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.

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

Tenderly touch
the softness of my brevity.
Allow your fingers to embrace,
the pink lace to my soul.

With words that stroke
your back, lick your neck
and moan out a metaphor.

Pink trimmed bows on the dimple
of my back-
whispers
for your palms
to turn a page.

Come on, let it engrave
in your frontal lobe.
Leaving you
wanting more

Taste the ink from my well
I know it is inviting
to you,
him.

Let my words shower every
inch of you
cherry waves,
that keep you
aching
clawing at my door.
Crying out:

Please-
let
me
read
you
one
more
time.

I touch my feet
to your feet.
Our bodies
feel
sacred.

The
letting
down
of
great
walls
covered
in moss
on the north.
Corrode
crumble
down
the end
of
our
bed.

The
sheets
turn into
a sanctuary.
Where
whispers
and
light
kisses
become
heavy
with
the scent
of
burning
oils.

What's building
between
us
is
delicate.
Like
seeds
from a
dandelion.
Naked
at times
and
fragile.
This I must
place
on my lips
to blanket
yours.

In our love
the light from
our room
eclipse my hips
as I turn them
closer to
yours.

Your arms
wrap around
the moonlight
delicately.
It's been
a while
since
we allowed
the petals
from the wild
flowers
depetal
and become
moist with
rain that
drips
from
your
twilight.

Your skin
tastes like
sweet
almond.
Your eyes
match
the
same.
As I
become
lost in those
dark
brown
pools of
heated
spring.
The hills
of
my
body
collapse
into
your
ocean.
Only
you and I
you and I
my love
listen to it
our hearts
beating
together
in the
same
space.
Resting
on each
other
with
each other.

The river
and the
lakes
all
see
the threads
of
red
and
gold
which
thread
our souls
together
again.
you are mine
you are mine.

Moon soot

There is a citrine moon
hanging in
a starless
sky.
It eclipses
over
the tops
of trees
the dirt,
grass
and every
hollow thing
that roams
during a night
like this

It looks as if
it waters
everything,
that is dark
with crystal
tears, to feed
this twisted
valley.

I long to touch
all the darkness
that's shattered
across the places
one dares
not
to
go.

Where whispers
have
no
echoes.
Where
your
soul
is
wrapped
around
my
own.

The deepest
parts
of your
mind
that
are
hidden
beneath
the rug,
sheets
and
bed.

Let me
roll around
in your
dirt
and
wet
red clay.

Spread my hands
to touch
things that are
too afraid to
seek
the
piercing
light.

I want
to cover
my
body
in
your soot.

Get
my hair
matted
with ash
that's been
left
behind
in
your
lungs.
From all
the years
you've smoked.

Darling,
you've
embraced
the shadow
that's a part
of what
makes me
still
your
woman.

Now
I won't
let
fear
stand
at the
gate

I welcome
it in
the toad,
and
driftwood.

Let me
in the
puddles
of mud
where
you hide
from
even
yourself.
There,
we
can
be
whole.

Coffee
and
cigarettes
the truth clenching
my chest.

So I'll take it to
the dock
and leave them there
then these white lies
can greet you at the door.

There's nothing left
to explore.
When I hand feed you
what's real,
and what can't be.

You let your
mind playing games
and I'm playing Jack's
behind your back
telling to look away.

Go back to the door
where my white lies
will call your name -
the protection you
so need,
because the truth is
things unseen.

I keep it buried
in this coffee,
that whispers,
my guilt
heavy enough for two
maybe three or four

My salvations waiting
at that door.

but I'm a single man
so it's really
not that bad.

No matter what I tell you,
late at night on those same docks-
you and me we just can't see
the same pictures,
or the writing on the walls

I hide the truth
behind this cigarette
no matter how
much the cherry burns
I'll kiss your forehead
taking you back to the door
where my white lies
will sing you lullabies
so you won't cry
and I can continue to
live this double life.

A faithful husband
and a blind wife.

But I always return
to the place I started,
where we departed
even when I still hold your
heart in my hands.

Kissing strangers you don't see.
Laying with girls you can not know
cause if you did the
curtain would fall.

Like a record player
hitting that note
in the final song

Let me listen
on repeat,
with this lying coffee
and tattle tailing cigarette

I'll ignore this pain in my chest.
Keep you an ignorant wife
and the ******-
they'll never know
I'm paying one last
visit to the docks.

Stilling here 5 months later
and now I'm drinking tea.

You've been out all night
with the boys.
I expected you home later
but you said, "Hey, we're in
our thirties now."
I laugh and
you ask if I want to read
some poetry with you.
" Of course," I said
" but read the one I wrote you
last night first."
You give me a funny look
and I just smile.
" Pout, pout, pout,
I'll take all that you give."
I reply.
You're ready to read
from one of the
greats but I make you settle
for my foolish ones first.

