ACT I: Collecting Jigsaw Puzzles

My life has been a series of jigsaw puzzles, the first as pretty a picture as you could wish to see.  It never occurred to anyone that anything could mar the image of a bonny baby in all her glorious honey-hued, gurgling perfection.  

They never found out who crept into the playroom and stole the first piece. It was only one little piece – the size of a sixpence on the baby’s left ankle.  Hardly noticeable. A pity though that such a pretty puzzle should be incomplete.

The next piece to vanish left a leaf-shaped hole in the baby’s back. Did someone accidentally knock over the board? Perhaps the lost pieces are on the floor or down the back of the sofa.

But if that is so, why could they find no trace?  Surely it had to be the work of a thief because it did not end there.

The next puzzle was a toddler.  How strange that the same pieces were missing here too.  Not only that, but a third and fourth piece had gone – the other ankle this time and now a tiny gap at one corner of the child’s mouth.  Why would anyone want to remove random pieces of the puzzle? And how did they do it without getting caught?

No one had any answers.

Successive puzzles depicting a panda-eyed schoolgirl, a shy adolescent, a carefully groomed young woman – all plundered by unseen hands – revealed more and more of the blank surface beneath and ever less of the subject herself.

One day I opened a new box and asked myself “Is this puzzle half here or half gone?”

There comes a point when a puzzle ceases to be a picture with gaps and becomes a blank space strewn with fragments like the excavated remnants of an ancient mosaic.

Would some archaeologist dig me up and fill in the blanks to show posterity what I once looked like?

The jigsaw of a woman in her 40s would have been quick to complete, since so few of the pieces actually connected. Scattered across the board, it was impossible to decide if they, or the space between them, were the real object of the exercise.

I suppose it all depends on how you look at it.

Over the course of 50 years my unplanned jigsaw collection progressed from Bonny-Baby to Can-You-Tell-What-It-Is-Yet? What would the next puzzle be called… The-Invisible-Woman perhaps?

If you think jigsaws are frustrating, try my next hobby…

ACT II: Painting by Numbers

Number 1 was the original skin tone, a light golden beige, my favourite pigment.


Number 2 was the colour of nettle rash, mottled and roughly textured.


This was closely followed by number 3, a stark white, applied almost symmetrically in random patterns, some clearly delineated, others splashed carelessly across the canvas like spilt milk. (No sense in crying over it. There is no cure. It won't **** you.)

There’s nothing quite like summer for bringing out the colours of a painting.  A hat and long sleeves were no match for the persistent sun and by the time the picture was finished, the numbered paints ranged from 1 to 20 with a different abstract brush stroke to go with each one. My canvas contained a tortoiseshell patchwork of shades from brilliant white to violet, golden ochre, burnt sienna, chestnut and scarlet.

And yet this was the height of my blue period.

I had to paint by numbers for 50 summers before I could enjoy my third (and final?) pastime…

ACT III: Joining the Dots

By sheer fluke, at the age of 51, I discovered the secret of the missing jigsaw puzzle pieces. They were there all along – just not visible to the naked eye.  


They had been starved into transparency but, as I began to feed them, atoms of them materialised like specks of golden ink on blotting paper.  Tiny dots like pixels on a grainy satellite image, jostling, overlapping and joining together until they looked something like the missing jigsaw pieces - if a little mottled with mildew.  

And gradually the mildew has faded - along with the sense of loss - to reveal glorious, even colour.

Of all the activities I ever found in the playroom of my life, the most cherished, the most miraculous, the most deeply longed-for and appreciated has been this game of Join the Dots - an unremarkable pastime, you may think (if you have never walked in my shoes), but one which has brought me on a return journey along a jigsaw road from
Almost-Invisible
via Can-You-Tell-What-It-Is-Yet?
past Half-Here-Or-Half-Gone?
by way of A-Pity-That-It’s-Incomplete
and finally – if not quite back to Bonny-Baby – then at least back home to a grateful woman of a certain age who can look in the mirror and smile to see her whole self.


