My fingers unfold the truth
on a late night poem
in a different country
than my own–
between two black cars
a street light,
wine,
beer,
and
hard drugs

untold white lies
        
        Do you know what's really hard?

         Trying to make something beautiful or ugly
          out of a lie.
      
            This is me now
talking to the reader
or probably talking just to myself:
                   There's a hole in the Earth of me
                   my tooth has a cavity
                   I have a man
                   who can't keep
                   the truth in his pants
his mouth
gets real happiness
when he can bend
what's real and what
he wants me to know
which takes away any real
chance at happiness
                                             the only real
                                             way I can
                                             find out the lies
                                             is by picking
                                             up pennies
                                             that lead down
                                            a trail
                                             to girls,
                                                     coke,
                                                        hash, and
                                                         attention
                                                           seeking,
                                                     rocks
                                                 and a hard
                                              place.

There I go again
trying to make
poetry
out of tears,
and an untrusting heart.

                                   He makes
                                 amazing poetry.
                               about nights he's lied
                             keeping it hidden
                         in metaphors
                      and grandiose statements
while I applaud and like each write.
                
                          I'm ******* stupid
                         that's probably why
                         he says he likes
                         me as much as he does

You think about
the times
when your gut told you so
or the other times
when you ate it up
like drinks and fine dining

                              Now you forget to smile
                             and things you wouldn't
                             think would connect dots,
                             begin to.

My breast hurt
and I feel a panic attack
is at the bottom of this bottle of beer

Now I can say
I didn't make a poem
cause these are just words
on a page

I didn't think I
could cry anymore tears
I didn't think my heart
could break anymore.
But tonight everything changed.

I found 3 ****** in bed
and no room for me to sleep.
When someone,
who's suppose to love you

picks ****** over you.

How are you suppose to react.
My partner ghosted me,
then with in a month
broke up with me.

He always made it feel
as if there was
a chance
but
something inside me
told me
there was more
happening
then I was lead to know.

The same thing a man hates,
mostly likely he is doing.

I was gaslighted
to believe there
wasn't a ***** in my bed
while he did his best
to make me not leave.

Telling me if I went
with someone else
it would hurt him.

But there he was
3 ****** 1 bed.

Leaving me
no where
to rest my tired body.

I'm told this is my fault
I should of moved on
months ago
but
in the same breathe
if you were to fall in love
with someone else
it would hurt me.

My gut told me
there was a wolf
in sheep's clothes
but like any naive
girl I believed the wolf.

Now my husband is inlove with a *****

and here I am, left ***** less.

On nights
like this one,
and many others.
I feel the flower
that sleeps
between my ribs.
Start to weep.
Her sobs are so heavy
that I find myself
fighting back
tears
of
my
own.

So I take her
outside.
Light up cigar
and begin to
drown
her
in
smoke.

I tell her
to be silent.
That she'll ruin
the good things
about to happen
in my life.
If her voice
gets up to my gray
matter brain.
It will get me
thinking
and saying
things,
I should have
let go of
by now.
"We'll lose him"
I tell her
"Is that what you want?"

The flower slowly
let's crystal
tears fall
one after
the other.

So I take
orange pills,
to make her stop.
That way
my kids
the clients
I see Monday
thru Friday
or even my
closest.
Won't know
of how
on some nights

I
cry
with her
as well.

No one will
know about the
late night drinks
we share.
From time
to time.
The terrible memories
that barrage us
as the world sleeps.

No one will
know of how
faces of women
we've never
met
before
haunt us.
Take away
our happiest.

This cigar tonight
is for you
darling,
because
I know I won't
sob tonight.
But
under
these
shattered
stars
you
will.

There are days
That are good.
The yelling
is minimal.
The food is eaten.
Arguments
are
but
a
spoonful
             and there is
                  very
                    little
                       crying.

Then there are
days like today.
When you
              yourself
                 don't feel too well.
                    the doctor gives two days
                      of sick leave.

At 4:30
My little autism
walks through
the door.
With smiles,
taking his clothes off
to jump in the pool.
            It only takes a second
            to change the
            whole atmosphere.
            The once smiles
            are now full of tears.
     and no matter what it is
I'm feeling that all gets bashed
against a wall.
Along with my
anxiety it's the splash back
        blue paint down the hall.
                         You see.
                          even as
                          an adult
                          I have
                          trouble.
                         Digesting
                         my own
                         emotions.
       He paces back and forth
       clenches his fingers.
        back
        and
        forth.
        Back
        and
        forth.
    How do I expect my young son
        with autism to tell
me what the root
issue of his tears stem from.
             I was ready to
smash my face
through bricks.
              The repetitive
              questioning,
              repetition of words
             can be a lot even
             for a nut such as myself.

But it's not about me
you,
or my fiance
hearing it all.
It's not even about the fly
crawling on my leg.
               It's about him
               everything has to be.
               Who else is going to
               turn the rain on
               at night for him to sleep?
               Who's going to rub
               his little back to soothe his
               blue nerves to be
               green again?
               And who will receive a
               freshly picked flower
               each afternoon?
                
                        Me.

He finally felt better
once he got the words
out of his belly.
Telling me what provoked
these extreme outbursts.
           I was so proud of him.
        
Now it's," look at that cute cloud."
"Hey, check out my shadow!"
a freshly
plucked
flower.
With autism,
a bipolar mommy
and the sun—

Getting ready
to
nap.

You are the butterfly
that softly whooshes
between my ribcage
and that flutters
around my heart
aiding in its job
of moving the carcass
that is my body.

Even if you oddly
revert your
metamorphosis
and stay still
next to me
and rest in a cocoon
allowing silence
to rule for a day or two
perhaps
I've hurt you
and that's your way
to regenerate
from my unintentional
hurt.

As I lay in bed
I do the same
I go back
to my own cocoon
I shelter myself
out of site
but I'm no
butterfly.

There are times
to love
there are times to
see love
when it isn't
just something
beautiful.
When it's covered
in tears
hurt pain
and alone

The curtains
drape a window
in my
room.
To keep the
darkness
in.
I talk to mostly
no one.

Even if I love
wants to love.
I have ears
to listen.
But there is
no voice to hold
a conversation.
Even to understand
my voice.

There is music
playing to dance to.
But I never
learned
to follow the
lead of
others.

There's a cigar
waiting
for me to light.
This I can count on.
With so many
plastic tips
discarded
in the ash tray.
Some I toss in
the fireplace to burn
others I let sit with me.
So I'm not so alone.
With no ears
they listen
With no words they speak.
With smoke they dance
all around me.
As I quietly wait
for the cherry
of their
love for me
to burn out.

Tie me up in
red silk rope.
Bind my breast,
shoulders,
arms,
and belly.

Take the threads
to lasso
these
thick
thighs.

Tilt
my head
back
and slide your fingers
into my mouth.

Force
them
open.
While you
pat my soft
pink cheek.

Gag me
with your poetry.
Force
it
in
through
my lips

Let me whimper
and tear up.
As you feed me
word
after
word.
Metaphors
of panting painting
and other wives
who don't get fed
as well as me.

Make me beg
for your
pen stroke,
pleading
for your ink.

**** I love your poetry