal opulence.

I could stare at the sun
if I was promised I'd see your face.
I'd go blind searching for the bridge of your nose,
the crease of your eyelids, the curve of your lips.
In the visual silence I'd forever see you.
A promise held true.
Even in blindness, I'd still see you.

They say it's dangerous when a woman’s tears stop
When her heart grows cold
When even on her own, she doesn’t feel alone
When she stops waiting for your reply
And doesn't look to you to bide her time
You thought the battle was over the first time you held her
It’ll take much more for this war to be over

A chilling ceasefire
As the home becomes a house once more

No water nor tea can quench an inhuman thirst.
That which one cannot have
becomes the object of obsession.
Delusional desires spiral,
the soul caves in,
and all that remains
is this lesson you were given.