   Vitiligo: A Play(room) in 3 Acts © August 2013 Vitiligo Protocol

Keys. Shoved through the letterbox
before I got up-
in an envelope with a note:
Could I (please) feed the cat…
Gone away? Good for her!
Car on the drive. Took a taxi. I think.
To the airport? Didn’t say.
******* with rain-
still, had best leave my shoes on the step just the same.
Obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene-
that’s why he left.
Who, in their right mind, puts cream-coloured carpet in a…?
Door. Not locked. Nearly fell through it.
Strange. She forgot?
Kitchen. Freezer’s empty, switched off.
No cereal. No tins.
Utility room. Spotlessly clean-
twelve! two-kilogram bags of Go-Cat Complete.
Planning to be gone quite a while. I think.
Playroom. Packed up. Kids staying with Nan.
She wants to redecorate before they come home?
Great. A fresh start. I think.
Bedroom. Suitcase on the wardrobe.
Bought a new one? Smaller. Lighter perhaps.
Makes sense. After all- she is travelling alone. I think.
Bathroom. Pristine. Almost empty.
Almost. Macleans and a toothbrush,
in a glass on the sill.
I didn’t think about that.
Until now.

for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny *******,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!

Wrap your legs around me tonight,

he begs

Whisper to me through the web

His voice huskily beseeches

His eyes breathe pillowtalk whisper

fingertips feel a little bit crisper.

Which web, she murmers hungrily

The heat builds between them

as if there is even an in- between.

The cobwebs on my heart.

He groans and shifts and aches

for her sword of velvet to stab through

his doors of steel

Im a slave to you, you’re my heroine

i’ll shoot you up my arm

help me to feel free.

This I can do , her body replies

and its a kaleidoscope of de ja vu and fresh experience

An ocean view of Woman,

and masculine musk

A grave of endless ******

a playroom of opportunity Soon they can’t drown

they will drag against gravity and greet the sun but for now

it is all they can do to stay

afloat

the best version of myself exists in clearance-nike-outlet-wear
pulling up hair made blonde by the sunshine
bending over tanned and strong legs
tying shoelaces
and laughing musical notes
willingly escaping genuine smiles
my tummy is strong then, but with soft edges
i'm proud because it's held my body together all these years
i'm proud because it will carry a mini human
someday
inside my head there are coloring books
sprawled across a playroom factory
and all the gears are turning and i'm functioning
i'm breathing
my heart is beating
and i'm not scared of eating girl scout cookies when i'm with my girls in clearance-nike-outlet-wear
i'm not scared to let laughs float to the surface
or hiccups
i'm not scared of anything at all
we're real together
and we have freckly runner legs
that love splashing in the puddles our tears make
we're not always gonna be together
we are always gonna be real
together

The only bright thing is the quilt
Slung closely around her shoulders,
Surrounding her eyes in paisley knots.
Drifts lean against the windows,
Huddling tight against the panes.
Everything is bleached in the
Sheepish grin of snow.
Even her face,
The face that used to glow for me,
Washed out like the children’s drawings
Left in the sun too long.
She opens her mouth and lets the sorrows drip out,
Quietly trickling to the carpet.
I say nothing and see her eyes glint,
Emotion rising in the tides.

Today we woke up.

Enough.
I will make a *** of tea.
I let her disappear over my shoulder and step out
Like someone walking in water.
Her breath is but a whisper
In the shell of our home,
Soon to be smothered
In the wail of the kettle I place on the stove.
I feel my lip crack as I inhale the dry air,
Tentative bead of blood gathering in the fissure,
Iron laced.
Licking my lips, I taste irony.

The kitchen window is nearly swallowed.
Beyond the cloud of frost is the expanse of our yard,
Laid out like the tale of our love,
Bare under my scrutiny.
Smothered,
Buried,
Lost under the noiseless drifts,
Our garden had once bloomed.
The world fallen under this falling.