I listen to you read
and ask if I had typos
I explained what "doe eyes" meant
and you nodded, "Ah
just a term I've never known before."

You proceed to read
from your book.
There was one about
a man getting ready for bed.
There was a knock on the door.
A woman walked in after a scary
episode of another man
attacking her.
He lets her inside.
They sit together,
the television he once had muted
now had the volume up.
And they sat there.
Ashtray between them sipping wine
together from plastic hotel cups.
Not a word spoken between them.
Just enjoying the moment
together.

Another one was about a woman poet.
She reminded me a bit of myself.
There she'd type away at poems and
hand them over to the other poet
excited to see his response.
He'd critique it and help her with edits.
In the end they drifted apart.
She'd reach out to him from time to time.
Called him her muse.

I saw a little of us in these pieces.
It made me enjoy it a bit more
Loving a poet has its pros
You get to share quiet moments together.
Such as the first poem
or you get to be a muse.

He read me just one more
from that book.
I sat and smoked
while listening.
Giggled at some parts
you did as well.
As you spoke, it
brought back fond memories-
years ago,
your lunch breaks spent
on vending machine sandwiches
and reading me poetry.

And here we are now
with a few more grey hairs
between us
still speaking the language
that is us.
My mad poet.

It's 7 AM
I've been up since 5.
My alarm buzzes and I hear you snoring.

The usual routine
dress
black stockings
and boots
I coat my lips
with a blood dark lipstick
after blotting orange blush
on my cheeks.

Opening the back door
it's a little rainy
I enjoy it when it rains a little
a lot of rain can hurt.
with lighter and cigar in hand
the cherry forms and I inhale
and exhale smoke.

The tip of my cigar gets
stained with the blood red
from my lips
I rub and rub to try to fix it.
To no success.
There's now a stain on my fingers that's a pretty color.

I leave it there.
Like a small touch of rouge
proof some things deserve to stay.

To fill my cup up with
too much sugar
not enough coffee.
My eyes fill up with
salty tears

How is your heart?
It doesn't take
much to
touch mine.
With the spin of a knife
or the softness/ sternness
in a voice.

The run of a draw of smoke
from the cherry of my cigar.
It doesn't take much to make
me light one up-
way more
than I care
to
admit.


The sound of rain
thumping on the tin roof of
my deck.
There I'd sit and
read
and re read
his poetry
it didn't take much to-
keep the fire burning
it kept me going
when all seemed
hopeless.

While reading
I'd bite my nails
give a half
smirk smile
light
another
cigar
play
tug of war
with
poems
I'd pen
trying
my best
to express
my own
loneliness.
That
didn't take too much.

The heat
from your breath
against my neck.
Your firm grip
on my soft body.
Warm water
raining down
the *****
of my spine
making my hair
stick to
my back
and arms
   like I said it doesn't take much....

I may have
a stone cold
resting
***** face.
But
I have
a tendency
to get
upset
or pout
with as
quick as
the reply
of a message.

As I said
it doesn't take too
much
for tears
smoke
moans
memories
or to call
you a

******* ****.

I ask the same questions
that there are no answers for, yet.
over and over
probably two or three
times a week.
It makes my partner frustrated.
He says, " when I have answers I will give you
then you can make your plans."

I go quiet
as manic tornados
swirl, tearing down
tall buildings
in my mind.

I need reassurance.
All the time!
tell me things you like about me?
say five nice things!
Four times
a week.
He brought this up
in group therapy
and everyone
unanimously
agreed,
It's ridiculous for someone to ask such things from someone.
                   I don't like
                   my personal life
                   being a topic
                   with people I don't know.
                    yeah, I care what (some) strangers
                   think about me.
                   He hangs out
                   and talks to them
                   outside of therapy.  
                    they can feed him reasons
                    to leave me.
                    My secrets
                     have been passed
                     from palm to palm
                     like a drug deal.
                     Done in broad daylight.
                     Slipping a fifty for
                     a gram bag.
                     paranoia, I know.
                     So yeah,
                     that made me insecure.

This topic was brought up
in a passionate
disagreement.
Between my partner and I.
                   Coming to the conclusion
                              I'd stop.
            I hate to be the cause of frustration
            to the person I'm in love with.
            So obviously I stopped asking that.

Both these things and more
make me feel misunderstood.

That my reasoning for this
                                           and that.

I don't lick the red
sauce off a finished plate
of spaghetti.
I'm not greedy
you see.
Just trying to walk with
an umbrella
through the hail storm.

                                    This noggin of mine
                                    roars.
                                   Out of loneliness
                                   from months of no sun.
                                   I'm Alaska at times
                                   six months of darkness
                                  and six months of sun.

          no in-between.

