Shit Show

Things have gone to shit

as they often do,

and no one is really sure

if we want the show to go on.

The banquet is set

costumes bejeweled

but the magic has left the stage.

The show must not go on

for the damage...

the damage done.

Will it break us?
Will it build us?

May we be renewed?

Or was it a poorly written play,

a show for love

not of love,

a need for applause

not worthy of such things?

What the hell did you do?

I warned you.

You warned me off.

I complied, and

I failed you.

Invisible Loss

Sometimes loss is like dynamite.
It blows a whole so deep and wide

that everyone can see it.

There's a divorce, or a death,

a fire, a flood.

And even with the breadth and width of it,

it is compact...

a measurable thing that can be calculated

and dealt with.

And then there is the other loss

like a fuse that never ignites;

it just smolders and smolders

with the constant threat of doing so.

It's a dud that never was,

and never will be anything but

the perceived power to remove the hope...

that whatever you lost might come back.

Why do they say you can't lose

what you never had?

Because if feels like dynamite

that no one can see.

The Ashes

When we released the remains of your body into the deep
I expected the tide and waves to take you
where my tears could not.
The tears, as always, were unexpected and unwelcome
but I encouraged them anyway
requesting they name themselves...
sadness? loss? anger? guilt?
They didn't answer
nor did I expect they would. 

 

I cried for you, the same way you lived your life,
distanced from any emotion that might tear the fabric.
One tear and the whole thing may start to unravel,
which apparently was completely unacceptable.
And yet...I unraveled once.
I'm better for it...
certain of it, until
that needle of religious guilt sews up my joy
darning the hole through which I escaped
with a seal of condemnation.

 

We released you into the deep
and you sank into the sorrow you always carried,
slowly...maintaining the shape in which I unburdened my hands of you,
not scattered, not in the wind or the tide
still conformed...
a woman who, even in death
could not break free.

 

I watched your luminescent green ash sink
beneath me
tugging as in life, towards you
away from me.
You harmed me greatly.
I released you gently.
You scarred me for the duration of my life
and I took care of you in yours.

 

Everyone you sought so hard to impress
were without witness
and you left the earth alone.
I expected the tide and the waves to take you
but it was the deep that claimed you.
You went straight down.

Killer Argument

The way we scream,

as if louder is a jackhammer

to the ears.

Our faces, red with effort...

no longer recognizable

as shadows pass across rocky features

now so jagged sharp.

We have surrendered everything to anger,

fueled its fire with inattention

to what really matters.

...surely not this mountain

on which we may now die!

Murder is not worth being right.

Let's cease fire

before our small lives

are etched in stone

above a grave.

Slow Fade

I'm remembering the good times

sweeping others under the rug.

It seems wrong to mourn in anger

to say goodbye in hate

because there will never be another chance to do it over.

Your bones now make their presence known 

through the skin you've worn 

so reluctantly it was painful

to watch you reject your human form.

There's no dignity to be found now

even if you wanted it

but you ask for a mirror

smile into it, meeting an old friend.

Today you were so sweet to me.

I ran and hid my knives

locked away my guns and my grudges,

even knowing they will pick the lock

and find their freedom again

just in time for your funeral

where I will wear guilt as the color black

hating myself for hating you

while you disintegrated.

The Meadow

The bee told me there was nothing to fear.

We could both romp in the meadow.

It was our playground

and if I got stung

it was a mistake.

"Mine or yours?" I asked.

The bee said he couldn't point fingers

as he had none.

I listened to the buzz of his departure

as I considered the meadow,

so drawn to it

yet so afraid.

The buzzing grew louder and stronger

the bees seeming to multiply before my very eyes,

yet my feet, still only two.

My feet knew fear

had felt sting.

I had always thought to save the feet

but never considered to save the bee.

If I romped slowly

with considerate feet

would it still be fun?

I realized then

that too narrow focus on feet or bee

was the thief of joy

so why go to the meadow at all?

Or...

I could romp through the meadow knowing

freedom and pain play hand in hand.

You can't have one without the other

and there isn't always fault in it...

isn't always intent.

My feet need the meadow,

the meadow needs the bee,

and we will just do our best by each other.

Dissociating

I watch the light

leak through the cracks of flesh walls.

I cannot contain it

and I cannot find more.

I am the vessel of darkness,

it's steward,

curator.

It is the museum I visit

with no placards to explain the awful black voids

where art should hang.

I don't want to visit the museum anymore.

I don't want to keep paying with my life.

I should burn it down...

let the fire be my light

and the ashes

my masterpiece.