2.46. The Wounded Soul – My Proudest Failure

This post is not about the many known names who have died over the course of this year from apparent suicide. Their deaths are sad and a loss to the world but there is nothing that can be done for them.  Their chances have ended. It’s sad but what can you do about it now? This is not about the unknowns who are gone from this world. Their story is no different. This is about the ones we can save. 

When I was 26, after my son was born, I suffered from postpartum depression while simultaneously suffering from an infection, which caused me to lose part of my right breast. The fake glue that was holding my doomed marriage together melted away. My world crumbled very quickly. I recall sitting in a bathroom and penning a letter to my child in which I apologized for failing him, for not being strong enough to have the desire to continue. I remember calling a crisis hotline while sitting on the curb of a dark street and telling some stranger I was a horrible piece of shit because I had a child but I wanted to die. I remember going to a hospital and asking for an evaluation. I sat in a cold, bare room, and waited for someone to tell me I was insane. After talking with Tom, he informed me I was suffering from PTSD, from events earlier in my life,  and Postpartum. When I said I wanted to die, he explained, I was simply asking to sleep…for rest…escape from pain I could not seem to get away from. I was released and attempted to pull myself out of that darkness. 

When I was eighteen, after being caught in the act, I admitted to battling Bulimia. It was a slow way out but I often hoped I would just become extremely frail and collapse and that same sleep would come. My mother told me to get over it. 

When I was 13, my father found me in our trailer in Clintondale, New York. I’d swallowed a ton of his painkillers and anything else I could find in the medicine cabinet. I was ashamed of my life. I was scared of being a nothing. I wanted to quit. 

When I was 11, I was admitted to a mental health ward, against my will (and my parents) for a mere 16 hours (a lifetime to an 11 year old btw). I’d gone in after a referral from a childhood therapist. Because I wouldn’t discuss things that were happening but implicated myself in several acts of self-harm, I was held for evaluation. I can still remember the screams and belligerent rants of those held in rooms next to me. After those 16 hours, I conned my way out of that hospital, claiming it was all an act and absolutely nothing was wrong with my home life. I learned how to lie on that day. 

When I was 5, a sibling found me on the ledge of our apartment window. When asked why I was up there, I said I wanted to die. My mother beat the ever-living piss out of me and sent me to bed. 

I have tried to die, thought of dying, hoped for dying…TOO MANY times in my life. I’ve purposefully put myself in dangerous situations, in the hopes that I would find release. Through those years and failed attempts…I never found it. 

I’m not telling you this because I want pity. Because I want you to think I’m epic and strong for “surviving.” I don’t know why I wanted to die from such a young age. I don’t know why I wasn’t “built” to better deal with the hardships of life. I don’t know why the unknown seemed so much better. 

What I do know are two things. 

  1. I was already dead. My body didn’t have to perish. TRULY, I believe I was a walking tomb. My son gave me my soul. I still struggle. I still panic. I’m still a hot mess. But I have never hoped for another breath the way I do now…as I have my son in my life. 
  2. Someday, I will die. I will not try. It will be against my will. And I will not want it to happen. I will feel pain as it all slips away because I will not see the tomorrows of my child, his children, the life I will miss. Someday, I will not have a choice. 

All of that being said…

I AM NOT AN EXPERT but I know the helplessness. I know the desperation. I know that feelings of sad hope that the damn phone will ring and someone…ANYONE will pull me back from the ledge and say, “I care about you. Please don’t go.” We all want to know that someone wants us to stay. That someone NEEDS us to stay. That our fire lights another persons world. We all need a reason to have no desire to step on that ledge. It’s ALL about love. 

The trauma that happened in my life, very early on, stunted my growth in MANY ways (so the doctors say). There are many times that I am stuck back in that mind frame of a child and I am terrified. I am frail. I am lost. It’s a fight to not go back there. To train my brain that I’m not reliving those traumas. That things are not repeating themselves. That I am capable of dealing with it IF they are. 

I am telling you all of this because we all know someone who struggles. Who is fighting. Who may be too quiet. May say the wrong things. May lash out at the smallest occurrence. May come off so angry. May push people away. May be an emotional punching bag. May live a lifestyle that is reckless. May be unaware that they are begging for help. May be pleading for rescue in their eyes but not their words. 

