people living deeply have no fear of death.

anais nin

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cut grass

i feel like…

i feel

summer is not ready to smother us but the promise is there.

he has my family
the promise of summers & birthday parties in sprinklers

i have my bubble

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loneliess is the oddest of emotions.
alone in a room of people is the sad but alone in bed with someone else is even lonelier.
not sure why my heart is unraveling lately.

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you are the problem

having grown up in an abusive home i am super-sensitive to the cause.

tonight i read a lengthy fb status where a man tells a story about seeing his ex, who he parted with on poor terms, at a restaurant where was dining w family. he goes on about parking, a rude driver, his ex inside, them leaving about the same time & the rude driver being the partner of his ex. he stated he saw the man slap the woman THREE times! 3 TIMES!

i comment, asking if he reported it, called a hotline, the cops, anything. he said no, he didn’t want to get involved, it was her fault for taking it, it’s a small town & he didn’t want trouble bc the abuser had see his kids,

ARE YOU SERIOUS!? your kids are more important than someone elses? i do not expect you to “man up” not everyone is that brave BUT you can call in a tip, esp in a small town & considering she is the man’s ex & it is a small town, he could have done SOMETHING to help her. it’s devastating & sickening.

what sick person lets something like this slide? nothing really pisses me off more than someone who thinks another deserves to be abused bc they are in the relationship.

scary is an understatement for what it is like to live in fear in your own home. you are in a warzone that no one else can see. you lie about bruises & black eyes, i apparently was the world’s clumsiest kid. 

if you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem.

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click to bleed

it hurts to write.

no typewriter to sit at & bleed:
just digital clicks with no impact

something that can disappear on a whim.

like a play piercing, i do it for the pain but i know it won’t stay.

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it’s times like these…

sometimes you read something & know it’s not sympathy, or empathy, it’s a shared memory…

i grew up poor

destitute sounds better but is far too fancy

rural arkansas

daughter of a single mother with a need for male attention

{this is the core of why i am self-actualized beyond the eyes & value of any man}

i write this as if no one i know will read it…or those that read it will realize they never knew me

i am grateful beyond words that i had a few good years before she met him…him being the finale of a loser showcase.

kindergarten in a small town, a trailer that shook when he shoved her birdlike frame across the kitchen

wringing a washckoth out for her black eye, i can save you

i’m the best wringer ever, i could get a job wringing people’s washclothes, handing her a piece of a ripped towel, dreaming of saving her

i imagined her as a bird mom, vomiting up what she needed in order to give her child all she could

kids only see the best, i wish i could see her that way again

being poor is a genetic disorder it taints generations

even when not fully expressed, one feels it lurking, as if it could all crumble at any moment

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postmodern gothic

made of glitter & champagne sewn together with good intentions

{a gift of my own making}

tonight watching tv…

a man arguing with his woman

he darts like a snake, his hand striking out, her throat, something to crush

like her spirit

heart eerily missing, no beat

not a flashback but a feelback

i felt the fear.hurt.pain.angst

i was not there but my heart was there

my mind was there

choking my words.fears.thoughts

tears came before i knew

it was not me. 

………..or her.

{i would capitalize the H if i were that kind of woman}

it was not us in a house of meth & fear

it was just tv

…..just some other woman trapped 

in a slow suicide

man being her vice of choice

just tv, another person, another life

not who.what.where i am now

safe.

Filed under short fiction memoir poem oklahoma arkansas gothic southern writer