I softly ask,
"What else is there,
that I do
which upsets you?"
I
can
change-
for the right reasons.
He hesitates,
saying he didn't
want me to stop
that
those
things
make me
who
I am.
But the
prescriptions
try and
help me to
           stop.
Therapy also
aids in this as well.
       So why not just tell me,
anything else?
He gives me a couple of
things I do:
"How I take personal jabs at him."
                      I wonder back to
                      when did I
                      how could I
                      do such things..
                      and realized I'm the culprit
                      it springs out
                      from unresolved
                      hurt.

To be honest,
isn't that why
we all
do things
at times?
That's why
I spin
and spin
barefoot.
Taking a drag
and a jab
why
my thoughts
can be
a noose
or
a crown.

Let's see
what survives me
after all the storms

I count each thread
woven together
in my sheets.
Thirty-one days in March
thirty days in April.
maybe even a week in May

Time drags when you're waiting.
Right now I'm waiting
to purchase a round trip plane ticket
just to end up next to someone
twice your
size and
their elbows
stabbing away at your rib.
For lay overs and seeing
people wearing face mask.
Coughing and foreign languages
coming from every direction.
Eye ***** staring at you
you glance over,
the brave ones hold their gaze
while the others veer away quickly.
Traveling for hours can be a pain
in my full round bottom.

Twelve hour flight to land
to an arm extended out for love.
Taking an Uber to our hotel room
228 on the second floor.
This time it won't be awkward.
No
asking if I want to cuddle.
There'd be no soft kisses asking
If the other can come in.
I imagine as soon as the
luggage hits the floor.
Your fiery body and snake-like
curls moving closer
and just as mojitos are made
mint would be
muddled into a tall glass
with sugar
soda water
and yes ***.

I'd smoke afterwards
maybe have some wine.
None for you though
You've given that all up
cold turkey
but still I'd offer you a glass
and a drag.

This all takes time
you see.
Rome wasn't built in a day.
God, it kills away at me
especially since my spirits are either
very high or low-
never in-between
with my mental condition.
So the threads on my sheets
feel as barbed wire some nights-
soft as sin on others.

It's the hardest part,
waiting.
You phone
I write.
All the time we spend
on video calls.
But it's not enough for me
To get attention
I'll try to pick a fight
some are playful
like last nights.
They start off thick with frustration
but we end up teasing each other
until we're smirking
and laughing.

Other times they're
full of passion
and miscommunication
or simply because the fact
your obviously
not
******* here.

My therapist tries
to reason with me,
" Looks like he's moving forward,
it's not the desire to come or not,
just the time frame."
I hate when
things are up in the air
and you hate when I ask
questions you don't have answers to.

So I'm left to
tugging at threads
waiting for the green light
to go.

Here I am
another Saturday
I've woken up
with a smokers cough
heaving
at my lungs
like a slow roasting
fire
I've been
smoking
more cigars
lately

Usually seven
would last me
about a week.
Now that many can
only hold it down for
three days
maybe four

I drag myself out of bed
fumble around searching
for my glasses and of course
the phone
I manage to
slug myself to
the bathroom
pop an
Adderall
make my way
out to the porch
I light up a smoke
the cold wind
strikes my
exposed body parts
giving me the chills
**** Texas weather
it's either too hot
or too cold
kind of like me

Still

it doesn't stop
my routine of
having a few hits
my will power
is a slave
to the
rituals.

As I sit there
mean mugging
the cloudy but
still bright sky
I feel the Adderall
kick in
I'm ready to
tackle
the list of chores


With a toothbrush
and some foam cleaner
I scrub
at the bathroom sink
each little blob of
tooth paste spit
gets focused on
and scrutinized
just as I do
with my insecurities

Tossing a foaming
cleanser bomb
in the toilet
it volcanoes up to the brim
kinda like my emotions
have been
these past
few weeks

I scrub at that for a while
living with two boys
can cause **** to go
and get
in
to
everything

I hand wash all of
my black stockings
in the tub
rinse and
wring them out
and hang them
one by one
on the shower pole

There
as they drip
getting ready
to be worn
through the
work week
I sit on the
edge of the tub
and write this poem
despite all the ****

it was still a good Saturday morning

H as in, How could you do this to me?!
H happens when you least expect it!
H for, How happy are you now?
H to, Hello all my unanswered text and calls!
H is to, Hell with promises
H is the first letter in the word Helpless
H isn't the letter f for **** all of this.
H for you're always at a party and never Home.
H for my name is Hope
because that's what I was full of
before I met you.

H is what does she have that I don't have?!
H for , our Holidays were fixing to be together
H for I feel like a stupid ***
H is for, Hoes have feelings too!
H is for, to Hell the fact your name begins
with an N and not giving a **** what
this is all doing to me.

H for humiliating your so called "nagging wife"
who wanted good morning texts,
"What are you doing?" responses
and letting me know when your making
plans without me.
I only wanted to feel a
part of your everyday life
because you're so far away!
Yeah
but to hell with that too right?
As long as you get out
of the cage that is me.
Yes, to hell to the 2 years of love
because **** taking accountability
             This final H is for
              Hope this poem finds you
               because I haven't been able to...

