Parchment Ghost
Painful letter
Bloodied words
left behind
Appears
Ghostly
A paper vapor
on the
cluttered desk
The kitchen table
Bedroom nightstand
Bathroom floor
Despite attempts
To destroy it
Even setting
it in ablaze in blue
it returns still
With its crackled
burnt brown edges
Same
haunted
message
Floating mist
Through
the draft
in the door
Returns
Returns
Refusing
to be ignored
For Forever
Grasping blame
With battered fists
Owning it
Soiled by it
Knuckles bloodied
From punching brick
I hold it all
All that's bent, broken/besieged
So you can be free
Freedom to be
Inherently joyful
With each blink
Clarity of truth
Not ever fearful
Of the dark
When your eyes close
For that I would bleed myself dry
For that I would carry any wound
For you
To know a forever
love to rival all fairy tales
How Old Am I
How lovely
Would it be
To embody
A graceful
Unguessable age
Although
If you're between
20-400 years alive
I will guess wrong
And offend you
When I was kid
We had a Betamax
We watched new movies
Videos bootlegged
By a drunk dude
Who left in view
The top of his red
Converse sneaker
Resting on the back
Of the small seat
In front of him
Always visible
In the bottom
Right hand corner
Of the television
I spent more time
Watching his foot
Than the vertigo
Inducing films
He provided
When not viewing
Stolen movies
We played Atari
Until it ended
In a bloody
Battling fist fight
In high school
My hair refused
To be big and fluffy
Despite perms
Layers of hair spray
And the will
To fit in
By lunch
My hair
Would be as
Flat as paper
At this point
I'm not sure
What's under
All the color
Applied monthly
To my head
My first tattoo
On my wrist
A symbolic gesture
To honor a life
That ended at
Their own hands
Friends aged 23 - 68
Gathered with
Burly male artists
Saturated in ink
And more feminine
Than the girls
Getting tattooed
At my dads 75th party
A week later
I announced my body art
My mother was horrified
Unusually speechless
My father licked his thumb
An attempt to wash it off
I pulled quickly away as
That's grossly unsanitary
We watched as my father
Quickly change channels
On his 72 inch flat screen
Commenting, as he does
On any dead actors that showed up
And how they died
End Touch
Shannon was thirteen. Raised by pathological liars. Only when she lied; she knew exactly what she was doing. She felt sick about it most of the time but the words spilled over cresting like a river too full of rain.
Her new friend from school had invited her for a sleepover at her fathers. Shannon was thrilled at any chance to be away from her toxic family. She and Janice danced the day away. Jumped on a trampoline. Played "prom" with Barbies swearing to die, hearts crossed, to never tell a soul they still played with dolls. They stole a cigarette from her fathers pack and attempted to smoke it on a long walk. They cooked their own Mac&Cheese for dinner.
Janice's father was sweet to Shannon. Showed her how to crack her spine like a chiropractor by standing behind her small frame. Crossing her arms in front of her chest and lifting her up by her elbows as her back popped.
Oddly however, unlike any sleepover, Shannon's bed was not the floor or bed in Janice's room. But on the sofa. In the living room.
She awoke in the middle of the night. Janice's father spooning her. Feeling her newly bloomed breasts. Pressing hard against her ass. Shannon, sadly, was not unfamiliar with such horrors. She curled herself up tight. Knees locked. Began to weep. He left her then. She remained wide awake until dawn. Left a note for Janice and walked seven miles to the comfort of her own fucked up home.
The next week at school Janice invited Shannon to sleep over again.
"I can't", she replied.
"Why not"? Janice asked almost whining.
"I'm going to New York", the lie began.
"For what?"
The flood waters began to rise, "to meet my older brother".
"You don't have an older brother!"
"Yes I do. My mother gave him up for adoption and he found us. His name is Michael. He's 18. I'm not suppose to tell anyone".
Janice hugged Shannon tightly, "you can trust me".
Shannon believed Janice would keep the secret. Most sexually abused kids learn quickly to do so. But in her attempt to avoid sleeping at her friends house ever again and the truth that Janice's father was a pervert, the lie grew. And like most children of abuse, Janice fed off Shannon's fantasy. It became so much more than a lie. It was make-believe hell.