If you are that person…tell someone. ANYONE. Talk until your blue in the face. But keep talking. If you’re talking…you aren’t dead. AND THAT IS BEAUTIFUL. If you know someone like that…listen. Listen and really hear. You don’t need to fix it all. Just listen. Sometimes, that is all a wounded soul needs. 

Dear Suicide – I am proud to have failed you. 

Sincerely not yours…this girl. 

2.36. Rain

She will skim the surface

With blades of grass

To deliver the aqueous formula

Slow like honey

Heavy in hue

Trickling,

Drizzling,

Glistening,

Steady,

Pouring,

Clotting into hail

Her wrists are open

As cumulus clouds deliver surrender

A torrent of life

Laid to rest on the tiles of a bathroom floor.

2.25. Like A Stone

“They always leave. Everyone always leaves.”

Not one of my finest moments. Not one of my happiest. But definitely a moment that has replayed in my mind over the last couple of days.

I’ll be turning 29 in just a few weeks. No, I’m not one of those people that feels gross because I’m getting “old.” I’m okay with my age. I accept that nine times out of ten, people can’t even guess my age appropriately. When I’m 40, I’m sure I’ll appreciate that even more so. But I do feel…something.

As a kid, I was awkward. Physically, mentally, emotionally awkward. I was the girl that had crushes on the neighborhood boys and wrote poems so they could give to their girlfriends. I was the girl, in high school, who stayed up all night pep talking the guy I had the biggest crush on ever so he could go to school the next day and say just the right things to his crush.

“Hey, how you doin? No, not you, your friend.”

I couldn’t dance. I couldn’t dress. I couldn’t talk to the opposite sex in a way that compelled them to want to know me. I was the secret friend who gave advice (why anyone took advice from me…I still don’t get it). The only thing they begged me for was to know what I wrote about them in my journals. The pages filled with wishes and hopes and dreams. Pages filled with what-ifs. Wondering what it all would have been like if my life was…not mine.

And that was who I was. That girl that read books on the fire escape. That girl who tried so hard to impress and failed time and again. I tried different identities to appease new faces. Still failed.

And now, I’m going to be 29 and still have no clue who I am. Who I want to be. It’s sad, I know.

After being married, I was informed that the only reason it happened was because “it was the next step.” (And I was told this during the good times). Not out of desire but out of obligation to fulfill the timeline of life. You meet someone, you can deal with them, you marry them. I now know, that situation was not love. And I’m okay with that.

Looking back, I know the greatest love I ever had. In such a pure, untouchable sort of way. And that person died. It wasn’t by choice and I understand that. But the part of me that has always wanted that unconditional is still broken from it.

I tell myself to not be vulnerable. To not show anyone my soft side. To remain a “I don’t give a fuck,” type of entity. But, at that, I have failed, which only makes me feel worse. Weak.

I don’t really know where I was going with this one. Who cares. No one reads these things anyway.

My life has always been the fear of people leaving me. But I have to accept that. Everyone IS going to leave. No one is meant to stay forever. No matter how much my heart wants it. Wants to believe that it’s possible for me. Because maybe it just isn’t.

Do I allow these realizations to harden me? To turn my heart colder than it already is? I want to say no but I already feel like a stone.

2.13. Tragedy Is Our Reality

There is NOTHING that justifies killing a child.

There is NOTHING that explains away how someone could rip a gaping hole into the future,

There is NOTHING that makes me believe in the concept of pure evil as the capability of slaughtering the innocent.

There is NOTHING that makes me lose faith in human kind more than innocence being so blatantly debilitated.

There is NOTHING that scares me more than knowing NO ONE is safe from the insanity of an angry, over-privileged, self-righteous, greedy, egotistical world and its inhabitants.

There is NOTHING anyone can say to make tragedy better, easier, calmer, more bearable.

There is NOTHING that will bring those children back.

There is NOTHING that will erase the nightmares, terror, fear, and trauma from the survivors.

There is NOTHING that will ever make this make sense.

My heart breaks for the pain, the sorrow, the agony shrouded over the memory of those lost. My mind reels in pure loathing for the despicable disregard for others so easily displayed by the shooter(s). The facts are still unclear. But the only fact, the only relevant piece of this puzzle, is that children are dead.