Keening rises in the mist of steam,
Curling out of the china teapot behind me.
I tip the languid water into a white mug,
Letting it settle around the teabag like an arthritic cat,
Seeping through the cloth and herbs,
Tearing free the perfumes and
Wafting them about on lazy paws.

I press it to her chill,
Lacing it between her fingers,
Ignoring the seeping
Distress that still carves her face.
In a while we will put on our masquerade,
Venturing through the drifts
To carry the children home on our shoulders.
But not yet.
For now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
Blanched under a gossamer blanket.

I drift away as a specter.
Beyond these windows the
Snow is a white flag waving over everything.
Give in and surrender,
Lay down my arms and admit defeat.

The door looms out of the glare,
Sudden,
Whole.
Hesitate a moment and turn back.

I never go in here, into the playroom.
It is all blocks of color,
Primaries comfortable in their paint.
In the bleach of home,
They hurt the eyes in their folly.
I sink into a small chair.
So this is where the children hide all day.
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
Tucked away from my conscious.
How long since I drawled a story here,
Held a little hand or two,
Conformed to innocence.

A sadness wells and I
Punctuate the blankness,
Letting the waves sweep out my cobwebs.
Let it go.
Try again.
I will shake a laden branch,
Sending a cold shower down on us both.

-Clap your hands-

I clamber back to her,
Resting her wrists in my palms,
Slipping the blanket around us both,
Enveloping possibilities in color.
I search for her and let her seek me out,
Lifting us from the freeze,
Bit by agonizing bit.
Don’t give up.
It’s just the weight of the snow and all its little pieces.

i open the front door & a small
man with his shirt buttoned all
the way up asks me if i'd like to
buy a pocket bible, so i can
worship wherever i go. i ask if i
can fit it in a flask & if it's okay
to take with whiskey. his eyelids
shut like a casket as he touches
his forehead, chest, right shoulder
then left shoulder. tells me i'm
going to hell. i crawl back
onto my bar stool and drink from
the ceramic mug you glued back
together the night you saw my face
and pictured a room full of soft
things shattering. i can hear the
sound of a train & it's such a shame
that the nearest railroad is under
construction. it's such a shame that
the floor of my mind is set up like
a child's playroom with plastic
train tracks set in the center & a
younger version of myself is sitting
in front of them playing with a
replica of the train my whole body
was begging to be kissed by.
ugh, kissing. my god. i'm so high.
kiss me in my death spot, the
spot that'll be where my life ends.
replace my train tracks with
a dollhouse. tell the soft things
that i love them. open my front door,
tell the small man to unbutton his
shirt, that not everyone buys
pants with pockets in them.
wake me up when i'm sober &
tell me to write an ending to this.
i cannot think of an ending. please
don't let me become it

I smell a hint of green
or a shade of blue
while sitting on the tree
full of branches and
branches and branches,
almost touching the sky
slipping my tongue on the
sight of the moon and
watching it from the corset
of the 30- storied building,
walking down the crevices of
personification and ideas,
thawing it with bittersweet nails
when suddenly, a tint of yellow
sparks sends shivers down my
spine but later washes away
like scenic scents of the mist,
and I am still standing,
lurking past the walls of
ignorance with the rich oxygen
atoms laid on my arms,
my lungs are pumping out
all the energy which just
puts a full stop across the shade
I know it’s a thickhead but I
let it slip away minding the gap,
and the sweet kid with his smile
puts the finger against the pad,
jotting down the hues.

High on a hill our grandparent’s home stood,

Its majesty in stone cast a haunted look,

Light glimmered from a paraffin lamp,

Whilst outside it snowed on the geese,

As they ran to their shelter,

And the cows mooed on the fields above,

And the goats cried in the barn.

Mother pumped water from the well,

We ran around collecting eggs,

Granddad showed me how to milk a goat.

In the evenings we gathered in the kitchen,

The fire roared in the range,

Granddad sat in his big chair,

He burned anything just to keep warm,

We thought it very strange.

Mother worked at the big white sink,

Knitted squares hung from a line,

We made tiny plasticine dolls,

They slept in plasticine beds,

We drank Dandelion and Burdock,

Ginger pop and Sarsaparilla,

It came in enormous stone bottles,

Dad got it every week from a man at the door.