Carry me in the wind
from the funeral of my heart
a cathedral of loneliness dies
the moment
you spoke my name.

This heart aches every moment
your hands carve into my soul.
Reaching through my soil
up rooting the dirt
exposing the corpse that is me.
Love's violet hues consumed with you
I'd die again
        and again
                  to be buried in your love

An unmarked grave
drowns in shades.
Whiskey as dark as your gaze
cooled with whispers of water
to smooth the taste of your fire
an ember lost in snow-
housed within cemeteries gates.

Usher me in a casket
classic and romantic
silk pressed with satin pearl.
Dye these roses to match the
tattoo vines that cage your arms.
keep me in your embrace
held closer than death.
use my ribs
   fragile and thin
       to break into the woman
          that lies
            helplessly with you.
Casketed in me, casketed in you.

touch me gently
kiss me slowly
      escape in us
        chisel a path that
            death herself can't break free of
               let this moment outlive the grave.

your loose tobacco is
   still on my bed side dresser.
on a brown rectangle tray
  dried out leaves
    shriveled from lack of moisture
     along side a vase of dead roses.
       even the moon dims it's gaze
       it's silver light thinner without you.
         everything mourns your departure

   this house feels less than in your absence.
    i miss you, so i wear your clothes  
  no longer does lace grace these hips
    nor silk lay on this flesh
      for your palms are far
     from the peach orchard
    heavy showers
  cast dew on hand held mangos.
    it's been days
  since I've coated my pucker
   with red cherries
     for your lip stain is far from me.

       when the moon brings the cold
      the stars spill
      their ***** tonic waters.
     celestial bodies drink and weep
   pouring gallons of salted rose on
  the open wounds in the marsh.
    
         Lilies brush the scent
       of apple crisp,
       that refreshed the skin
        between my breast
        where you laid
         and I cradled your crown
         sweet scents of beautiful
            feathered doves
      
         all the night long
        I seek you in my bed
        where your ghost
       offers a bouquet of ripe
    grapes—their sweetness
    crushed by the weight of waiting  
    reminding me I've pressed your wine
      I tango with the shadow of amor
       keeping this heart beating
        tormented but clinging
          sugar coated covenant promise
             that I'll hide under my tongue
              until the day
               you're back home again.

I told him that I needed some space.
That I think if we had it
we'd be on better terms.

So he gave it to me..
the space between his shoulder
and elbow.
Some space on his chest
where I could rest my
oh
so
tired
head.

There
right there
where his heart beats
the fear right out of my skin.
There is where I slept,
longer than I normally
would have.
My manic mind
usually puts a
choke hold on sleep
much later in the night.
He slept too, even
though he hadn't been
awake for too long.
'Go ahead and rest my love '
is what he spoke to me.

Sometimes all we need is a little space.

There's a fire
in my chest.
It's burning in
water.
The steam
fogs my glasses.
As being on the verge
of breaking down
draws ever so closer.

Closer than a lover
closer than the
decaying yellow
from the vines of
a dead fern.
So much closer than
the smoke-stained paint
which coats the walls of my home
an off-white uselessness.

Carrying an anchor
so far
from the sea,
it bears a toll on me.
Half dead
hunched over
waiting for
a candle's light to
reach my
ever-growing darkness.

My body is half buried
in the dying Texas blue grass.
The worms
maggots
and circling birds
hungry to tear away
at the flesh of a dead poet.

There's nothing like
waking up at dawn.
The plants and the trees
are bare.
Each blade of grass
is either brown or green.
The quiet demands silence.
Even the cats
that follow
me outside
lower their heads
to show some respect
to the quiet.

I collapse, surrendering
to the rocking chair
My eyes still heavy
from only having a few hours of sleep.
The pills haven't worn off yet.

A half-smoked cigar is in my hand.
I take it to my lips
flick the Bic
and give it a long kiss.
Inhaling enough smoke
to fill my lungs.
Leaning back in the chair
I release a stream
of smoke.
Sitting there watching
nothing happen.
It feels good.

Until my mind starts up again.
Like a record on repeat.
The static
and flashes of
all the episodes
with every word
drowning my brain
with loads of cheap whiskey.
I question myself,
Will I be able to make it today?
Can I outrun
this hurricane
at least for
another day?

It's awkward being around so
much stillness and having a
tornado inside.
From a perspective of
someone people watching
I'd just look like a normal lady
sitting outside enjoying
their morning cigar.
They're partially right,

It was a **** good cigar.

He watches me
going crazy in agony.
With his dark brown eyes
that hold me hostage.
His eyes don't follow me
neither do his ears or
mouth.

It hurts to be in love.