The media is going to dive down on this like vultures. They will analyze the killer(s) as if they are specimens to be understood. They will try to make sense of this just as they have tried with every other act of terrorism on our soil. They will blame mental illness, the economy, music, TV, movies, a failed marriage, the turmoil in the lives of the assailants. They will put a stamp on it and in six months…no one will be talking about the 18 dead. No one will remember their names, what they wanted to be when they grew up, their favorite foods, their letters to Santa. No one will remember.

And the day after WE forget…THIS WILL HAPPEN AGAIN.

This is not an epidemic. This is not something to work toward curing. This isn’t Cancer. This is Death. This is now an inevitable part of our reality. Because when you do the same shit – you get the same results. This is something that isn’t going away. No matter how many poor attempts at understanding and discussion we pretend to have.

With every form of social media sending out condolences and cries of dismay…ask yourself…what are YOU going to do to stop this? What are WE going to do?

Because I will be damned if my son is going to be shot up at a movie theater. I will be damned if my child is shot up in the halls of his elementary school, his high school, his college. I will be damned if my son leaves this world before I do! Point blank period.

I don’t have the answers. I have only one suggestion. WE, as a society, need to realize that EVERYTHING we think we’re doing right – nix it. EVERYTHING we think we know – null and void. Throw away all of the options of normalcy and forget it. It’s gone. It’s time to think outside the box – because innocents are being shot up inside that box. Inside the confines of our little minds and our shortened attention spans. Inside of the walls of a world WE have built.

It’s bullying, it’s hatred, it’s killers, it’s the anonymity of evil. It’s that we live in a world in which ANYONE is capable of covering our children’s lives in veils of red. Ending a better future before it has a chance to replace the reality we SHOULD BE ashamed to call our own.

This post means NOTHING in the grand scheme of things.

These words are just those of a heartbroken, shocked, appalled, terrified mother. A woman who doesn’t know how to save her child. A woman who wants to figure out how.

 

1.180 – I Love You, Dad

“……., it’s Sabrina. I know we’re not talking but daddy’s dead. I need you to call me. Please. He’s dead. Just call me. Please.”

A year ago, today, those words lingered on a voicemail I wish I’d never received. A deliverance from a god I don’t believe in. A curse sent down from somewhere, a blatant sign of thievery, a shattering of my heart. One that would send me into an outcry as I ran from a bathroom stall on my fifteen minute break at work. One that would send me running through the back of the store, screaming “help me.” One that would leave me a collapsed lump of sobbing meat…a dying soul.

Anyone that knows me knows that my father was the light in my life that kept me alive…the one who believed in me despite the odds stacked against me. My father loved me by pure choice. He didn’t have to. He could have walked away at any time. And he stayed. He loved with his whole heart, was obsessed with technology and prided himself in being the most badass, metal rocking, piercing toting, sarcastic “jew-ban” known to man. He was a finger tapping, finger snapping, perverted, hilarious culinary master. He was a man who kept his word, who believed in love and forgiveness more than I could understand throughout my life. He was passive to a fault but a gentle soul that, at the end of the day, just wanted to be loved.

Dad’s Birthday Card #1 ~ Signed by everyone in a local bar

“You’re a good man, a good dad, and you are loved…today and every day.”

I’ve shed tears today. I’ve watched my son play and laugh and color and enjoy the motions of his life. I was lost in a heap of emotions…a sort of fog. And then my son came up to me, just about ten minutes ago and said “up.” I picked him up and he pointed to my fathers urn. I said, “that’s grandpa.” He said “hi grandpa.” I said “grandpa loves you.” He didn’t miss a beat. “I love grandpa too.”

I was going to write about how much it hurts without my father here to support me, to guide me, to enjoy life with me. But that’s the thing about this journey. What I intend it to be can change in the blink of an eye. And with my son greeting his grandpa and saying he loved him…I am inspired.

To give my son the love my father gave to me…tenfold. To love with my whole heart. To keep my promises. To mean what I say and say what I mean. To be forgiving. To be understanding. To be patient. To be compassionate. To have empathy. To learn from my child. To grow with my child. To evolve. To savor and encourage the beautiful imagination and spirit of the amazing boy who rules my world. To accept my truest emotions and to follow my heart. To keep my son at the forefront of my existence, no matter how hard the days may be and to know…my light has not left me. It shines brightly…in my memories, in the love of my family, in the beauty and joy of my son.

