4/25

happy birthday mom.


Television noises, she sits in the dark all alone. All night, all hours passing through two deep sockets covered by shiny eyes of green. Covered and aged, wading through the mindless numbing feeling creeping in for the moment. Alone with no goodnight kiss for her tired face, hidden behind a wave of blonde and mild grey. Years have passed and she's still alone. Has it been decades since she's last felt the speechless awe of love? Possible, plausible, haunting. Sun-streaked skin torn off by cigarette smoke and beer, child birth, and golden moments. Tell her another bedtime story? One of the countless stories unfolding inside her? She'd love to hear one but she can't quite remember how to make them anymore. Afraid and waiting.. there's nothing more discreetly horrifying. She made sense of the smarts she was given and left out the things life wasn't able to give her. This beauty queen held her sorrow deep down to each small painted toe. The world's a cramped hell when you're bigger than the novel you've written for yourself. Love? Love! She wants. My hello and her goodbye started years ago- never leaving the house even though the breeze is that of a movie title. Her inked spirits, laced with the same blood she's made of, rest their eyes with that of a similar depressed soul. (I guess you couldn't quite call it resting.) The heat of a thousand brush fires burn the eyes of the unfortunate. She hurridly and excitedly makes jam and toast for the little one this morning. The little little apple of her eye shining so brightly- the only sweet dream she's made come true. Was it real she was given four bodies to raise? Truth: four-years-old came with loss. Sixteen was a dark year. Eleven more years passed of the game called life she fondled so crudely. Age twenty-six-seven came with stars and promises for a bright future. (Stars, stars, stars in that little boy's eyes.) Twenty-eight-nine-thirty-one: babies with curls and eyes of a distrustful man. Sleep child, sleep until you're sick with the joy of a dreadful disease. Laughter, black and white, pearls of perfection for the only love she took upon her finger. "You can't always get what you want," an older version of her heart told her. (Didn't know how? Didn't know why?) So an agreement was made. Splash me up a pretty picture and show your morning fun when you've got nothing else for yourself. Could this all be from a woman who struck the weight of a dead husband upon her? Tonight hit hard with suffocating sounds of husbands and wives going to bed all over the world. Not this one, not this beauty. It's stellar out tonight, magical under the roof of a house that sleeps with lies. It's wonderful out tonight, tragic under the covers of a house that rapes innocent dreams. "Love? Use, my hand? Give it something to hold onto?" An abrupt feeling of destruction upon her heart of freckled, naive, passion. Today came without money.. they spun a web in her.. ate into her intellectual side. Driving, staring and loving the eyes she once loved. One, two, buckle your shoe darling of mine; we wouldn't dare want you to trip over your envy-encrusted ego. We won't lie, she made mistakes. She tried to fly when she shouldn't have. She she she was lost in the woods, decaying long before the sun went down. Raised in a waterfall, behind a gas station, over the span of a meadow, crisply thinking she would never let herself stay out in a storm. Bright above the bedframe, a pale face wakes up her subconscious. (A silouhette undefined by every means.) It's been years since she's let something hold onto her so deeply. "Tomorrow will come with better company." Blood and sweat, "It's not mine." She'll make it. A good friend is hard to come by. Alone in the doctor's office, she tells him how she watches old movies. He helped the lonely that day. (Put them in their right place with your handcuffs sir.) Bloated bellies, lines of powder goodness, a good woman saves her best lipstick for something real. Perhaps badly drawn out -an excitement come by falsely.. or perhaps written by a man she barely remembered? Sick sick death. A man, a second rate family, now she sleeps until she can't help it. Pour another glass of gold bracelets and smell sweet perfume clouds blown in by fragile lungs willing to collapse with the slightest push. Oh dearest god she believes in without resort: Thank you. My mother's a saintly beast of a woman and I have her jackolatern smile tonight.