Being put on the back burner
left to forget
or told to sit in the corner
for being a bad girl again.
I've drawn all over the walls
with permanent markers
and the paint peels
when trying to clean it off.

There isn't much I wouldn't do
for him.
I would shoot up a car he was in.
Pick the most beautiful abstract art.
Jump off a cliff to land on broken
glass bottles
and try with my lack of skill
to pen him even more beautiful
love poetry.

I feel lost
in my own house.
My heart is like
a race horse running it's last lap.
Every noise startles me
and he's no where to be found.
Not to comfort
or to hold
He's just vacant
with no room at the inn for me.

I've written him hundreds of
poetry. Even when he left me
I still
kept writing.
I'm a fool
I know.
and the sadness that
comes with it all
saturates my sheets
keeps my head foggy
and my bed empty.

Being in love is hard.
When you have no one to talk to,
and strangers get the best parts of
him.
What's left for me?
scraps in a metal bowl
that his father kicks around
because it's in the way.

I couldn't let go of him
Even when he demanded I do.
Now we're here in this space of
being together but not.
and I cry
into my pills
into my cup of tea
and it over flows
becoming salty.

Where do I go from this.
I feel it slowly breaking inside.
Being not heard or understood
on top of it all makes even more
tears kiss my pillow at night.

After I ash out the final cigar of the
night. After trying to talk to him
but he couldn't choose between me
and a computer game.

I think the answer is louder than my silence.

I'm a crazy woman you know.
That's what
all the men tell me.
Even though
I'm not the first
to yell or
even the last to.

I've learned.
Don't ever tell
your partner
what diagnosis
the psychologist
tell you.
They will use it to
slit your wrist,
arms,
and soft
under belly.
Gutting you like a fish
getting ready to be fried on
a scorching pan.

They'll make you question
what had happened
and what was said.
Remember I'm the nut job here.
Not the schizophrenic man
who yells at the black blob
on the floor.

He knows exactly what happened
so don't you dare question.
It will turn into a ping pong game
one that will wear you down
and make you want to
spend all your money in your bank account.
Do a lot of drugs,
smash your face into a plastic screen

Yes, yes I see the blob too
I tell him time and time again
I've gotten on my knees
trying to scrub it out!
Even tried to chase it away with
a baseball bat
but still it lays there
mocking
mocking.

Like the woodpecker
who continues to
beat the trees
at all hours of the day.
Bang
Bang
Bang
It's like a shot gun being fired.
Shaking all the dried leaves
off your tired wasted head.

Where was I?
Oh yes I'm a real ******* nut.
That's why I cry and cry
to the point that I start
Hyperventilating
choking
on the words
I can't even get out.
                   I'm the bad guy
                    I'm the problem
and all the pressure you feel is me
me
me

I can't even write
a ******* poem
right now.
There's a broken vase
on the floor
and the house is
shaking from the
thunder coming in from the west.
The kids are whining
and the dishes are
talking ***** to each other.
and I'm so stressed
my mind has stopped thinking.

My body wants
pleasure
a little pain
maybe even a little teasing
to make it extra good.
Anything to take away what it is
I'm stuck feeling right now.

I write because
I have to.
There is no rhythm or reason.
My poetry isn't for you
half the time
it isn't even for me.
It just is.

Once in a while
the hands from the "chosen" gods of
allpoetry.com
will deem me worthy
to grace the stage
of "front page"
Where all the big wigs of the site
get flowers
their proverbial ***** stroked
and told how pretty they are.

Poems like mine don't get chosen much.
I have to be
literally *******
the picker
to get one of my
mediocre writes
displaced for
a few hundred
or thousand views
some likes and of course
DMs from boys.

There are times such as today
where my writes get taken off of "pending picks"
The God of this land finds my words to be too offensive.
Asking what do certain metaphors mean
and my formating is wrong.
I make my own words "weak"
That the word *******, is
too strong.
To that
I light my nightly cigar
and the urge to burn
my page down
is fighting
with the cats and possums
clawing into each other's back
between the shed and old fence.

To hell with
modest clothes
that cover full breast.
**** the short skirts I wear
and the boots that I could very easily kick your teeth in with.

If you want poetry
about babbling brooks,
tall red wood trees
and metaphors you can
sing to your
small child at night
while her father
slams down
another empty can of beer
hoping to not wake
up in a bed of his own ****
in the morning.
That won't be misplaced here.


Dear reader
my poetry
isn't for you.
Neither is it
front page
"worthy"
I write about
depression
***
cheating
loneliness
being ******* over.
About being
Bi polar
and all the
******* pills I
have to take
to let me sit
near the "normal crowd"
and if that's not what you want to read.
then go **** yourself
*******.

