When they said she might be bipolar it all made sense.
One full day of hospitals.
More hatred than I could imagine from my own kid.
The one I had sacrificed for, spoiled, given everything to, the one I wore the same clothes to give to for at least 5 years.
The one who would never let me comfort her. The one I couldn’t help with bike riding. The one that outright lies for no reason about a teacher not letting her eat lunch when she’s 7.
The one that’s told me how to mother her, her entire life.
I thought it was my fault anyway.
Until the medical professionals started looking at me like Frankenstein because my daughter just swallowed 75 of her Ritalin pills.
She’s something else.
A different disorder.
But she’s got her therapist around her finger because damn is she good at that.
I’m just different.
Different with her, with my son,
Just less of something I cannot ever put into words.
It’s mostly war and quiet and tired mixed with it all. Whatever it is.
I’m not sure it gets better.
You get used to a certain level of the misery though according to some psychologist comedian.
So there’s that.
I just constantly hope that I can learn to not be like every other mother and keep my happiness disproportional to hers directly.
I remember the physicist.
He said his daughter was 35,
And it was another boy too,
It was the 8th stent since 15.
And I remember the feeling of actually not having to dumb my words down to have a conversation. Or having to sugarcoat anything. Or having to pretend I even cared to fit into a society that didn’t help any of the four of us before then. One that probably led to it all anyway.
I’m reading all the books he recommended now.
And it’s just statistics despite the advertising on the cover. Things I can do for myself.
I just got this roll and it’s mine to roll with too.
I do get the occasional entertainment of watching men lose their minds over her.
Yes, she’s absolutely gorgeous, mostly nice when she wants something or attention, but batshit, her sperm donor is a military ballistics psychopath, she’s warp the entire rest of your life manipulative, never be satisfied, controlling, hoarder from my mother crazy. Good luck to you brother.
I’m her mother. I get the limited really good days by default.
Present to myself goal in 18 months as I sing the end of the dead breed and learn to be a sinner saint.
Wicked red forty eight special fits baby. Watch the dust, please.
Black velvet hair and first time banshee bangs sound divine in the mean time.
Don’t think I’ll recognize myself either. Good thing,
I’m going to outrun the bounty you think you still have on me.
Ooo oui ooo 🖤
I don’t want to burden anyone with the weight of love anymore.
Caring for a minimum of 18 people a day does not allow much left to give.
How could I be anything but too much and not enough simultaneously?
How would I be anything more than Saturnine the days I should have slept more?
I’d love to be a second sun instead, leaving beams for reflection instead of all this lead swirled with flammable gases.
But it’s winter in my marrow sometimes, instead of some light to fade the rain.
And all of my words trying to sustain life before the rings of my discontent cost me all of it, forever.
Maybe I just need someone to hibernate with during the right seasons.
A large inch sliver of my wedding ring finger,
Lodged between razor blades.
A tinge of excruciation every time I bump it.
The blood that doesn’t stop until I seal it with the sting of black powder potassium ferrate.
And I get home to the internet connection again for the first time in 12 hours to claws again.
I’m stuck with nothing to say.
Stuck not explaining or caring.
Wedged between the commonality and the opposites
Trapped wondering if I should even bother because there’s a million other places and people calling me.
Tied living in doubt of my accuracy.
My bed seems closer,
Yet, less comforting and less confusing.
I just want to show someone all the places Eden hides.
Introduce someone to all the one of a kinds.
My words hang like gallows being near another slice of flesh today and how much more that imaginary one will out do the real one.
An eraser or a pen, a conversation or an idea, a rough beginning or premature end,
And a wheel of fortune spins.
Maybe I’ll buy a better body like every other American,
A new front door,
Then let just pretty fleeting things grace my floor.
Perhaps I’ll just lie on the soaked ground until this expired body finally lets my electricity go or I turn into a mountain.
Too many choices make me nauseated.
At the end of the day I’m going to choose my children first.
I owe them.
I made them. Kept them. My duty to keep them.
A lot of people depend on me, including my aging family.
I owe them also.
They keep me soft, taught me love, and make it worthwhile.
My career is attached to my deep seeded altruism.
It’s the art I’m living.
And I took an oath.
A real one with 150 of my classmates.
I’m not going to waiver, ever.
Not even if it’s killing me.
Ask my angry, pain laden knee.
I’m stern about these things if necessary.
It’s never about anything but those things first.
I have no needs that are as important as this.
I have very few needs other than the smiles my precious littles carry because I kiss them before bed every night.
If you’re interested, be patient or choose the blonde instead of this brunette.
I’m incapable of giving those two things up.
I tried once,
Almost took my soul as penance.
If you have none,
I’m definitely made of nothing to see here, move along kindly.
And I whole heartedly am sorry and not at the same time.
Maybe I’m just like my father,
Just like my mother.
Conversations with stars when the grey winter clouds hide awhile ❤
tired and dirty ❤️
Was hoping I would want to write more when I arrived but it seems as though I’m still just caught in the ocean of some strange tide.
However, happy I did not surprise anyone because really that was a ghost from a former life I should not have ever wasted a thought on. I think I’ve always known I had no loyalty to seek there. Being so busy now, it’s just exhausting expelling my energy on mummified peach seeds that once brought comfort. Plus, I’ve learned a lot about love since then. I want the kind, that just fits. If it’ll have me eventually that is.
Suppose that’s growth or me seeking more fun in my life? Who knows?
I’m gunning for more unsolicited adventures in my life, what a riot just little pit stops were even
Wrapping my favorite,
Gray and black rose cloak
Around my low hanging shoulders,
I hit he door way to another world again.
Too heavy to understand.
Hiding only tired eyes.
I just let my hair be wild now.
I no longer care what the world has to say.
I let my eyes carry their sorrow and growing disdain.
One thousand, one hundred and twenty-five days.
A taste of salt that never strays.
Dreams twisted and frayed-
Constantly choking me when I wake.
It’s four lanes whether
I’m barely breathing or burning alive.
Shedding that tread like each new skin.
Makes me wonder,
Which darkly named
Street corner shadow
Is following me now?”
Because I don’t even turn round to see.
I just know,
It’s never going to have me.
There are too many miles,
Full of beauty, life, destiny-
Just ahead of these gnarled, erratic, and decayed trees.
Backstreet Healing: Corporal phantom
barflypoet & author of dark fiction
I want to be rich. Rich in love, rich in health, rich in laughter, rich in adventure and rich in knowledge. You?
Learn to Live
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"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen
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