Don’t come home late she says
As she always says
Her heart beating a drum inside her chest.

He looks into her eyes soulfully
The soul of innocent intent
His mouth promising he won’t

She believes him
As she always believes him
Her soul praying that he will.

Please don’t drink too much she begs
As she always begs
Her stomach cramping from the shame.

He touches her face with his fingertips
and with  promises of eternal love in his eyes
He tells her that he loves her.

He means it.

He never hits me she thinks
I know that he loves me.
Except that she doesn’t.

He never hits me she thinks
It’s not that bad
And wonders why

She

Always

Feels

So

Empty .

Tell me something interesting.
Make me notice you, and only you.
Make me marvel at how your eyes light up when you laugh.
Glance at me then look away.

Look at me like nothing matters.
Caress my face as if you love me.
Kiss me as if with your last breath.
And dance with me as if with your first.

Tease me with the smell of you.
With implied promises in shadowy corners
Teach me to believe in the magic
Of feeling invulnerable, desirable, and alive.

Light me up with your hands, your tongue, your nervousness
Your awkward confessions and bashful goodbyes.
Your compliments and shared hopes which seem, and are, too good to be true.
Then walk away, and take the sunshine with you.

Not all love stories are long stories.
Even my inner romantic knows that.
But... thank you for making me believe, albeit briefly
That the world remained full of possibilities.

I wait.
my body betrays me.
daily. nightly. randomly and bitterly.
I wait for answers that never come.
Medicines that never work.
For the days to stop being endless shades of gray.

He tries to help me.
Patiently. Lovingly.
I push him away.
Because I hurt.
and he cannot truly understand how i hurt.

oh my love oh my love
it is me that is broken
if you blow on me i will scatter
like leaves in the wind.

you are my stronghold.
you are my sun.
would that i were strong enough to tell you
but I am an evening star, and i am already burned out.

Flashbulbs. Microphones.
A circus has invaded our home
And filled it with strange, jeering faces.
Reporters, you once called them.
And I remembered.

Avarice. Questions pour out of their incessant mouths.
Like a metronome invading my brain.
The thudding  roar of my heart transforms their gibbering mouths into a silent movie.
Funny, I never knew you were famous.

With a jaunt in my step
And my smile fixed in place
I saunter away to my room to weep.
I throw in a skip.
You would have applauded my decorum.

I fantasize that the mask slips off my face
And shatters onto the floor.
What a mess. Someone should clean that up.
And a reporter asks me, "Excuse me, little girl, did you drop your face?"
To which I have no answer.

Fast forward 5 days to
Labyrinthine hallways
Filing cabinets for the dead.
My tiny footsteps resonate in that pristine expanse
Though you no longer walk with me.

How can it be
That I can only remember you
As a wisp of smoke
On a fickle breeze?

I am only 10, and yet I know.
That I will dream of your loving touch
Your silken voice.
Your gentle way.  
But not from memory.

I will weave this tapestry of imagination
So strongly, So warmly
That it will provide permanent shelter
From the bitter chill of your ghost.
From the truth of you.

I smile once more as I leave that space
Of ineffable loneliness.
Why not?
All is well again.
You would have been proud.

For it was you who taught me to lie.
It was you who taught me to fear.
And it was you who taught me to forget.
Mother.

Your love is black ice
Unctuous, greedy, slippery, treacherous
Seductive, alluring
The duplicitous song of the siren.

You are as the ancient oak
Whose once vital branches have withered
Into gnarled, beckoning husks
Ever reaching, never grasping.

And still I hunger.
To my shame I yearn.
I eat your dirt with the impetuousness of the dying.
And with trembling hands wipe away the maggots.

More the fool am I
For allowing the shadows to lengthen
Awaiting the day your siren song
Delivers its unspoken promise.

Ever listening for the soughing wind
To blow through your wizened leaves
To shimmy up your sturdy trunk
And carry you back to me.

But your branches are black with decay. Desiccated from neglect.
And my ears have forgotten how to hear your voice.
Accompanied only by the echoes of a dream
That has long since faded.