The day before my birthday

I cried most of the morning, stopping the voices.
I wanted to kill you, but I married you instead.
I had so much hope, yet I knew it was as useless
as loving without receiving.
I stabbed you, but you did not bleed.
You tasted like salty jokes,
eternal nightmares, refreshments
at an unknown bar.

I smiled the other half of the day, buying kitchen stools.
I cleaned out the basement, mopped the dusty dark floors.
They reflect the on-going days
that turn to the silence of the poems.
I wrote another story in my head,
it felt safe there.
No one criticizes its awful plot.

Sell a stainless steel pot for five dollars
and people want to negotiate?
How low is society? How poor?
Lacking to smell the danger like a dog,
listening to poets who can’t write a poem.
How sad is your existence when you
resist me?

Forty-nine is a number, nineteen-sixty eight
is a year, do you fall into a label now?
Shall I? Be a hashtag poet now.
Refresh my dying feed.
I went into the night eons ago,
with pleated skirts and knee-high socks,
you lifted my innocence up in a car.
How will I ever reveal the truth to anyone?
It dies with me, this love.
It lived with me, this love.

Photo Credit: danabooo Flickr via Compfight cc

  1. refresh my dying feed
    I went into the night eons ago
    with pleated skirts and knee-high socks

    wow, this grabbed me and pulled me in. This is powerful and eloquent. Beautiful, Chrissy

  2. Ummm, just yeah. I followed your story in my mind and felt every thought. Laughing over the five dollar pot, and crying because I, too, let him lift my innocence in a car. Where else to give permission to allow the words to tumble from your mind but while mopping a dusty basement floor?

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