Maury Povitch yells, "And you
are NOT the father"
Truth blares out from TV
From history books, the lies
Cry out, "Not me!", "Not me!"
No genetic testing need be done
Our history, as taught in school
He IS the father
And so is he, and so is he
And so is she and she and she
No color, no gender, no sexual preference
Coffee for One
It hurts when you realise you don't want him anymore. You want to want because you're used to him, you like him, he's a great person... You can have a hundred reasons to want to want him again but it's not gonna happen.
Everything you hate doing, feelings you don't want to face, conversations you don't want to have ... mowing the lawn, unloading the dishes. You hate doing it until you actually start doing it. You hate the idea of breaking up with someone until you do it. Then a month spent skipping all the sad songs, trying to keep yourself busy. Laughter helps, sex helps. You can't let your guard down, stay strong. Stop thinking, focus. Yes, you're going home to none, to your silent home with plants and a loud TV. You'll do fine. No matter what happens, you'll always do fine.
Then, in the pitch darkness, a part of you feels free. I can buy a plane ticket right now, I can do anything I want. Relationships tie us down even if we don't realise. You're sweetly bound to a home, to a mortgage, to the animals you've adopted together, to the plans you've made. The food you need to finish before it goes bad, concert tickets bought months ago, laundry, when was the last time we visited the parents... They all tie you with the thinnest threads. You end up in a cacoon in no time. You find peace in it but you can't move your limbs.
The moment you let go, you feel like a cloud. Empty like a long silence. But free. Free like clouds. Imagine, you can do anything you want to. But still empty. For a long time, you'll make coffee for two and drink one.
When I see him, I want to say something but I'm never sure what. Something that makes us special. Something that will help me swallow the knot in my throat. I want to want to hold his hand, but I don't. There's nothing to say.
I want to want him.
I don't want him.
I can feel our
Like a tickle
In my nose...
Coming back to
See your budding
...All your fledgling
...As the surging
Comes to pass,
I take it in it's
As my tears descend,
I don't try to
Fend them off,
At the iron gates of
With a truncheon
In my fist...
I can feel our
...And it's all
Need to rise...
I can feel your
Your the bird
On my wrist.
Everything is beautiful and Nothing hurts after 20 past 6
He comes home always at the same time. It sounds boring but it's the only ritual in my life that makes me feel content.
Always 20 past 6. Never earlier, never later.
I don't have 24 hours in a day. I have the hours before 20 past 6 and the hours after 20 past 6. When his hands start touching me. And they never stop until he leaves. I count down the minutes until it's 6:20. And when it's time, I don't want it to end ever.
When I told him what I wanted to be for him, I could see the little smirk he's been hiding. I said "try me". "Try me, give me all the filth you can give." He inhaled my words like he's been waiting to hear that for years. He didn't need to say it back. All day, he's been staring at the clock waiting until it's time to unleash the devil. To reach to this place where he doesn't need to be ashamed of turning into a monster. To this little kingdom he runs. Where he's free to explore, expand, try and fail with no judgement.
The shame I feel when he appears at the door, that's the reason I never have words to say to him. Deep dark shame I feel when I remember how I'm treated like an animal each time he enters this door. And how I count hours waiting for him to do the same again. Every single day. Sometimes I remember those hours in the supermarket, in a meeting; my cheeks go red. I look down my cleavage remembering the things he did to my body. Every single thing he called me, echoes in my ears. "You can keep crying because it's not over yet, I'm not done with you." Pushing my shopping cart, red cheeks, sometimes I can still feel him in me.. focus on shopping... "You live to be slapped by me. Right, you little bitch?" I turn some music on to forget how I crave for him.
When I hear him opening the door, I swallow my words. I can't say a word to him. Ever. Like I haven't been working, laughing with others during lunch break, shopping, cooking, walking that day before 6:20. I want to forget my daily life, no, I want to forget how it felt to behave like a human being. No, no, I want to believe I've been waiting here, all day, until it's 20 past 6. I'm not the girl pushing the shopping cart... I exist for this.