It began with Janice needing proof. Shannon provided a picture of a handsome distant cousin. Janice wrote him a letter now that Shannon had no free weekends anymore. She choose the abuse she knew. But on those weekends, a love affair began. With letters written back to Janice from Michael, the non-existent older adopted brother, that Shannon scrawled using her left hand. Words of love and inner truths. Of giggles and swooning. "Michael" told Janice she was beautiful. Worthy. Smart. "He" told her everything a girl standing on a lifetime of hurt, sexual incest and shame wanted to hear. They were the same words Shannon longed to hear herself.
Then Janice's last letter. To run away. To go to him in New York. To be with him always.
Shannon's mind raced that weekend. This was bad. The worst. "What have I done?" She whispered staring at a blank notebook page.
It wasn't the worst. But it would be.
To end the elaborate lie Shannon wrote one last left handed letter from her fake half-brother. It was a letter of farewell. A suicide note. Telling Janice he was sorry that their love would never be. That he no longer could live a "lie".
Tearfully with ease Shannon handed Janice the letter. Explaining that Michael, battling depression had hung himself.
Devastated by the news the girls sobbed together. Janice from heartbreak. Shannon from guilt.
Eventually Shannon had distanced herself enough from Janice that their friendship ended. As adults, Janice discovered the truth through others. Shannon, who made that lie her last, carried the guilt of the experience despite a life of children of her own.
At their 20th high school reunion Shannon and Janice reconnected. Over coffee a month later, she admitted to Janice the truth about the lie. The guilt over not handling the situation with honesty. And again, they cried together over a childhood lost to the perversion of the men they called dad.
Shouted whispers
When speaking
to myself
A mumble
to excited trills
Those in earshot
Listen
The softest
Slyest whispers
Are often overheard
I trip all over
my words
Typographical errors
Exist in my speech
Nasally & cracked
My laugh is genuine
With a giggle snort
And obnoxiously loud
As are my sobs
Slowly I speak
To avoid accents
Yet
Piss me off
All R's drop
You'll know
Where I'm from
@rubypond
Kidnapped by Migraines
There have been many days (22 of 30 to be precise) in which I've been in an agony that carries with it no sympathy or understanding. I try to roll with it but they are taking a huge toll on the quality & quantity of my life. I know others share the same and for that I can truly sympathize.
I'm not necessarily looking for any sympathy. But between the time in a blacked-out room, medical testing, neurologists, nasty meds, MRIs; followed frantically by spending migraine-free days in a whirlwind of catching up with basic life to-do's. Phone calls, family, friends, house cleaning, taking a shower.
My notebooks are full of "starts". Of topics that challenge me & take me from my comfort zone as a lifelong writer. Just because I have to, Even if I suck at it due to my dyslexic moments, spelling issues or grammar placement. Or just sucking. I want to be here. I want to write. To connect with those who "get it". As well as to read & know more about you, by what you share.
And I will. I'm taking steps holistically, nutritionally & medically. I've gone from vegetarian to an unprocessed foods vegan. (Carrageenan is a huge trigger for me & that ingredient is in everything-even in items claiming to be organic). And I'm fucking frustrated. Pissed off. I want to have a life. I want to be present for those I love, to keep a normal schedule in the outside world; as well as be part of #prose. To participate others by using this online writing community on a regular basis.
The sooner I can find the cause and control this excruciating pain. I will be here.
And then sometimes I'll be kidnapped by an evil migraines and go missing for 6-10 days.
But I will escape eventually to where the sun shines & I remember anything is possible when you stay open to change. With patience.
xo ~ L
Messy Reality
Complaining lives
No lack of troubles
Guilty as charged
Watching though
The walk through
The white strip
Bright smiles of a
Sudden photo-op
Since we all now
Have personal
Paparazzi
Life is ugly & dark
Fear based bullshit
As we push passed
Moments that matter
To get to the moments
That sparkle & flash
Which never will amount
To more that a side show
Of loathing & dissatisfaction
Comparisons & despair
We
Are
Diseased
But we don't want to be
We are kind
We've known clarity
We've fallen on our asses
We've helped someone up
We are not the antibacterial
SPF 50 perfume we wear
There's bloody
Heart crushing
Bone splintering
Anguish
Not just for you
We all need to wash
In abrasive acceptance
Or a bitter hush
Releasing our toxic plague
Turning iron in our veins
Into over medicated rust
This messy
Dirty
Ugly
Life
When what we need to love
Is to embrace
Our historically beautiful
Pile of clutter
Which makes up a beautiful
Mountain of "Us"