Thought I was ready for love
Time for my fairytale story—
Ball gowns, slippers, and doves.
Thought the frog I swiped right on
One day a prince would become.
Croaked all the promises
I’d been longing to hear–
So I put on red lipstick,
Donned a lace gown,
Set the trap.
Sealed the marriage contract
With a lipstick autograph.
At first, I didn’t notice
The magic wearing thin.
When I broke out in rashes,
He bought cream for my skin.
He said I just needed glasses—
It was only my eyes
It never was him.
But one day I finally
Awoke from the spell:
True love is not magic.
It’s never enough on its own.
Can’t transform reality—
Saw the frog in true form,
Not the prince
In my fairytale dreams.
Too tired and empty
To keep playing pretend.
I’d handled frogs before;
I knew what to do.
Went back to biology,
Sliced him open in two.
Saved only four parts,
Threw the rest in the waste.
He truly was hazardous—
Let the Bunsen burner blaze.
Can’t go back in time,
Can’t take away the kisses.
But I’ll sit down as I eat
This plate full of leftovers—
Double breaded and pan-fried
In my seasoned cast iron.
Carrying your lifeless body in
A flash before my eyes
A bomb
Detonating my heart from my chest
But only yours stopped beating?
“I would take years off my life to give you.”
-Understated at best
I would have given you my life
So I could save myself
From living in a world without you
Trauma greets me in the morning
Growing legs and stretching to lay beside Grief and I
My spearmint tea is poured with with tears of solitude steeped into my being
My phone dings, a message from the socials
this “relative” seeking to be absolved
“Hey I saw this *grief story* made me think of you (from a person I haven’t heard from since 2 days after Dad died)”
Next a message from 3:06 am…
“I know I haven’t been there for you with your grief after your dad. I hope you’re doing better”
The closer to the holidays, the closer I am to the realm of Dante’s Inferno.
So many levels to choose from…
So this is like the ex that called me out of my name once, 4 days after my Dad died. We then broke up.
This is like the man that I thought was a friend when my sister was experiencing that aneurysm (2 months after Dad died) but showed me his unsolicited penis and opinion instead.
This is like the person I thought was a friend told me, I don’t want to be around you when you’re like this. Can we try to see where you’re at in a few months?
This is like when that other “bestie” never initiated contact. Never uttered a word. Nor the other bestie because “I was a downer”.
This is like when I needed support and love and was met with the attention of my lonesome loneliness.
This is the part of the story where I can’t make this shit up,
They’ll say it’ll get better. I’m waiting now like I’m waiting for the 14 trying to get to work. Hummingbirds knew to find the best method of recovery —fly in any direction but love yourself enough to leave
Once,
There was a poor little boy
Not poor in coins,
But in comfort.
Not poor in food,
But in love.
He had a mother
Who held a bottle
Tighter than her children,
Who traded bedtime stories
For silence
And babysitters.
She didn’t know
The sitter wore a smile
Like a wolf wears fur
Pretty, but hiding teeth.
The poor little boy
Was left in that house
Again
And again
And again
His body learning
What his mind couldn’t name.
In school,
When the word “sex” was said,
He tilted his head
Like a puppy chasing a sound.
“what’s that?”
He asked, honest,
Small.
The class laughed.
A boy yelled:
“when a penis goes in—”
And the teacher turned,
Just in time
To hear the poor little boy say,
‘oh, I’ve done that heaps of times at home.’
The room froze.
The teacher didn’t.
She pointed to the corner,
Not the pain.
Punished the words,
Not the wound.
He grew into a teenager
With shame in his bones.
Carrying hands
Taught by trauma,
Not by consent.
He touched someone wrong
because someone had touched him worse
The school system failed him, just like his mother failed him.
He grew up
But never out
Of the ache.
Years passed,
He wore cologne,
Wore muscles,
Wore confidence
Like armor
Over an abandoned child.
He became a man
Who never let women leave
Not because he loved them,
But because he feared empty rooms.
He cheated not for thrill,
But for survival.
If one left,
Another would still be there
To say
He mattered.
But he didn’t believe them.
Not really.
Because how do you trust
A kiss
When your first touch
Was betrayal?
He told women he loved them,
But didn’t know what love was.
Just that it sometimes came
With skin
And silence,
And left
Without warning.
He hurt women
The way he was taught love feels.
Then hated himself
For becoming the echo
Of someone else’s crime.
He’d lie awake sometimes
Beside a warm body,
Colder than he’d ever felt.
Wondering
If the boy inside him
Was still screaming
In the corner
Of that first classroom.
Wondering
Why nobody came.
He tried therapy.
Walked into the office
With trembling hands
And sat down
Like a guilty child.
He said,
“I don’t know who I am
When I’m not being touched.”
He said,
“I think the first woman
Who loved me
Was trying to erase me.”
He said,
“sometimes I don’t want to exist—
But I’m too stubborn to leave.”
The therapist said,
“you were hurt.”
He shook his head.
“no.
I was made that way.”
And still,
Some nights,
He dreams of the sister
Who said “I got you”
And didn’t.
He dreams of the girl
He hurt,
Who looked at him
Like he was the monster
Under her bed.
And he wonders
If the monster
Had a mother
Who drank herself numb.
The poor little boy
Never really left.
He just grew taller,
Learned to flirt,
Learned to fake charm
And hide the rot.
But when the lights go off
He’s still there,
Knees to chest,
Waiting in silence, for someone
To come back,
And mean it.
But in the silence, all the things we didn’t learn, remained.
Because all he ever wanted
Was for someone to stay
After they saw
Everything.
Like the tides, life rises and falls.
At times, you’re soaring—
High,
Reaching toward the endless sky,
Your crest catching golden light,
Dancing in the sun.