Most of the rooms were huge, bleak and bare,

A room we called the playroom,

Was carpeted with goat skins,

There were jars of melted metal,

Who knows why?

We were told it was grandma’s jewelry,

Melted to stop the Germans getting it in the war,

In the long hall there was a dressing up chest,

We loved to look inside.

The bathroom was a scary place,

There was a lion head toilet and a bath with lions feet,

At night we went upstairs with a candle for light,

We cuddled together to keep warm,

One night we saw fairies at the window.

Our aunty had a gramophone,

Records all scattered around,

We had to be careful where we trod,

She loved Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby,

We didn’t understand.

Our uncle slept on the top floor,

In a huge brass bed,

One day I took him a cup of tea,

We were not normally allowed up there,

He fixed broken cars they were all everywhere.

He played late in the barn with his girlfriend.

My grandmother slept downstairs,

She always was very ill,

Wrapped in bed in a pink bed shawl,

We got her water from the spring,

To cure her, but she died.

walking a tight rope going insane
losing my grip swallowed by pain
silently screaming he walks in my view
forlorn all hope energy echoes ensue

through my gloom a speck of light
glimmer of hope quickly covered by night
drowning in a black sea of wistful despair
shattered defeated beyond all repair

no way of escaping this hellish realm
constrained locked in chains forever bound
catatonic paralyzed numb disconnected
absorbed delusions hallucinations protected

alone and abandoned a comfortable place
woefully wounded distrusting disgraced
angel of darkness his playroom is you
trapped and enslaved, his joker the devils fool

I miss having you around to say the little things you would say to me, to make it ok. Sweet little lies, perhaps. Perhaps not.

I miss your eyes, with that twinkle inside, with the exclamation points after them, with those crinkles on the edges, especially when you are all vulnerable and cuddly. Funny the weird details that come back up in your memories.

I miss interrupting and correcting you, in the rudest way possible.

I miss you correcting me and then I will pout and give you the saddest eyes and make you laugh at my childishness.

I miss how you looked and pointed at me 2 inches from my face on the bed, and declared, “i LIKE you”.

I miss watching Californication with you, propped up on pillows.

I miss eating junk food and beer while we watch cool youtube videos in the evenings or the mornings.

Or cracking up to a comedy skit.

Sitting with wine at 4am wolfing down tortilla chips, turning over existential ideas in our minds.

I miss you soaping my body in the shower and I miss soaping yours and I miss you making love to me everywhere we did.

On the counter In the closet Against the door On the couch In the shower On the toilet seat down On a mountain downhill Against trees in the forest In your childhood bedroom On the beach In a tent On a log bridge over a brook In the center of a woods clearing

I wanted you to Take me

everywhere.

I miss the forced cigarettes in the cold winter air, or the muggy summer

I miss our trips through this grubby city, trudging through autumn leaves and stopping in clothing stores and markets and city squares, staring at musicians and artists with admiration and jealousy, and bakeries to get your pastry fix and buying hats,pretending we’d last til the winter.

I miss our secret getaways and gossip sessions.

I miss painting and bleeding and dancing and crying and smoking and drinking and singing karaoke and slobbering and running and stopping and stalling and slumping and getting lost.

I miss fantasizing of alternative realities and cities undiscovered. I miss your wisdom-filled advise given to me, and my childlike prudity you brought out of me.

I miss shoving you playfully and skipping down a road together. I miss the smell of Doves men’s soap on your skin and the bristle of your chest hair- the just the right amount of – against mine, smooth.

It was a spectacular Love affair, one for the records for sure. How i miss playing with you>>> How i wish we can play All the time, and keep it quiet so that Reality cant hear us, wild and reckeless, and I’ll grow up on the side of all of it, and you too, if you can, But all the while leaving me behind with you in our eternal playroom, making love in all the ways we did…

One little Two little Three little Indians….