"I've already told you
it's like you don't understand"
" We get paid
on the 17th and
no doctor tickie,
no money"
"So I have to stay
until then
and pray they don't call"
"No it's not about therapy or work it's about the goverment"
       He says all of this and more.
It brings back memories of yesterday's
episode of
" She doesn't understand"
followed by
" It's like talking to a wall"

I'm the wall you see.
I'm the one
that doesn't understand.
It's not that I lack
the capacity to do so.
It's just when
things don't add up
I ask questions.
It shouldn't trigger a bomb
or
light
a bon fire.
At least
this one didn't
end with
him
punching
himself on the chin.

At least I don't think it did.

Each time the topic comes up-
moving here
and the steps
it takes
or God forbid
a time frame.
Everything goes
down the crapper.

It feeds my insecurities
and need for reassurance.
You see this isn't our first rodeo.
He was already suppose to be here.
Now with our second go around
and the topic of conversation is
when will he be here
All I get:
lost in translation
between
him
me
a cigarette
with tears,
angry tones and silence.

My head begins to throb.

This brings up old issues.
The time when he left me
and found
comfort in woman
*****
and drugs.
So naturally
I get afraid,
something  will come up
and I will be left
even
more
shattered
then
before.

Last night
he said,
I don't trust him.
When all I
wanted was
some comfort.
Because all I
see is I can't
ask
him
anything.

a " Hey baby it will all be okay, I want to be there just as badly as you want me there " but
No.
He told me
he didn't know
how to do that for me.
How to comfort
or what to say.
This made me
scared.
How can we last if someone is
incapable to comfort me
when I need them to.

I asked him to apologize at least
for putting me through all this.

"Would that honestly even help"
.......to my reply,
not with that attitude it won't.

After all the weeping
anger, finger pointing
and frustration
here we are today.

It's going to take longer now
longer than he initially said
and when the
discussion came up again
out of the blue
I refrain myself.
Still being told
how much
I don't
understand..

What I do know is, these
back and forth arguments
are over 400 euro.
That may or may not come
which is prolonging his trip
back home to me.

His eyes are a beautiful dark brown.
They have a way of sinking into the very fiber of my being.

and I'm tired
of things being up in the air.
Tired of being told
I'm like talking to a wall.
Tired of not finding any comfort.
That nothing
is in my control
or even his,
to be honest.

I just know none of what happened
last night and our small conversation
about it today
was worth 400 euro
not the argument
not the waiting
or the ache.

Not even this poem.

The way
I love you isn't perfect-
it's probably not the way
you dreamed of.
I imagine you thought
someone would understand
you more,
not be so volatile
maybe even less of what I am-
show
and
give.

I'm sorry I can't give you
the things you deserve
or the way you deserve to be treated.
That the stars hang low
not low enough to touch
but near enough to tease.

I want to be more for you,
in ways that I struggle.
I wish on those same stars
that they'd fall
softly
one by one
to comfort you
gently,
kiss you
slowly
and burn at a pace
that's suitable
for a gentleman
such as yourself.

You deserve
every
thornless rose
and a vase
without holes
that keeps the water in
not drip
by drip emptying it out.
not to question if the
vase is still there
or wonder where
the cracks are.

You deserve someone
who can dedicate
beautiful poetry to you.
One who can hold a candle to
your own.
Not someone who
fumbles with words-
can't string together
a metaphor
or misinterpret
your brilliance
for whiskey
without a little water.

I love you
the only way I can.
Like butter
that over-saturates
toast, that's straight
from the toaster
with no chance to cool.
As mud is born with dirt
and soil.

I love you with all
my darkness
in every shadow.
Behind the front door
with a gun
locked and loaded
safety
still on.

I love you to
where my pride gets
stuffed down an old
Christmas stocking,
not with trinkets
and sweets
but with
coal.
I want more
of you
less of
myself.
So I can be
satisfied with your stillness.
Your own starfish
deep down in the depths
of a forgotten sea
that has
no name.

Let it all take me
into your arms
in your teddy bear embrace
with doe eyes
and a silent song that sings
only for me.

and as I struggle to end
this so-called poetry.
I'll put out this cigar
sink into my quicksand bed
kiss your sleeping lips
and hang my crown
on the tombstone.

I woke up early today
before the house itself
opens its crusty eyes.

Everything is still.
Everything
but me.
I couldn't sit in the quiet
So I went out to the deck
wanting to light a cigar.

I sit in the rocking chair
hunched over and begin to
type.
The urge to write a poem comes
but
there is a thorn on my side
that's keeping
the words hostage.
Is it the stillness
or the fact that
too much happened before bed.
There was one of those arguments
that made me question
more than the relationship
more of my own self
and so many other questions
that burned a hole straight through the sheets.

I still haven't wrapped my mind around it.
I was told to
just
let
it
go.
That I go looking for things in the mud.
Maybe that's where my mind is
left, to rot in the
swamp.
Where poems come to die
emotions die
relationships die
and butts from cigars are left
to sink.