Dad’s Birthday Card #2 ~From his daughters

“Because her father listened to her, she knew she had something to say. Because he believed in her, she believed in herself. Because he said she could do anything, she did…

Dad, so much of the good stuff in my life started with you.    Thank you.”

I will not mourn you, Dad. I will remember you. I will rejoice in you. I will believe in what you taught me and I will show you that all of your love and hard work was not in vain…never wasted. I will love my son to no end and show you that you gave me the greatest gift any parent could ever give. You showed me what a parents unconditional love is and for that…my son and I will will always honor your name and live with your spirit in our presence.

I love you, dad. Always and forever.

1.165 – My Bookstore…My Time Capsule

Today is a bittersweet day.

Two weeks ago, I was thrilled to put in my notice as the Cafe Lead of my local bookstore. I have the opportunity to work for another company that can financially help me in my current situation. It’s a smart financial move.

I was happy to say goodbye to a lot of things. To try to bring some level of a clean slate to my life.

But…something happened.

I walked through the parking lot…my final walk…and cried. Just as I am crying now. Why? Yes, I’m going to miss people. Yes, I’m scared a lot of my “friendships” will end because I don’t work there anymore. Yes, I’m going to miss my customers. Yes, I’m going to miss being the girl that pretty much knows how to do everything. Yes, I’m nervous these newbies will screw up the amazing bonds I have built with my favorite and loyal customers…and I won’t be able to answer a question or fix a problem or find that damned book that no one else can find. Yes, I have the opportunity to pick up a couple of shifts if I’d like to make extra money…so I’m not even fully gone.

But that’s not why this change makes me cry so much.

In that building, I have faced the struggles of not being able to get pregnant. In that building, I shared the excitement of finding out I was going to have a baby. In that building, I have faced the struggles of a failing marriage and upcoming divorce. In that building, I learned that my best friend died. In that building, I learned that my father died.

I can’t count the number of times someone in that store has sat with me and comforted me through tears. No, my four years weren’t perfect and I’ve had plenty of moments when I’ve wanted to bludgeon people with sticks. But these people have seen my life change in ways I was never prepared for.

This building holds the moments that replay in my mind, break my heart, elate me, and ground me. This place is a capsule in time of my greatest gift and my greatest losses.

My daddy introduced me to that bookstore…not that particular one but the chain itself. It’s sentimental for me. It always will be. I lost him in that bookstore.

And this shit is rocking my world way more than I thought it ever would. Bringing up feelings I didn’t think were connected.

I cry. Because apart of me feels like I’m leaving that place behind…like I’m leaving that moment there. I’m leaving him there.

And I relive the pain.

1.153 – Barren Lands

Lost in the claim of affiliation

A belief with reason or a reason to believe.

Fixated on what we hope could be

What could never occur.

She wants to talk about blue skies but sees only the darkest of clouds

Reigning down in tyranny and loathsome momentum.

Clashing like titans, a mind boggling war

Set upon a land of sovereign nobility.

The kings men pillage the ripest of juices

Negating the fruits of labor.

In dungeons of lore, love and law hindered by corruption

Pouring from pores of porous proportions

And she tore the paper to shreds.

The Queen called forth her most loyal soldiers

Waving her delicate fingers to and fro

Bowing down, the men found no reason to rise

As the blood and bones once solid now liquefy

Because nothing exists here…

Not Kings and Queens

No land and law

No soldiers

And by far no love.

1.145 – Did You See Her 2.0

This is not about being caught between a rock and a hard place. This is about those that freely violated the soft space of my mind. A cerebral vortex of shame and stains left behind where my imagination was supposed to develop. Instead it’s homicidal sperm, that’s spermicidal fluid, sent to ruin the chambers of this tomb because I’m the walking dead. A corpse painted semi-pretty so you cant see all the stains they left upon me.