Tonight, months later, I lay here accompanied with only
The leisurely winds teaching my cigarette smoke to dance
And a rage as present as the hole your father put into your playroom wall when you were five.
Did you mean a word of it?
The night we spent together on a stranger's front porch
Because their car wasn't in the driveway
It was you, me, and that bottle of whiskey you'd stolen from your mother's liquor cabinet.
You were tracing the lines of my palms
Whispering promises into them
Until intoxication brought us slurred words and sleepy eyes.
Since that night I've wondered if mountains would choke
On the echoes of me screaming your mangled promises into them or
If the trees would suddenly blush in shades of gold and red; a temporary Autumn.
I never knew how it felt to drown until you left me choking on the sound of your name.

I’m four feet tall
in the Japanese dress
I climb the trees
chase butterflies
I walk the turtle Winnie
score goals
watch fairies on the wall
about Bear Fąfeluszek about The Snow Queen
I do not want to grow up
I listen to Gulliver’s Travels and Eskimo tales
I slip into a well without a bottom
everything happens too fast
time is rushing like a train set
in a playroom

Still lanky dude with the long hair
Still can't tell you when, but I'm getting there.
Still the best poet you ever read.
Still don't think you'll read it till I'm dead.
Still gassing up past 3 AM
Still saying "Won't fall in love again."
Still waking up from the same dreams
Still getting air when I try and scream
Still wanna **** up a KMart
Still wanna skip to the next part
Still got a problem with some folks
Still tryna swallow and just choke
Still poor, still *****, and still tired
Still last resort if you need a ride
Still driving off of the Hairpin
Still hope the car lands in heaven

Still the one that loved you despite all of the pain
Still pulling the heart together, next is still the brain
Still the beating of it, stop it dead, leave it there to rot
Still wonder if you ever gave it a second thought

Still fighting toys in the playroom
Still saying "we're gonna move soon"
Still getting kicked out in August.
"Still this isn't breaking my promise."
Still smoking out in the same seats
Still hiding under the bedsheets
Still hit a home run in most cases
Still gotta touch all four bases
Still don't have the words for this feeling
Still tryna peel me off of the ceiling
Still chew my teeth instead of food
Still try to learn like I'm in school
Still hate the face in the mirror
Still my vision only gets clearer.
Still wanna ruin a Wal-Mart.
Still gonna race with the shopping carts.
Still scaling the shelving in home decor
Still can't go back, still banned from the store

Still gassing up past 4 AM
Still city streets, devoid of men
Still have to make wrong a few rights
Still, like a deer in headlights.

I can feel myself going
                            down
                            down
                            down
                farther
                       and farther
                       into the rhythm
of my own
               tired
                     eyes
as they struggle to
stay
open.
I can hear myself
                 sinking
in the wordless voices
surrounding           me.
I am          content in
                  drowning myself
      until I can see

       nothing
                    but the darkness
                    of my isolation.
       Here
       is where
I will sleep,
and I will be
                       satisfied.

there seems to be a lover missing
in this exotic playroom i incorporate
all the players seemed paired off
      but me
i search the inventory
but can't seem to find a match
there's big ones
          small ones
    short ones
        tall ones
    smart ones
              dumb ones
sarcastic ones
       and lame ones

but where is mine?

of all there is to offer
not one suits me
so i guess i will continue
alone in this plight
for there's not a hopeful potential
in this land
of lovers delight.

Part I – 10039 330th Street West

I used to live in a haunted house.
Everything about the building felt wrong:
Creaking staircase,
Crumbling basement walls,
Dark side door,
Thin white curtain in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

When I lived in the haunted house
I was a little girl, and I didn’t move until I started high school.
I hated my room,
I hated the dining room,
I hated the basement.
I never used the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

Bad things happened in the haunted house.
It didn’t matter what the time of day was.
Growling at night from the dining room,
Singing in the morning from the basement,
Tapping on the porch window at midday in the playroom.
Nobody checked if there was activity in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

I know that the house was haunted
Because someone was always with me when these things happened.
My stepbrother who also heard the growling,
My stepsister who also heard the singing,
And all of us who heard the tapping.
I know that these happened
Because the house was haunted.