As I descend I catch a glimpse
of what looks like
a cigar that still has
some drags left in it.

I extend my arm out for it.
The stagnant water is up to my neck
and the stench of death
fills my nostrils.
My feet sink
deeper with each
movement I make
trying my best
to make my way to
that precious
smoke.

Finally,
I get to it.
It's damp
but still smokeable.
Taking the plastic end of it
to my lips,
managing to
fumble a lighter out
and light it up.
The cherry burns ashy red
the last pulls of it are spicy
with nicotine which fill my lungs
I enjoy
it still.
Right
to the
very
end.

The plastic tip
has melted
from keeping it light
too long.
I kiss it goodbye
before I toss it
back into the swamp.
Right where I found it
and right
where
I'm leaving this poem.

is my desire to have those meaningless but oh so meaningful exchanges back and forth through the day, push your hand to taring the town red?
        I want to hold your hand
bite your flesh cause I simply can't take laying
quietly across your bare skin and control myself.
         why do you poke at my insecurities
when you're the one who's seen me raw
                                                    rare
    ­                                         and over
                                               cooked.
Where have you been?
     the dogs eaten your homework
   two lefts and a right?
       And here you are always right.
Pick your teeth with my ribs after feasting
     on reactions to your lack of reaction
              
                I'm ******* you off huh,
                good feel something beautiful
     because you've taken me on a tour of a
      side show odyssey and I hate the view
                from the passenger seat
                                        I'm mad about you,
                                        for you
                                 and this makes me hate
                                   myself.
                           the heaviness on my lungs
                 and being put on a backburner.

kiss me
don't touch me
pull me close
as you run away

                              Finely dice chives
                              sprinkle it sparsely
                             don't forget the vinegar


                can't spell sane and logic
                        with out l-u-v

Don't get too close
the closeness makes
this crazy mind distrust you.
I come from generations of lunatic woman.
Mad with passion
        jealous of the gum stuck to your shoe
          or the pool stick you chalk up right before
          you hit the rack.
                  I tell you
                      we're out of our minds.
    
As a teen I'd
spit on my walls-
sweep up broken glass
from the fists full of love punches thrown from
one parent to the next.
            Alcohol, and
              rage
                  stirred with
                     resentfulness
                         can drive any car off a cliff.

I'd miss weeks of school
because of this.
Jumped out of moving cars to get to "safety"
smoked cigarettes
behind the tree
that covered the window to my brother's room.
   no one noticed-
              ever.
Not the times I'd be gone
    or the missing homework assignments,
       not even fear and
         beer bottles that reflected
            in my innocent eyes.
  
     It molded
     this mind
     I carry now-
      I'd curse at the sun
          told the moon to *******
          learning not to trust
                      a shadow
or even a noise.
Especially a couple weeks of calmness.
      Don't trust those,
they'll pull the rug out from
under you and
break your nose,
slice your wrist
making you learn
silence
and introduce you to
darkness.

Life goes on now,
prescriptions burn the
nerves,
     but never
keep the craziness at bay for long.
          That the calmness
                          always
                           ends.
House shaking
children quaking,
chaos-
my parents engraved in me.
      Also gifted me jealousy-
plus a little of this and that
that can turn anything sweet into sour.
        So I'm telling you
even when the stillness comes
don't you dare hold your breath-
it won't last
           we'll make sure of that
               at least it never did for me.

It's like the egg shells
have voices.
They quietly yell at me
whenever I try and make
sense of their shape.

I can't question anything.
If I do, he gets a sharp tone,
and begins to
frantically wave a knife at me.
Reminding me that I have issues.
Pointing out that
I like to cause issues.

I'm scared.

Frightened of the
unknown
of what's known
and of the knife and the man
behind it.
He makes me
go silent.
He yells,
stop panicking!
you're always making
issues!
Stop questioning why I carry a knife!

I hate myself
because I've made him
carry a knife...
and I'm always the reason why he's waving it around.

I like to smoke
while it's raining outside.
Long cigars with plastic tips
on the end.
I hand pick them
each time I
get em.
Roll them between my fingers
fondling each one
to make sure they're
just
right.

They're perfect for
smoking
during the down pour.
Makes it feel
like I finished rolling
in the hay.

The combination of
smoke
and me
between the water
causes my gears to grind.
Searching the floor for
that lost puzzle piece.

I like that.

Nothing matches that feeling
of rain and smoke
and your mind going.
No, voices in my head
or prescriptions
no love or attention
from a man.
not the income
I make
or **** lingerie
I wear from time to time.

What can hold a candle
to this shower
is
writing.
nothing compares
to it.

keeps the clouds
full,
fat with
dehydrated
water.
Gives the lions
something to lick.
Makes the dirt
rich with mud.

Writing is better than
any therapist,
the best lover
parent
and friend.