This one says I’ll always feel broken and this one is a self-deprecating spot that has soaked into the very core of my being. This one shouts how much it still hurts and these record the number of times my demise was a real consideration. Up for deliberation is my worth, my beauty and the lack thereof. Wondering how many can see the target and how many will attempt to score. Because I was never a women to caress but a child to molest and a sleeping beauty who woke up to a pillow on her face. Disgraced in explaining that I’m not quite sure if it was rape because he was my boyfriend but I didn’t want to.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is general and this is specific. This is for every man and for no man at all. This is the rage of a gender and the plea of a woman. This is the voice of a tear and the echo of a child’s feet. This is from me to you, from us to them. This is for mothers with sons and fathers with daughters. This is for every person who wants to feel beautiful and for every person who took away that chance.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is for the Queens of the world. In every shade and every shape. For the scarred and the scared. For the bold and the wise. For the revolutionary and the traditionalist. For the swell of your breasts as you feed our kin and hide in closed quarters in shame. For the stories of your tongue, the stories of your hips, your eyes, your hands. This is for your battles lost and those you’ve yet to win. But you will. This is for the eccentric thoughts in your mind, your hopes and dreams.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is for our sons, our future Kings. Know that your manhood is not measured by your dick and what you do with it but the heart you so genuinely share. Love her and know her and speak her name with honey on your lips. Tell her what this world could be and shield her from what it really is. Give her a piece of you and nurture every exhale she shares. Use your hands to wipe away the tears versus inflicting them. Kiss away the bruises versus gifting them. Call her name – call her name sweetly so she will come to you with eager anticipation. Remind her, every day until the end of days, that she is your equal. Your matching puzzle piece. Your mirrored image of hope.

Do you believe in God sir? Well, if you do…”God took a rib from Adam to create Eve…so she would walk beside him. He did not take a bone from his heel for her to be beneath him.” Ask your God to clarify.

This is for our daughters, the soldiers of capturing the voice. Where we have failed, you will triumph and persevere. You will flee from cages of insecurity, you will dance freely and know your body and express your individuality with certainty and conviction. You will not be his slut or his whore or his conquest. You will not be his angel captured on a harpoon, dangling off cliffs edge while he gloats of his barbaric instincts. You will soar. You will taste the stars and make love on clouds and touch sands of far off places and sway in the eclipse of time into sunsets of days yet created.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

Does it count if it’s marital, family, a female? I’m a woman so you take my pain as fact but if I were a man screaming of my violations, you’d be thinking “well, how the fuck is that” but sadly it is, not something to be dismissed because it’s happening right now. And some wife somewhere is saying “please don’t” and some husband is saying “what’s mine is mine”

This is for that man…you know who you are. Not under one name or one face but one type underneath it all. You have tainted rich soil, conquered and pillaged sacred plains, delved into the deepest corners of unexplored caverns and declared ownership. As if her pussy was property. You have created superiority in your name and claimed sanction in corners of the world, yet you are everywhere. You will tower over the beauties of this land and profess false prophecies of a God like stature because of your dick.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

You will hide behind money, power and muscle mass. You will press her body down and take what is not yours. You will crush her bosom and pierce her lips with your own as you inject anguish into her every crevice. You will rape her mind far longer than her body. You will ravish her in dreams and eat away at her until she is skin and bones and bones and skin and skin and skin and scarred and ruined and pained and lost. You will shadow her eyes and teach her that this is it; she will die today. No man will love her, hold her, cradle her, and forgive away every flaw upon her name. You will stomp out her light, snuff the candle and make a film about it.

This is about the bruises left unseen, scouring my skin but I’m still unclean.  On the inside. Was I too weak, too soft, too vulnerable and how much of this was my fault. But how does a child ask for it? She doesn’t and yet we question a girls slut rating to deem if there was probably cause probably cuz we are too busy telling our girls to clean up their shit instead of teaching our sons not to be rapists. And with each new agenda, we pretend our offenders are just men and mistake perversion for homosexuality. Because this isn’t about sex or gender or orientation. This is about a sick stimulation, a war waged on an unsuspecting country.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

She is my future, my past. She is me and no one I know. He is every man I have ever met and every man I will avoid. He is what I will teach my son not to be. And in some other realm, I see her and she is free. She is without shackles and without daggers. She owns her essence and is euphoric in splendor of possibility. And there will be one, one to defy all others. One to touch her cheek and melt away those stains. He will whisper and elevate. She will taste the salt of tears seasoned with wonder.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

Be a light to the woman you know. Be that man. The one I know exists in dreams. For her, I will write him into life. He will touch one. Just one. She will be his country and he will be her soldier. And this moment, this one lost moment will not be in vain. My prince will be a King someday. And she will know beauty again. Whoever she is…she will know and never have to.

