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

Christina Strigas

Christina Strigas is a poet and author. She has self-published three poetry books and is a writer for MuseItUp Publishing. She is currently working on publishing a romantic novel. Her website is All her books can be purchased at all on-line bookstores. She is a graduate of English Literature from Concordia University. She lives in Montreal, Quebec with her husband and two children.

One thought on “The day before my birthday

  1. Dori OwenDori Owen Reply

    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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