That's why you're here
to read this.
That's why I write
hundreds of poems.
You already know too-
how writing is kind
bitter-
salty
or sweet.
I want to end
this one sour

My cigar is out
the cherry hit
a metal chair and
fell to the ground
my naked foot, exposed
burned.
The rain
snuffed out the rest
of the ember.
leaving a black mark.
Just thought you'd
like to know
*******.

He can write about his ****
or his words making firm breast
with playful ******* hard.
He writes about turning you on
with the flick of the wrist.
About a few strokes, up and down,
helps a man
fall asleep.
He's penned **** lines about women,
his rooster has crowed in.
He has a way with words you see.
but those words stop at me.

He often looks at himself and says how
handsome and **** he is.
Doesn't say such things to me.
Can't take his eyes off the reflection
in a one way mirror.
He's in love and been in love
with his own cocky self
and women.

A real Hank Chinaski
with grit and front teeth being
knocked loose poetry.
I've asked him to write a **** poem about me
that he didn't have to share it with anyone else it could be our little secret.
disappointingly, the man who could write about chronic *******, or a perfect ***
couldn't pen one for me.
Here he can write about *****,
moans, being taken to ecstasy
between the thighs of one woman or another.
But not for me, the so called one he "loves"
not even in secret
or hitting the lobe of my ear.
He tells me he's shy...

I can't help but feel
awkward and not exactly what he wants
for his pen can stroke fire
take a woman's ******* off
just simply not for me.

Quicksand eats up who's in it
much like this bed
        that houses my body
                        solo
           a lot like depression
                it swallows too
                  just like ******
                      and heavy set couples
                      at the all you can eat buffets.
                       choke on the spit,
                           chicken legs
                             or that guy you met in the
                              bar last night
                               before last call.

I forgot what this poem was supposed to be about.
Started typing away trying to curb the want for a cigarette.
Smoke to feed the old man who lives in my lungs.
                  The bottle of whiskey whispers
                   at me
                   just like before but it's quieter
                  now
                   almost like a whistle
                    I think it's flirting with me
                   Maybe wants to crawl in
                    between my
                    sheets    
                    touch my lips
                    make these cheeks hot and red
                           I don't think it can compete with
                   him though......
                     I dunno
                      Maybe I'll let them all win
                          The quicksand
                             depression
                                cigarettes
                                  the ******
                                       ***
                                        bourbon
                                         that old man too

                                            ***** it

He writes poetry
sometimes three an hour
he's brilliant!
With metaphors
that bite
leaving no meat
on the bone.
A punch
straight to the chin
with his topics
and in your face
peacock strut.
You could
live and die to his
work.

I use to be his muse
back and forth
we'd send blood
red ink
with the scent of
love,
*** and
longing.
The eyes
which followed
our romance
would gush over
the blaze
beauty
and adoration
laced in each write.

I'd read the ones
blessed for me.
As time
turned to smoke
which hit the
midnight hour.

Then one day
all of it
stopped.
The flowers
went into the grave
our love
turned to
cigarette ash
which flew
straight
off the cherry.
It burned
the tattoos off my body
and he wrote me
one last write.
It was about how he
didn't mourn us.
I
was but a pebble
left on a dock
that he dropped
while walking
away from the empty
wine bottle and
dead June bugs.

He
had
moved on.
While I stayed
writing.
Each one collected dried up dust
left closed and unread by him.
As he lifted skirts and fell in love
or got too drunk and ran off with a
foreigner.
My tears soaked pages
and he wrote them poetry....
It killed parts of me
and some are still dying.

Months now, we're back together.
Only took a plane ticket,
night clubs
and fancy dinners
with white cloth napkins.
There I asked to be his again.

He doesn't write to me
like he use to.
At  gunpoint alone
will he pick up the phone
and type
me a quickie.
He tells me,
that he can't Bukowski it up
for me,
as he did for the others.
Their writes were ****, raw
emotional
and love soaked.

Is it wrong for me
to want what they had?
what I use to have?
I surely don't know
and any god of your choosing
hasn't answered me
but one other poet did.
He replied poets can be selfish.
I believe he was speaking about me.

The crickets are chirping
and I finished my cigarette
not holding my breath
for my own
Bukowski poem.

We've been reading lately.
Between video games and silence
he gets inspired and starts to write.
"Can I continue to read, " I ask
He's already struck-
the pen has him
by the *****.
So I sit
and
wait.

I decide to pen a quick one myself.

He writes confessional poems.
One by one each gets tapped away
on the phone. Says he writes about
his thoughts or his day.
So maybe- just maybe
this one will be about me.

Why not, I tell myself.
I'm part of his life
his poetry is about life.
I get myself a little excited.
Then try and play it cool.

He asks, " Do you want to hear it?"
"Of course," I reply.
He reads
and my balloon is
popped
another brilliant piece,
yet again not about me.

It's fantastic to be with a poet.