Outside Looking In

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but being incurious will slaughter relationships. How long can two last when only one wants to know?

Have I not made it easy? Am I not words on a page, a liturgy of emotions, a catechism of ceaseless anxiety?

Read me. I’m self narrated. I’m open. Ask. I’ll tell.

How long will I be tapping at this window, asking to be let in? Asking to be seen? Why can’t you see me?

With each question I ask, the knowledge of your seeming indifference widens this chasm between us. Don’t you see it? These cracks were forming, and now I’m breaking. How long before you can’t reach me? Do you even want to?

Ask me. Again and again. As I ask you, begging to be heard. Begging to be answered.

For all my queries, I know little. Everything is painfully extracted. Everything withheld costs.

I am nothing but questions. You are everything except questions.

I am nothing but exposed. You are everything except vulnerable.

I am nothing but before you. You are looking everywhere but here.

Look at me.

I said look at me.

Interpersonal Relationships

Are relationships nothing more than a series of transactions? I do this, and you do this, and we are happy as long as we are fulfilling our part of the bargain. There’s no room for hurt feelings, no addendums for changing mentality or morals or for just being too damn exhausted to hold up your end. 

I do this and you do this, and this, and this. Make a list of it. Check off your to-dos. Did I say thank you today? Did I present my body? Am I grateful? Am I submissive? Is it enough to submit willingly, or must I do it enthusiastically? 

I’ve penciled you into my calendar, I’ve made you a part of my schedule. Yes sir, yes sir, atta boy. I do this, and I want a thank you for it or I won’t do it anymore. 

I do this and you do this, and we both stay happy. And if one of us shirks our end of the deal, we can always walk away. It’s not personal, it’s just business.

Stiches

I’ve been thinking a lot about domestic violence lately. So I wrote this. 

If you are a victim of domestic violence, please speak up and reach out. You are not alone. Call the national hotline at  1-800-799-SAFE

Close your eyes.

I break your teeth, cut out your tongue. 

You love this misery, what would you do without me? 

I promise I won’t do it again, not in the same way, at any rate. I’ll escalate, just you wait, but you won’t see what I have planned.

Close your eyes.

This weapon in my hand, this weapon is my hand, this hand on your face. My caress is so tender, but a stinging slap feels the same to you. Bitch. You deserve this. 

Close your eyes.

Look at you now, you’re nothing without me. I’m your world, I’m your god, I’m your fucking deity so worship me, get on your knees and beg for mercy, oh please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry. 

You are sorry. Pathetic. Apathetic. You don’t care if I don’t care, pull your hair, make you scream. You like this pain, you like this game. Will I? Won’t I? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? All week? Whenever I want to. You’re mine, I own you. 

Close your eyes. 

The Metaphorical Heart

Here it is, take it 

Be sure not to break it,

It’s tainted, and anxious, and jaded, but it’s waited 

for someone like you, 

someone true, 

someone out of the blue 

to do what others couldn’t do,

guard and protect it, 

treat it like it’s precious, blessed, 

its pieces all gathered, shattered, battered, but not scattered, or would you rather you left it, 

on the ground where it’s rested, 

recklessly left by others who swore to protect it. 

I thought you were invested, 

that each beat was connected to your own, 

so why do I feel so rejected, 

my pain deflected, not reaching you, you’re above it, 

you live in the moment, you show it, with a polite smile meanwhile I’m dejected, 

infected, with poison,

 but you’re immune, in tune with the assimilated, 

the integrated, while I stand humiliated. 

Maybe it’s me, I’m not made for this, 

I’ve paid for this, over and over, 

I’ve prayed for this, 

but is it too late for this to be corrected? 

Am I the only one affected? 

Each piece I’ve collected doesn’t feel worth so much, 

and it hurts so much,

that you’re so out of touch, 

I don’t feel like enough. 

I’m broken up by your love. 

Something's Wrong With Amy

When I was married to my first husband, I had to deal with a level of crazy from his parents that I wasn't quite prepared for. Not fun crazy; scary crazy. The kind that doesn't know they're totally nuts. Worse, the kind that think they're completely normal, and everyone else is less smart, less successful, and less sane. The crazy in denial.

