Happiness, he says,
is your responsibility
and then…
If you love me enough…
If you showed more appreciation…
If you lost a little weight…
and…
Clearly, not my problem.
Really?
Is it always just me?
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge #151: Is it always me? Image mine)
Sold my soul for union –
destruction built-in
Narcissism is a bastard
luxuriates in self-catering
Did not anticipate loss –
innocence slaughtered
Force to grow sensibility
don a tough shell –
Would not let betrayal
call me by name.
It was not meandering
that shredded my heart
but the loss of a child
caught in the crossfire
too young to discern
parental alienation.
(Image from personal collection.)
Married addiction
adopted denial
settled for basics
Espoused spirituality
ignored infidelity,
pulled down the blinds.
Believed compassion
could compensate
for indifference.
Limited my outlook
to windows, too insecure
to de-smudge the pane.
Missed the gaping doorways,
the blatant rudeness
of belligerent disrespect
Till withdrawal prompted
accountability, commanded
ownership, changed the lock.
(Image from personal collection.)
Idleness fills his hours
as if time knows no limits
I devour moments, afraid
tomorrow will forget me
we see-saw between
treacherous righteousness
and fusty avoidance
ignoring balance –
a sensible response.
(Inspired by the perils of an aging marriage, and submitted for Ragtag Community’s prompt: Â fusty.) Â Image from personal collection.
Words are leaves,
poignantly bold
when sprouted,
destined to wither
lose their hold –
thank goodness
our love is a trunk,
solidly rooted, steadfast –
no need for words.
All relationships have walls,
the therapist offered
Walls, I could handle –
build a ladder, scale –
seems there was no help
for the vortex that was
our marriage – his narcissism
a black hole that devoured
my soul….
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge. Image credited NASA, BBC News.)
This rage –
this storm,
waves crashing
against walls
impenetrable
I am ice,
unforgiving,
unrepentant,
wounded
thrashing
against a beast
unwittingly
played by you
We freeze.
I’ve come undone;
you are battered.
It is irreparable
absolute
until one of us
shifts, and fear
surges, unleashing
tears
and transformation.
A bee, caught
in a violent draught,
collides with woman
her body a salty
concrete wall
of frenzy, she is rigid,
obsessed, unspoken rage
emanating from her pores –
a gale force spiral, woman-made
vortex threatening the sanctity
of her contrived domesticity
Normally, she would swat at him –
is aware of the potential for venom
delivered via puncture – cannot pull
herself out of the vacuum of fixation
eyes riveted, hands locked on video
controls, breath shallow, heart pounding
a rabid diatribe of self – loathing:
useless woman,
irresponsible,
neglectful,
unworthy,
guilty,
fat
with each beat the tempest grows
perceptibly, the bee breaks free,
encircles the figure of a lone man
bent over a fragrant cup of brew,
is dismissed by a distracted swat
lazily careens upward, buzzing
past a sleeping child, and settling
on a sweet sticky cheek, startling
its owner, who lashes out then rises
unsteady legs toddling in search
of Momma! , the whine a catalyst,
piercing his mother’s mania –
her instincts now cat-like, body
pouncing past the insolent insect,
arms reaching towards pudgy limbs
thrusting forward into loosely
attached guard rails, now plunging
the bee surveilles the scene –
a final circuitous flight before
finding escape, the drone of his wings
a testament to the glory of being a bee.
(Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem which exemplifies simultaneity.  A Bee’s Perspective first appeared in May, 2017.)
A kettle over boiled
will put him in a snit
Leaving a light on,
a sin I often commit.
He forgets the garbage
leaves it in public sight
likes clutter around him
causes me such fright.
Annoyances are doubled
when living in tiny space
yet never will they overtake
the magic of this chase…
For everyday is adventure
when life is on the road
imagine all the memories
and stories yet to be told.
I drag my marriage
through childhood,
past my mother’s critiques
and sister’s insanity,
expose the woman
my father longed to be,
strip them all down
and parade them
full monty,
our sordidness
splayed across the floor
like shepherd’s pie
smashed into linoleum –
a mess of madness
and emotion and
cranked out fables:
denial served up
as acceptable fare.
I am obsessed –
driven by compulsion
to cleanse the sticky,
rotting muck oozing
through the cracks
of our faulty foundation,
need to sanitize floorboards,
unearth explanations
salvage what thread
of sensibility remains
before this orgy
of dysfunction
derails progress
drags my childhood
through marriage.
One Woman's Quest 