Part II – 13947 Gates Avenue

I used to live in a haunted house.
Everything about the building felt wrong:
My bad report cards in the recycling,
The constant panic in my stomach,
Piles of tissues on my bedroom floor,
My bedroom itself, where I constantly hid away.

When I lived in the haunted house
I was a teenager, and I didn’t move until after starting college.
I hated the living room,
I hated the kitchen,
I hated the hallway.
Most of all I hated my bedroom, where I constantly hid away.

Bad things happened in the haunted house.
It didn’t matter what the time of day was.
Whistling by the window at night from the wraparound porch,
Screaming outside during the day from the yard,
Voices whispering my name constantly from anywhere.
I was only safe in my bedroom, where I constantly hid away.

I can’t know that the house was haunted
Because nobody was with me when these things happened.
I was alone with the whistling,
I was alone with the screaming,
I was alone with the whispering.
I can’t know these happened
Because it’s my head that’s haunted.

I am from my family,
From the tree that I half-know,
From the half that I don’t know,
From the substitute half given,
To give me room to grow,
To at least semi-know,
What its like,
To know the whole tree,

I am from the friends I didn’t have,
And the friends I have now,

I am from the struggles of life,
And the disability’s,
That made it thrice as hard,

I am from the gifts,
Three of them all in a row,
That gives me eyes to see,
What others don’t want to know,
That gives me a heart wide open,
To help me give so much,
And hurt even more,
At the words thrown at me,
That gives me ears to hear,
What others never will,
That gives me hands to touch,
What others cast away,
That gives me feet to walk,
A path that others daren’t think to,
That gives me a mind to part,
The fog of misconception,
That gives me wild paths with a hundred choices each,
And a mind that likes them all,

I am from the uncertainty of what I shall do,
When the high school path ends,
And the college path begins,

I am from the times,
Of soccer ***** and dads’

I am from the middle house,
With a red door and a porch,
With a crab-apple tree,
With a Toyota Celica and a Toyota Camry,
And web-collecting Moses bushes,
With beige walls,
With a closet to the right and a bathroom straight ahead in the foyer,
With a red couch and a cabinet framed TV,
With a mirror on the wall and shelves up above,
With a once-white carpet and a computer,
With a book shelve set into the wall and an old broken inherited radio,
With hardwood floors in the kitchen-dining room and an old wobbly wooden dining table,
With a counter of doom and a pantry,
With white carpeted stars that lead up to the rooms and down to the family room-basement, bathroom, office, and laundry room,
With the master bedroom and after nightmare cuddle sessions,
With my old room, now my brothers, with yellow walls and a castle mural painted by my Mom,
With my playroom, then nursery, then my room again, with blue walls and clouds on one side over white wooden borders,
With door less closet and Joes’ old bed,
With a pink cubby-bookshelf and old wooden dresser,
And stained floors.

The light above me flickers and scares forcing  my reflection to changes and distort
Your bleeding into my thoughts
My own horror show but you perform
Shakily, I push into the wall, trying to find some kind of balance within
Your nails dig, rip and shred my skin
3 years on, we don’t talk anymore but your still present. Like a demonic possession where I may need an exorcism  
                                                  ……….­.      
I know you saw me when I was 17, I was a mean beauty queen with my life torn at the seams
Still, you thought there was something about me
I was captured in your eyes your hand reached into my chest to grab my heart
There was no one else who wanted me quite like you did from the start
But I knew you could tear me apart
For an entire summer you became the feeling of loneliness that felt so similar, corruption and destruction I knew so well
For you I fell
She’s going to **** me but the night we kissed I didn’t see you resisting me
While she rested peacefully unknowingly with you on my lips  
                                                 ……….
Your in and out of my life, your never a consistent ghost
I don’t know why you like haunting me the most
Obsession and a dangerous lust was all we ever knew
You said if you weren’t with her you would be with me
*******
You made your choice now live with it
I gave you countless chances
How about the night you told me you loved me when I was in a relationship  
Then you forget about me like a nightmare clothed in deceit
Four years of being your slave and praying your love will set me free from these chains you bound me in
But you stayed on that throne while I bled for you on the floor
A master of the lying game, a king of heartbreaks
I wanted to be your reality, your truth from all the fakes
But you wanted me to be your Sasha Grey instead
While your girlfriend sleeps in your bed
I was a ***** little secret you never wanted to tell
One of the many ****** you condemned to hell
Still, I would had done anything for you
Because your kiss rendered true
                               ………….

