I dream of love notes
Beautiful embossed paper
Curvy cursive letters
forming words
that spill from the heart.

I dream of finding them in my car, under my pillow, stuck in my top drawer next to the ******* that he gently pulls from my body and throws to the floor.

I dream of words;
smitten and adored,
cherished and desired.
Yours.

I dream of a code just ours
like my grandparents had.
1-4-3
I love you
On card
after card
after card.

I dream of unfolding creases made by his hands,
smoothed by fingers
that know me
like none other.

I hold these dreams
close to my face.
Inhale his scent.
Read them slowly
savoring every word
as only a heart
held so gently can do.

I am not your sugar mama
Don’t you “hey ****” me
I am sweet and I am ****
But I am not your sugar mama

I am not your sugar mama
Don’t ask me “whose ***** is this”
It’s mine all mine, and I might share it if I want to
But I am not your sugar mama

I am not your sugar mama
I don’t care about your **** pics or your smooth sweet talk
You can send them if you want to
But I am not your sugar mama

I am not your sugar mama
Don’t look me up and down
I might strut my stuff all about town
But I am not your sugar mama

Sweet, ****, beautiful and hot
I am mine all mine.

Do not wipe my tears,
kiss my forehead
tell me to
stop crying.

I will not stop those
fat tears that burn my cheeks
roll down my face and
pool in my collar bones.

Do not wipe my tears,
kiss my forehead
tell me to stop worrying.

I will not stop my worries
from filling my brain
spilling down into my stomach
where they lodge like a meal too heavy to digest.

Do not wipe my tears,
kiss my forehead
tell me to breathe deeply.

I will hold my breath until my lungs burn, until my skin starts to turn purple, until I can not help but gasp for breath.


Wipe my tears,
kiss my forehead, but
do not tell me how to be,
how to act,
how to feel.
Do not tell me.

Awaiting Judgement

I sit awaiting judgement. I've cleaned up well, practiced my power stance and so far managed to refrain from pacing in the corridor although I admit that I tried it, just one lap.

A baby wails inconsolably as his haggard mother and grandmother try hopelessly to appease him and I think yeah kid, that’s the right emotion.

A man storms out swearing under his breath, his sleek attorney trailing behind him shaking his head.

A woman sitting across from me catches my eye, we manage a nervous smile, acknowledge our shared hell.

There are no magazines, no coffee allowed, not even a clock to watch. Only the fetid air of nervousness and lives about to be changed forever.

There is no god here although the powers that be are just as mighty, making sweeping decisions about people’s futures “in the best interest” of children they will never meet, reading lies about you, believing what they will.

We are powerless to do anything but wait. And so we settle in as best we can. Awaiting judgment.

It is the last days of our marriage. The days of waiting to move out. Of awkward coexistence.  
He has been cleaning his guns all afternoon.
Dinner time comes and I sit with my back to the kitchen.
My children at the table.
He comes in holding a gun. I am used to the cleaning but not to him walking around with them. This is new and not expected.
My pulse quickens and I say calmly, “do you mind putting that away?”
“Why, does it make you nervous?” he says tauntingly.
It is in that moment that I realize I will never be free.
My pulse will forever more beat to a different rhythm.
My soup tastes like fear but I swallow it down anyway, turn to him and say “yes, yes it does”.

Sometimes I think,
I should have stayed.
Til death do us part we vowed.
In sickness and in health.
Were there words about
not putting daggers in my soul, was there anything about not breaking me down until I forgot who I was?
Friday my therapist tells me, “remember who you are”.
I’ve spent the last four years remembering who you told me I was for twenty long years.
Too weak,
fat,
bad hair style,
wrong shoes,
bland cook,
messy in the kitchen
not good enough,
never good enough,
always wrong.
Who am I, I try to remember.
I try to reach deep inside and pull out the daggers one by one so my heart doesn’t bleed out.
I am strong.
I am capable.
I am desirable.
I am loved.
I am good enough.
**** it. I am all that and more.

And you? Nothing but a coward.
Even my leaving could not stop you from trying to destroy me.
But you didn’t count on me remembering who I am.
Did you?

The night we met I danced on the moon, full from the catch. My mask discarded I revealed my true self, young and vulnerable, eager to be filled.
The next morning, I did not know your name, nor did I care. We danced through the day and into night again. Full of lust, my ego stroked by your attention, your primal need.
After, there were letters. Hand written words filling pages, traveling across the miles. I knew your name now, but was not sure what to call you. You tasted my fingers, like vegetables you said. You needed me. Wanted.
My young self saw the warnings; late nights out, disappearing acts, comments stinging, distance. Stories of pain, hurts so big they cemented your heart. My mask on again filtered light, turned the truth upside down. Loyal and eager for the dream I stayed. Days turned into weeks turned into years.
Decades.
The children took me from you, filling me with life and love where you could not. Your ego bruised, damaged, you continued your retreat.
Age wizened, I slowly began to listen. My gut knew what my eyes could not see. The facade became easier than the truth and then, not.
You promised me what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me, but I knew. I hurt. Finally, camel’s back broken, I spoke. I knew now what to call you. Names flew out of my mouth and bounced off of of you, impenetrable. Strengthened by my voice I found the moon where I had left it, steady and hopeful it drew me.