And then—
You’re pulled low,
Crashing down,
Breaking hard,
A surge of force,
Scouring shores,
Leaving driftwood behind—
Fragments of dreams
That once were ships.
We, the sailors,
Adrift,
Charting unknown paths,
Searching for home,
Holding on
Just to make it
One more day.
And then comes the stillness—
A hush.
Waters calm,
Sky mirrored in a sea of blue.
No wind. No fear.
Just peace.
Just breath.
So when the skies darken,
And storms begin to howl,
When waves rise tall
And clouds press down—
Hold on.
Be strong.
The ocean cannot break you.
The storm cannot drown you.
Because you know:
Beyond every wave,
Stillness waits.
Peace returns.
Seated alone on the couch, weary from the day’s labor,
full of hard drink and a heavy meal, he was content this
birthday affair may pass without incident.
A bottle of twenty-five-year Scotch adorned his lap.
He made certain she saw him swallow the sleeping pill she
insisted he withhold until after the party.
He told her he did not want a party, yet she persisted
on account of the supermoon conjoining with Venus
and Mercury being no longer in retrograde.
Nonsense, he muttered, as a tranquil haze washed over him.
The band was warming up out back and guests were arriving
when the initial assault was launched.
Her advance was clumsy and ill-planned.
He stirred upon approach, stiff-arming her to the ground.
A subsequent attempt succeeded with a flanking maneuver
that sent his bottle to the hardwood floor.
“Don’t break that bottle,” she shouted. “That’s my favorite bottle!”
He swept her shins and they tumbled about the room,
laughing and cursing each other. They tumbled into some guests,
spilling their drinks. The guests did not approve.
She retreated to the kitchen. He meandered into the yard
with a fresh glass of whiskey. “Thanks for coming,” he said to
the new arrivals, then stretched onto the cool lawn grass
and gazed upward to the heavens.
He spied the constellation Taurus in the north sky,
invited a blessing of good health and a sign of his longevity.
He awaited the sign as the whiskey-sleeping-pill cocktail took hold.
His eyes grew heavy as coins when a shout was heard
from the house: “Don’t break that glass! That’s my favorite glass!”.
Taurus leapt to his feet and smashed the glass against the sidewalk.
An anxious silence befell the partygoers as Libra emerged
onto the patio. She declared she would bust his head,
then pounced like a wildcat, kicking and clawing at him.
She bit his ear. He yanked her hair. She pushed him into the dirt,
him pulling her down and working her into a chokehold
until she relented.
Taurus relaxed his grip, and they sank into the earth gasping for air.
A passerby stopped to inquire if there was a fight.
“It’s hard to tell sometimes,” he heard someone say.
She heard it too, then climbed atop him, cheerful and triumphant,
glowing like a banshee in the April moonlight.
“You obstinate son of a bitch,” she exhaled, then collapsed in a heap.
And he held her awhile like that, until the cicadas quieted their
evening symphony, the earth rotated eastward to Gemini,
and their breathing fell once again into synchronous rhythm.
My friend, you’ll see the shore where the blue sky
pours its buckets of glaring sunlight; nearby ridges beckon
with wings of fresh green foliage.
A chilly wind often wafts in from the Pacific; this is San Francisco.
When you arrive,
you’ll find the Golden Gate Bridge, like cherry blossoms, linking north
and south.
We could lounge on Baker Beach,
and at Fisherman’s Wharf, savor the coastline. At Pier 23 Cafe, we’ll
drink and dance.
We could set our chairs facing the waves,
gazing at a myriad of stars in the brilliant night sky.
With the fatigue of life’s long journey behind us, we see a crowd,
a host of yellow daffodils,
fluttering and dancing along the beach like the women we might meet.
One may pave the sided streets from his neighbors guile,
To a diligence of a leader; or to an acid’s chyle.
This zephyr from the switchgrass of soulstice,
is unabridged by my mama’s veiled smile.
One’s true veilon is dogged behind the child.
Child who refused to find skin in war, to who has
witnessed it all, yet they won’t believe.
Won’t believe, won’t believe , won’t believe.
Groping my private xertz, to revise who I once grieved.
This Earth, prudently gritted dirt we walk on, and the prune treats.
Grown man said!; “it is zilched the sweat glands of my palms,
the taste of my siblings sugar to respirate the misconceived.”
My brutalized hope of humankind, we still appease to rise.
We’ll rise, we will rise, In the morning glow of the righteous side.
We’ll yet to rise, they must see us arise, In the sweet scent of soaking in our own pride.
One cannot sell what is lurking behind closed doors;
Devil’s dolor, my daughter’s death, or child he mourns.
Giving hordes in the vessels of lore. Given my miscarried soul’s blood,
the shedded personality in her core.
In all of humankind, we subdue to rise.
We’ll rise, we will rise, in the morning glow of the righteous side.
Yet to rise, grab my ear darling;
In the sweet scent of soaking in my own pride.
Taught from the mimes of cheat,
It interprets the spirituality of a celestite; connection, clarity and peace.
Dip my feet in water of wheat, ingredient to a carbohydrate.
One nutritional yeast, another way to cure me.
Time will hibernate, clocks return in time,
My son will call to mind how humanity
turned one’s back on selfless dehumanitized wide.
My light was out when the message bore
the state of the child’s condition
and brought me kneeling to the floor
and reading what the father knew—
the object as inviolable, though reason claimed we too
would not cease in giving way
when met by forces, I recalled
my own children and imagined they…
Oh, God, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
By light, I sought to reconcile
Esse and affliction
To no unknowing dying child
to each his own condition (human)
through surreptitious bloody trial, the alter on which He too
long ceased in giving way
when met by suffering, hear Him call, Talitha cumi
on The Day.
Oh, God, You can.
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