i’m not sure what it says about me

that it took five years of marriage
before i stopped believing
that you loving me
was just another joke
set up by the girls watching
from behind the trees
so they could jump out and scream
“GOTCHA AGAIN YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOT”
one more time.

But today
today i was able to believe it
wholeheartedly
down to the very darkest places
where i hide myself
wrapped up in the safety of my voices
wearing me out like a rosary
protecting me from the outside
and i opened the door a little,
letting the rays of light in,
feeling their ghosts dissolve
without worrying if the fading laughter
was a punchline to some whispered cruelty
that I’ll never know the set-up to.

the reason i’m so desperate

to be needed
is because being wanted
never lasts and
i wish i figured this out
about 100k in psych treatment ago.

i could have taken a trip
some far-flung destination
five star accommodation
in the heart of everything
a tourist could want,
so i could fire up my laptop
and spend the time watching
friday night dinner again.

sort of how my life is now
except more interesting
and aesthetically pleasing
for the Instagram grid.

obviously i can’t leave

i have a child & husband
no family threads to speak of
nothing that would miss me
but i also know
i don’t want to start again

the idea of rebuilding
it’s exhausting
rationally i don’t want to destroy
everything i’ve stabilized
all the progress
the lack of symptoms

but it’s just this time of year
after thanksgiving
before the end
and i find myself cruising Craigslist
looking at jobs
i wonder what housing looks like there

because we know this can’t last
why would you saddle yourself with me
i’m only going to destroy her
our marriage will implode
simply because i don’t know
suppression – only immolation

and maybe that’s the discomfort
the creeping silence
of a self that hasn’t been torn apart
shredded examined sifted through for lies
in far too long, falling headlong
into the winter of my discontent

Poetry is a game

for the young at heart
that still possess
ragged cliffs of emotions
and passions
not yet dulled
by the years of tides
of sorrow beating against them,
the salt of which you can still taste
in the tears that fall
from the frustration caused
by creating an emoji response
for something that you’ve trained
yourself not to feel any longer.

Welcome to your 30’s.

Punishment for Living, Pt 1

I.

Walking outside.
“Hey,
Fuck you fat bitch.”

II.

7th grade
Wearing my brand new
Minnie Mouse sweatshirt,
I desperately pretend
Not to hear them say things
And then
“just so you know
D—– just hawked a loogie
All over your back.”
How do you tell the secretary
You need to go home
Not because of illness
But
Because of humiliation?

III.

Waking up
To hands around my neck
“I just watched an episode
Of Bones
And it said I could kill you
But it would be impossible
To prove it was murder like this.”

IV.

Walking outside
With my daughter
“Hey,
Who was desperate enough
To fuck you?
Fuck you, fat bitch”