As it happens, that level of insanity was just a warm up, a jog in the park, compared to the full out sprinting marathon of absolute lunacy that I have experienced over the last two years, and the last week in particular. 

The unfortunate thing is that I KNEW it. That saying, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me" completely applies here. Something happened years ago that caused me to say, "What in the world? No really, what in the world??" But time marches on, and you convince yourself that maybe you were wrong, maybe you overreacted or misunderstood. 

I wasn't, and I didn't, and I didn't. 

Perhaps it's because deep down, I want to believe that people I've known half my life really can't be the way they seem. They really can't be the way they act. They really can't be what they really are.

I suppose that's a part of me that's crazy in denial. 

Then it begins, the signs that you were right all along. It starts before your second wedding:

"How dare you have a gay man speak at your wedding? I remember when you were a good Christian."

"How dare you be pro choice? I can't believe we were ever friends."

"How dare you voice your opinions on my facebook page, and how dare you back the opinions with facts? Fake news."

And the straw that ripped the blinders off:

"How dare you tell my children you disagree with me?" (These are midteen children, fyi)

It was here I finally spoke up: 

"When your children told me they have to dress modestly to 'avoid tempting men to rape and assault them,' I told your children that I disagree, and while modesty is important, the way they dress is NOT an invitation for someone to rape and assault them. I had no idea that crossed a parenting line."  

"Well, it does. How dare you manipulate my children that way?"

How dare I...manipulate...children...by telling them that I disagree with the rhetoric that certain clothing choices are an invitation to assault?

That explosion you may have heard is my brain breaking at the level of ignorance and disrespect I had to process. That's not even the worst of it, really, but what is the point of hashing it all out?

So I shut it all down. Don't worry about me crossing parenting lines again. I intend to stay as far away as humanly possible. Unfriend. Delete. Block. Shame on me for being fooled twice. 

Yet they insist, "I love you."

If those are not the three creepiest words to come out of the mouth of someone who has done nothing but manipulate and belittle, I don't know what else would be. 

You love me? You question my integrity, you question my faith, you question my character, and you accuse me of manipulation...but yeah, you love me? 

Don't use words you can't possibly understand, dear. 

It irks my sense of justice that my only recourse is silence. You cannot reason with someone like this. They are unapologetic; willfully ignorant; dangerously degenerate. 

Trump really is a stable genius by comparison, if that gives you a better picture of the depth of my feelings. 

Silence. Prayers, too. God save the children. 

Stream of Consciousness

Have you ever felt raw, unfiltered, pure, organic, grass-fed regret?

It's hard to describe. It borders somewhere between "projectile lava rage" and "decadent self loathing." There's this tightening in your chest, like a tar covered hand has reached into your rib cage from the depths of hell and is trying to drag your internal organs through the floor.

The floor is made of shag carpet and it's orange.

I hate this feeling, especially when it doesn't stem from me doing anything wrong. It just seems like I can't get anything right.

Circumstances change; life offers chance after chance; magic do-overs abound.

Yet, I remain. The same as ever. Face in my hands, always asking myself, "Why. Am. I. So. Dumb?"

It's ironic, because not ten hours ago I was going on and on about how if one would just change ONE thing, it would change EVERYTHING. "There's so much life to be lived!" I said, "Why don't they live it?"

Who am I to judge, I wonder? I'm tethered to my own bad decisions. I made each link of this chain. I forged it myself, my greatest achievement. Look how shiny it is, rubbing the skin off my ankles.

Hobby Farming

I was up late thinking about “farmers only” for some reason, and this came to mind. A farmer breakup poem.

May your light in the window,
Flicker and die,
May your pipes all freeze up,
May your wells all run dry,
May the fly on the cow pie shoot worms in your eye,
And when you think of me, may you cry.

May the hens in your hen house,
Decide not to lay,
May your days be too short,
May you burn all your hay,
May the mules in the pasture constantly bray,
And when you think of me, may your hair all turn gray.

May the ox on your plow,
Up and go lame,
May your hogs all be wild,
May your skies never rain,
May the lies that you tell make you burst into flame,
And when you think of me, may you be off your game.

May the garden you're planting,
Whither from blight,
May your sheep all tip over,
May your goats die of fright,
May Bessie the milk cow be your only wife,
And when you think of me, may you wish for my life.