1.144 – Heavenly Earth

Sitting on my lunch break, I read an article by Jon Meacham entitled Heaven Can’t Wait – Why rethinking the hereafter could make the world a better place and it got me thinking. So much so that I had to reread it. And then I had to read it again, only this time, with a highlighter in hand. And then I had to give a copy of it to someone I know…because I had to share this…whatever this was.

Meacham starts his article with a synopsis of Heaven Is For Real by Lynn Vincent…a book I’ve never read. He quotes John Blanchard, founder of Planet Rock Youth Ministries…a ministry I know nothing about. He talks about N.T. Wright,  Billy Graham, and Stephen Hawking…people I know nothing about. Realistically, this article…in a magazine I’ve never read…should be of no significance or interest to my silly little mind. However, this article…in a magazine that I’ve never read yells at me. Forces me to think.

“Heaven isn’t just a place you go-heaven is how you live your life.”

“…people who are motivated by heaven are also people motivated to make a positive difference in the world.”

“”Seeing heaven as the world beyond this one can offer powerful comfort, particularly in life’s most dire circumstances.”

“Gods love…should inspire the religious to open their arms more often than they point fingers. Heaven thus becomes, for now, the reality one creates in the service of the poor, the sick, the enslaved, the oppressed.”

“Our entrance into heaven has nothing to do with how good we are; what matters is how good Jesus is, and what He did for us.”

I’m just a girl. A girl from the Bronx. A girl who’s gone through her struggles and in turn…sits in front of this keyboard with one million questions and zero answers. I’m just a girl who hopes to be better and doesn’t know how. I’m just a lost soul dreaming of something beautiful…hoping it’s attainable for someone like me.

After reading this article, I asked myself…what is heaven? Where is heaven? I will not consider what the world tells me. I will not consider the images painted upon walls and on the pages of old books. What is heaven? Where is heaven?

Heaven is seeing that glimmer in my sons eyes. Heaven is laughter. Heaven is a warm hug. Heaven is feeling loved. Heaven is feeling understood. Heaven is music, art, spoken word. Heaven is understanding. Heaven is giving. Heaven is the unconditional. It is what we search for every single day…in everything that we do…in every encounter we have.

I want heaven. For myself. For my son. For my best friend. For my father. I want heaven for people I don’t even know. But how do you reach something that defies all sense of logic? Religion makes no sense to me. There was a phone call between God and I at some point in my life but the call got disconnected.

He may…in some way…be trying to call me back. But I don’t know if I’m willing to answer that call.

I don’t know if God exists. Without a shadow of a doubt…no, I can’t say that I know. But do I know heaven exists? Yes, I do. It’s not a crown of jewels and a palace made of gold. It’s in our works. How we nurture our fellow man. How we inspire our kin. This is heaven. This is where I want to be.

1.143 – Deleting a Life

She’s putting her dreams on hold

too often told

her words would not be sold

or could be

at discount prices

on unshopped racks

in closed bookstores.

She’s putting her dreams aside

swallowing her pride

the images in her head

better left unsaid

dead

in a pool of water

left by tears of failure.

She’s closing the book on her book

the ink in her pen dried to bone

better left alone

and sent out to sea

a vision of castaways

left upon the isle

under the beaming kisses of a sun

that could not find his wife

would not dedicate his life

to making things better

no matter the whether

or not he should have.

She writes in the night

to hide the streams

lapping the keys

because she knows

this is a dead end road

beaten and bruised

this path shall remain cloaked

with the remnants of someone elses success

all the while

the lights flicker

and her heart is faint

because the fridge is still empty

She forgets her dreams and shrugs on the shawl of

worker bee

the drone in the marching band army

singing a tune

she lost control of somewhere around the age of eleven.

But she was seven when the pain choked her out

kissed her eyes goodnight

and damned her to fail

pulling at the dirt

to no avail

the grave she lives in

the grave she dug

unable to be saved

by your God

any God

Beauty is a whisper

and so she screams

lacking the power to conquer

herself.

She’s burning the pages of her book

no second thought

no second look

wilting and withering in the brush

No dream lost

if no dream was ever had

empty palms

bleed ringlets of alphabetic droplets

spirals of vowels

showering consonants across continents

where hope died on roads to mecca

two paces forward

twenty eight back

into the womb

hiding in the dark.

Release me.