I’m glad we don’t talk anymore, honestly, I couldn’t take it
The phone call when I was twenty years old confessing my love for you, I was the only one who said it
You ran away and hid, didn’t come back until you were ready
To use me yet again
My mind became your playroom, chain me, spit on me, abuse me, choke me, use me but never love me….. how could you?
When I didn’t even know my own value
I ran to you countless of times because your malevolence felt like my childhood home
The way you would play with my heart was incredibly low
You knew what you were really doing inside
Like Satan preying on the catholic girl in the church
Burning the rosary of passion into my skin to hurt, you laughed at the pain  
But no, we don’t talk anymore and thank god
                             ………..
It amazes me but you still have the power to burn inside me
My body wanting to reject your entity
Depraved, obscene, revolting, my first love when I was 17
My mouth opens wide, twisted searing hot liquid rides
Straight out of my mouth, back to the hell where you come from
I plead, like that poor catholic girl trying to escape your grasp
“Please let me go, don’t haunt me anymore”
But I can feel your hand inside, pulling my words down, I bite, I chew, I tear, I gnarl
I steady myself before I feel them rise up
I start to feel the burn I move away and turn
You stand before me in the doorway, I don’t want to hear what you have to say
“Tell me you loved me once and I will believe you”,
**** surrounds me as you inhale, you ignore everything I say, you just stand there in a daze.
I nod and realise, it’s me who never let you go, not the other way around
“I don’t want you here anymore, understand? You’re the past I no longer want, your not even a real man, you’re the ghost who just likes to haunt for fun to keep his game playing, you will not take me back down to hell with you”,
I stand, breathing heavy
I feel him slipping away from me
If it was that easy I would had done that years ago
But I guess I wasn’t ready back then to let you go
I’m glad we don’t talk anymore, sorry, but I am

It always comes back
to sleepless dark mornings,
waking long before
sleep is through,
clutching at seconds
until I have to leave.

What should have been
will never be,
banished to the south wing
of the dungeon.
Such a refined cruelty
to chain my memory
one chamber over
from your playroom,
where you give and take
your pleasures...
which many years ago
too briefly
were mine alone.

Every night, I felt more alive
During the day, my bones crumble
My eyes hurt and muscles ache
I live for the my pen sketching lines
I entrust my passion with my skills
I never thought I could actually execute this?

There are times I party until collapsing
Funny how I fill myself with alcohol
but fall on my knees at two
I'm so young but ashamed of it

It's so hard for me to accept before
all these words that I should learn more
Six times a day I spent mourning
instead of motivating myself in the morning

At the table, they tell me what to do
But ****, what should I do?
I feel myself fading from existence
Do I still have a chance?
I'm already twenty
And I'm still here sitting pretty.

Scary it is, I feel scared to find myself alone
unlike before where I enjoy being lone
My generation and the younger ones
Are far more notorious than what you think

I want to go somewhere I could call my own
A perfect place for me to settle down
but I could not imagine myself living in a mansion.
You might think I'm insane,
but my heart feels lonely between the stone walls

I spent my life looking for happiness
I was left nothing but expectations getting ripped
My life missed all the opportunities and second chances
I seek for what I should have rather felt.

My hands feel the unwanted fire seeping inside me
All these losing myself and stress gets me
I don't know why I am like this,
I get called weak by many
but I'm a hero of my story
I get called wicked by some
But ****, I am the all of it.

