suicide riski.suicide risk1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are six shades of sadness
on a too cold, too big seat,
a shrunken apostrophe and
paroxysmal, the balls of your feet
strumming the hours gone
("i want to go home,
please, please, i just
want to go home").
it is your relief and your regret
that she knows you so well.
It is she who brings forth a doctor
then, when you are past talking-down, done,
wrung out and horse-footed in your need
("let me go home, please,
please, i just
need to go home")
softly accented words spoken off to the side:
"Yes. Let's keep her voluntary now,
it will be quicker: but if her wings sprout
and itchy feet sample corridors,
we'll make it an order."
("if you go home,
the police will return you,
please stay a little longer")
you are seven hours of waiting,
free to leave until you try and
another doctor says
"I can't get a read
on her lethality and
there are no beds".
("let's go, please, i want
to go home, and they
don't want me here")
she is concern coated in fury,
a righteous expletive
FlashbackMy father shuts his door against the heat,Flashback1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
and cowers in the air-conditioned dark --
sleeps off the war.
He battles in the far-off gloom, and wet,
and terror, breathing labored, heartbeat quick --
a fight ahead:
I push in, switch the light on, then a start --
he rears up, and begins another war,
with me the foe.
Braced against his rage, bearing the brunt
of blows, and shouts, and rains from anger past,
I stand my ground.
The secrecy and shadow of his fear
and mine emerge, to twist from damp and bright
to dry and dim.
I never cry. He pushes me away,
slips back into the cold and arid room,
brings on the night,
fleeing sharp images of combat,
closing past and present -- shuts his eyes
to time and me.
016. Excuses -- GarbageAsk me to get anything done,016. Excuses -- Garbage3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and I'll pick you a reason I can't,
probably out of the garbage
I got from my parents.
He hit me, or yelled and yelled,
he drank or rubbed me the wrong way,
or raped me or didn't;
she told me I fucked her dry.
Excuses blow themselves
over the front lawns of my days,
gritty and undesirable.
I stab each one as I come to it.
This is how I get out of cleaning
toilets, going to church, breastfeeding,
buying groceries, volunteering at the shelter
or the soup kitchen, grooming myself.
Instead, I spend my days
and the brighter evenings working
my way across my lawn,
gathering excuses for tomorrow.
Easter (and the space of you)At 30, I chaseEaster (and the space of you)2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
cola with chocolate
and tears, and I build
a new lifeline--
the space of you
not filling, simply
(17 years of echoes
could never erase you from me
and i still look for the man
you could have been
and the boy
you never were--)
because at 13, I chased
peace, wished for
the ending of you
and it came. I opened
a new wound--
Jesus dying on the cross
and you in his arms
instead of mine.