Polyamory

I thought I was beyond this. This realm of awkward longing and skipped heartbeats.  The goosebumps when his name is uttered.  The greek fire engulfing my eyes when someone gets a little too close to what is mine.  The marshmallow fluff in my chest when he smiles at me.  The shivers down my spine when he bites my lower lip. The flush that washes over me when he kisses my forehead just to remind me that I am his.  The electricity that pulses through my veins when his fingers entwine with mine.

A thousand curses upon whomever dares to wake me from this dream.

 

 

Advertisements

Still Broken

It took me a long time to realize that it wasn’t me that he abandoned.  That the life I grew up thinking I understood was in fact largely smoke and mirrors to keep me sedated enough to not rebel too hard. Just enough freedom to make me think that I was in some way in control of my world.

My father was denied the chance to know me by a mother who had no interest in raising me.  She washed her hands of me and surrendered me to those who had abused her, as though I was an offering to pay for her sins.  She laid me at the alter and never looked back.  I was just enough to buy her freedom. Just enough of a distraction for her to slip away, unnoticed.

She never came back for me.

And as she lay dying, she reached for me. Her hands were cold and calloused. Her eyes were deep and black.  I stayed by her side while the black faded to grey, when no one else could be bothered to share these moments with her.  This hard, beaten woman who  refused to share her life with me  held fast  as death sought her out.

As she surrendered, there was no resolution, no absolution, nothing to ease the pain of the years she stole from me.  Nothing but an empty ache and a black heart that left its mark with night terrors and hallucinations in its wake.

In her final moments she destroyed the remnants of my soul that had survived her betrayal.  I was reduced to nothing but acid tears and a hollow voice.

Those acid tears left their marks. And 4 years later I can still feel the trenches they carved as they coursed down my face. Such scars do not fade with time. That hollow voice haunts me still, in moments such as these, when the world is asleep and I’m left with only my demons to entertain me.

I used to have hope that I’d grow up and not give a second thought to…well any of this. That I’d move past it and somehow it would not have power over me.  And yet, here I am. Still broken like a twelve year old little bitch without the strength to stand up and hit back.

 

The broken is so deep that the pieces can’t even be picked up; ground into stardust and flittered away on the wind. There’s a small measure of comfort in knowing that things will never be the same. Irrevocably altered beyond the healing of the alter on which it was swore there would be none other.

Sunday Morning

There is nothing left inside. Hollowed out with greed and left as a vessel for the hate you feed inside your mind and spill into me. There’s nothing I can do but light a cigarette and wait for the rush to combat the sea before I drown. There is nothing else for it.

You who took my heart with both hands and twisted, tangled, mangled, contorted, distorted so as to fill the hole within yourself have left me with this empty shell.

Breathe.

Mel, it’s ok.

It’s going to be ok.

It’s going to be ok.

There is nothing that calms the ache left in the wake of burdens you picked up but couldn’t take. And if you reach out your hand it won’t find mine to hold. The cold is getting colder and the excuses are getting older. Nothing lasts forever, save for the demons who have been there since the day I came alive. They have held me in the dark when the world was too full to let me in. They have dragged my weakness into light when trust became my sin. They have held my hand when I could not stand on my own and gagged me into silence when I couldn’t stop the words from flowing. And now they rock me into serenity and whisper softly of all the things I’m stronger now for knowing.

The Waiting

via Daily Prompt: Anticipation

The waiting kills me. The final hours before payday are the most painful, particularly this time of year. There are so many needs that trump the wants that the wants aren’t even thought of these days. These days are all about survival. Indeed, we work too hard to be this poor.

Simplify. Reduce, recycle, reuse. Stop, drop, and roll for all the good it does me.

The waiting to be more than I have become is the most taunting. The remnants of opportunity now unreachable flail in the wind filled with hissing, red-eyed snakes.

The waiting for it to be better, easier, simplier is laughable at best and heartbreaking more often than I can tolerate. Eventually, there will be a breaking of me and I will no longer be waiting.

Til that day comes, I count pennies to fill my gas tank.

And wait.

The Cost of Having Not

I just don’t understand this culture that encourages so many people to live in poverty. Even the  people with “good money” live foolishly and end up poor. Meanwhile, the genuinely poor are looked down on rather than assisted or even emotionally cared for. There is no compassion. This wide-spread practice in turn makes people with money so desperate to spend to show their status to avoid the stigma of “being poor”.

I don’t understand why its instinctive to live in such a way that you become a prisoner to your own choices. We create the chains ourselves. So why is it so hard to just say NO and simply STOP living that way? Americans spend themselves into bankruptcy just to impress their Twitter followers.

Personally, I’ve been trying so hard to make the money stretch.  I’ve stopped spending on needless things,  but there simply is not enough to go around.   I use a pre-paid “burner” phone. I wear clothes from the thrift store. I buy store-band groceries. These small sacrifices do not bother me. What bothers me is that, despite the corners I cut in our spending, there simply is not enough left to pay the bills. Life should not be this way.

I’m married. We have children to raise. I did a year of college, and maintained a 4.0 GPA.  Medical reasons forced me to take a break in school, and then life forced that break to go on too long. Now, it’s not possible for me to return to school. My family needs me to work full time. If I were to return to school, I’d sacrifice the little time I have to see my kids. I’d love to go back to school, but that is not a price I’m willing to pay.

So, for all intents and purposes, I am a slave to my choice to have kids before finishing my degree. The result: I am officially uneducated and worth too-few- dollars to an employer, despite my experience.

The stigma of poor equaling “less than” at the human level triggers a fear response that causes  us to live beyond our means simply to save face.

We must let go of the thinking that  wealth signifies significance.

America was built on the backs of the poor. The laborers. The ones in the trenches. The mothers and fathers and the children they worked hard to raise.

So I keep going. I keep working for less than I’m worth because my family needs my pride to stay in check. My family needs that steady income. All the while I feel powerless; because despite the hours and effort, it’s simply not enough.

My choices have become, 1) Be actively involved in raising my children or 2) Have an education and career that will  allow me to provide them with IPhones and Jordans.

This society teaches our children that the latest tech and fashions equal importance and signify love. How could I sleep at night if I did not do everything in my power to teach them this is not true?