The nights I spent inking papers
I saw myself getting exhausted to achieve perfection
should I give up? I think I should
So I dropped my pen and pursued something else

I stood in front of strangers and led them
I listen to their voices, but I couldn't handle my own
My feet started to ran away from myself
I was **** afraid of my ghost

I saw my feet got bruised
I lost everything and got myself abused
I spent countless nights over my heart
who beats for uncertainties
but what a fool, I held tightly to it.

For once, my head thought my heart is my hero
It's hilarious seeing my weep to over a heroine
I thought and believed was mine,
I realized she belonged to herself

My body got wasted with no alcohol
Drained from lemons, I kept on getting
I feel like bursting everything out
but If I do, I will lose it again.

A day ago, I got a memo that I should get it
I should catch my superior's drift
That playroom does not fit my age anymore.
But my heart thought this was a perfect place?
Should I let my alter ego fall in peace?


I forgot I was not anymore young
But I'm still embarrassed
My mind caught the idea of drifting soon
I should retract everything and come back to my roots
because I couldn't stay in paradise forever

My face should not be shield by art
instead I should make myself my masterpiece
What the **** have I been doing all my life?
I regret that I let myself lose everything.

The door's closed
opportunity knocked
I want myself getting hit
by harsh words to pull a new me
I never knew that anywhere is a paradise for me
If acceptance's stamped on my feet,
Morals and knowledge circulate harmoniously inside.

Keeping my head up is what I need,
To leave the paradise, I've been
The people who had lived and died
Will soon return to their lives
Carrying nothing on our backs
But memories of the place we will leave behind.

He always loved
his toy train set.
we made stations
and little trees
into a  forest to
sit by his track
as the toy train
trundled along.
I made him a
station masters uniform
he would not take it off
all of the day.
It is not fair he got so sick.
I prayed for god
to take me instead
and leave him alone,
God answered my prayer
but said no.
I guess he was lonely
in heaven and needed
a little boy to play
trains with him.
I have not moved his train-set
from his playroom.
I will in a while,
but not yet,
not just yet.
sometimes in my sleep
he is paying me a visit.
I kiss him and do not
let him see
I have been crying.
I smile and say
what shall we do today honey.
he whispers back
lets play trains mommy.

Little toy trains

*He loved the toy train set
More than Lego or anything else.
I would say what shall we do today sweetie?
He would shout
let's  play trains Mommy.
I made him a station and trees and tunnels.
Put sheep and cows watching the train go by.
The train set took over the playroom floor.
For his birthday I bought him a conductors
Uniform he would not take it off.

When the sickness came
I prayed to God to take me instead.
And leave my little boy here..
He answered my prayers
But he said No.
I guess that he needed a little
Boy in heaven to play trains with.

Now sometimes when I am dreaming
I see him again in the mist of dreamland.
He always is wearing his conductor's uniform.
I say Hi honey what shall we do today.
He whispers quietly
let's play trains Mommy.

She is beautiful
Her husband is a great guy.
She has his children
They look so much like him.
I have this tiny space
of time with her.
A few laps of the pool.
She is not mine
And never will be.

Her warmth
is still in my bed.
Her smile still
glowing in my heart.
But I am a thief
I have stolen her

Even for a few hours .
My heart is a playroom
full of false promises.
Of lies that even
I cannot believe.

When she leaves
I will catch
the silence of my room.
And write a love poem
That I can never give to her.

I shall not grieve her loss
Even with the invisible dagger
that is plunged in my chest.
Because she never really
was to be mine

remnants of a star
bits and pieces strewn about
death like a child’s playroom
littered without consequence
abandoned kaleidoscope
mirror fragments
blood splatter prism
heaven smeared like paint or jelly
the color violet for breakfast
bright red lip curled
crumbs of the bluest Indian summer
trapped in this grin of fire
pink gums and overturned snow globe
the body of confidence lost to the floorboards
glitter impossible to sweep up
even more disgusting to hold
shining universe adhered unwillingly
trapped between sticky fingers

The playroom is locked
A shadow plays with the toys
The children are gone...