A woman's place is to cook and clean. Stereotypes always chant.

A woman's place is on her knees, completely subservient.

A woman's place is to serve; to be seen, but not heard.

A woman's place is to be a wife and bear her husbands children.

Sit like a lady, be a size two. Do not speak unless spoken to.

This isn't the fifties. Maybe I'm a slob and just want to sleep. I don't yet have a husband and children to keep, but I do have a love and he likes me just as I am. He holds me when I cry and listens when I talk too much. He pleases me as much as I do him though I'm far from a two. Our relationship is good and he wants me to be me even when that means he might have to clean.

Its hard not to be jealous of their happiness with everything I want. I can't help but be angry when it wakes me up at night. An invisible haunt.
Wait.
My brain babbles on as the green monster seals my broken heart. The darkness clouds my head and threatens to pull me apart.
Be responsible.
I try to calm my nerves, though it's easier said than done in not so many words. Take a breath and another. I know one day I'll get the chance to be a mother...

Does death always look so serene. Like a sleeping babe.
When the soul leaves this infant boy will the air still like his mourning mother.
Her tears will bathe him one last time before the earth does.
Don't weep too loudly as not to wake the dead.

All dressed in black like a thunder cloud; the skies will open and wind will howl.
Tissue will wipe red eyes as shaky hands hold white roses.

His eyes stay shut though his mother cries. She touches his statuette face, her fingers through his curls. Kiss him softly and say good bye.

Sweet dreams...

I curl up in ball. The tighter I press myself together the more I hope I could just vanish, to sink into the bed and disappear. I know it won't happen though. It never does. I try to close my eyes and focus on my breathing but that only makes the silence in between deafening. The numbness is back, but really I doubt it ever left. It creeps from the shadows both from my mind and the empty room. It curls around my body. The darkness licks at me like flames but the warmth I was looking for is instead cold. It presses in like pins and needles. I would rather burn.
I would rather smell the flesh of my body be eaten away or the masochistic relief that pain brings after you haven't felt something in so long. I guess that how depression works though. It puts just enough of cold flame out so that it doesn't engulf you entirely. It lets you sink below the surface just long enough for your lungs to ache before dragging you from the water. Sometimes I wish I could just finally drown.
I want someone to wrap their arms around me and bring me warmth but I know I'd just push them away. I wonder occasionally whether its all in my head or if I enjoy the bone chilling numbness more than I'd like to admit. I believe its probably both. What is life without warring against your very breath and nature after all?

The knife shines in the light.
Try to run but fall; not quite.
It digs in deep, its silver teeth leaving reddened skin.
You scream for help, but no one hears.
The darkness laughs at your face, your blood, your tears.
You take hold of the hilt and try to set yourself free. One last attempt to continue living, but it kicks you hard when it finally sees.
The blade burrows deeper till it just cuts right through,
One last look around.. you fade.
Now you're dead too.

The candles burn and cast warm light as the wax falls and hardens on colored frosting.
"Make a wish" they whisper, the party goers.
I close my eyes; squeeze them shut in hopes the last year won't age my face.
Wrinkles.
So scared of wrinkles.
I wish I could stay the same forever.
The flame is blown out by some eager face in the crowd and everyone rushes for cake.
A tear escapes and I quickly brush it away.
Happy Birthday.. I can't help but think one day I'll be the flame.