He needs me trembling, dripping, melted and eager. And he always gets what he wants. I don't need him kind, he can save all the kind for work. Leave the kind outside. That's our secret agreement. Everyday when it's 20 past 6.
King of Hell, Crowley...
You deserved so much better than this.
And, my love, your mother was a bitch.
The demons burned down your house, that's no fair,
which is why you are now in charge of their utter despair.
Hopefully there will be no more human blood for you
because you get the munchies, yes that's true.
I now hope that you are not dead,
because I'll cry for days and live forever with dread.
Enemies with Good Intentions
5-6 years ago, I used to live in a shitty apartment between unsteady relationships and working. On the first floor, I had a tiny garden in the back surrounded by walls and other buildings. And a boyfriend who knew about gardening a little, he helped me make a little garden. Just flowers and some fruit trees. He kept saying there wasn't enough space for a tree but I wanted anyway. I wasn't even going to be there in a year or two. Until then, I wanted to grow something. When we broke up, I thanked him for the garden. He told me to take care of it.
I don't smoke. I never smoked in my life. But I loved going out to that garden every night. Being there made me feel alone but surrounded with people, just what I needed. I could hear early sleepers snoring, TV noises, teenagers yelling their parents, people having sex. In the weekends, I'd mostly hear the lady living upstairs reading words, repeating, trying to spell them right.
One Saturday morning, she threw the book to my garden while I was listening to music. She pointed a line in the book she held. I got up and took the book, a first grade reading exercise book. She was reading it to me, asking me if she was pronouncing the words correctly. I corrected some of the words. She kept reading, I kept reading back and correcting. She thanked me and said she needed to cook, she left the book with me.
Next weekend, I was reading in the garden when she asked me if we could read again. I said yes, she kept reading, I kept reading back. Then she asked me "Where is the boy?" Their balcony could see nothing but my garden, I wasn't surprised that she noticed there was a guy and now he was gone. I told her that he needed to go. She asked me my age and why I was alone. I said 27 but couldn't answer the other question. She smoked, she smoked all the time. She told me she never learned reading. Her family didn't bother sending her to school, she got married when she was 15, travelled to a big city she didn't know with a grumpy old husband. Already 2 kids when she was just 18. I had nothing to say when she asked me why I was alone. She never knew how being alone felt like. I'm sure she would've liked it. She gave me a piece of cake she baked.
Next weekend, we read more. She was getting much better. She asked me if the boy was coming back. Women like her, women like my mom, people in my culture... They're always worried about lonely women. They never want women to be alone. They never say it to you directly but they'll keep asking. They'll never ask if you're happy but they'll ask if you have a man, if you'll have a man. Or if you had a man. You can't be angry at them for worrying about you, for hiding "you're old, you should have a man before it's too late or none will have you" in their questions. I could almost hear that but I smiled, said he wasn't coming back and I was ok. I couldn't ask her if she was happy. This culture teaches you to smile and nod even if they rub salt in your wounds. You learn to love the ones who judge you. You become the master of smiling, nodding to their worried questions mixed with judgement and doing what you want to do. In the end, she didn't know any better.
Most weekends, we read together. In a few months, she started reading short stories. I gifted her a La Fontaine book, wrapped and put it in her basket when she gave me stuffed grape leaves. She would ask the same question in different ways. This time it was loneliness. She always said that they were upstairs if I needed anything. To her, I wasn't whole. I had missing parts and she was offering help for me to be whole. I said thank you, once again like a good single woman. She asked "Aren't you scared of being alone?"
I said "it's quiet."
Cold marble under my hands, the reflection of a person I don't remember on the wall. I've looked so hard, for a part of me I thought you'd like. Something you could want.
But all I ever found was bigger tits, smaller waists, new faces, empty eyes, and the thrill of a chase I don't give.
Not even good enough to chain up, devoted enough to stay with no bindings, alone, in a bathtub long gone cold, waiting until you tire of the chase, and long for the meager pleasure I will always willingly give.
Never my name that falls from your lips, never my flesh underneath yours, never any demands on me, never commanded to strip and serve. I can hear you, and the newest faceless girl, one room and over, while I wither and wrinkle, alone, and envy the strangers you desire.