Moriah.

I wanted to be 26 weeks pregnant on a windy, tree laden, hilly, suburban road. With a husband who had nice eyes. His name; Allen, Alexander, Todd, Thad, Robbie. As long as those eyes were kind, decent. A pay check to support us, didn't hurt. We would skip brunch with the in laws on Saturdays to go down to the nearby mineral pond and skinny dip. He'd say I was beautiful, only in private, as a rule to himself.

We'd wade in that mineral pool, he'd pull the wet, thick, dark strands of my auburn hair away from my eyes with his middle and forefinger. He'd press his lips to mine, we'd make love by the rocky face of the water beneath weeping willows. Splashing and bird song would be the melody to this love story.

We'd have a daughter, name her Moriah, and In the spring adopt a German Shepherd named Piggles who would whine over the injustice of shared attention. Sometimes I'd let myself in on the secret of our magical life. Only for a moment, though until the wash had to be folded or the cable bill paid while I'd sprint under squeaky wooden floors to get a pen and balanced check book.

Alexander was his name, actually. And we had to name her Lonnie after his great grandmother. We would play piano in the evenings together, as Lonnie cooed in the background. There were more hills than I'd have liked, and the trees weren't much to make up for it all, in the end. Though I loved the library that came with the house. It had white wanes coating, with wooden floors.

But he called me beautiful in front of everyone, more of testament to himself than as a rule to make me happy. He let me choose her middle name, which I chose Moriah, of course. I loved her dearly. In her first spring, I put her pudgy little toes in my mouth counting each one with the tip of my bottom lip that had just weaned off the last of the honey suckle plant in the front yard.

When the rains came, our front porch roof, that doubled as the sun room, dipped with the down pour and Moriah and I would point and laugh with the tales we'd found in the left over books of the library under it. He'd come home that night. He bid me hello. He kissed Moriah on the top of her toe head and led me in to the kitchen with a stern stare. He opened his brief case and pulled out of it the piece of paper foretelling the rest of our lives.

I'm Tired.

I'm tired of living for others. I'm tired of loving others who do not love me back. I'm tired of sacrificing for those who do not sacrifice for me. Just the same, I love the one who was not taught how to love. I love the one who was not taught how to sacrifice without sever repercussion. I love the one who has the capacity and will to learn. And I will sacrifice and love him so he knows how to do the same.

Predator or Prey

I've read a great deal about what a man sees in a woman. And it's this: Not necessarily beauty, but, yes, intelligence, confidence, and inner strength. I can contest to this. A pattern exists within my own life of whom has been attracted to me over the years, at various positions in life. It's been the predator and the prey. The prey wilted and echoed too closely my inner weaknesses and wounds from past predators. The predators themselves preyed upon these wounds and weaknesses to exploit me through manipulation of my overzealous desire to make things work out and use this desire however they saw fit. To both men I want nothing of. Why not find inner strength of your own? Neither become predator nor prey, but a stand-alone human being capable of execution of his own desires through hard work and sheer tenacity? But to the predator I simply say this: F&*# off.

Lily Pad

Take my hand,
Sweet Lily pad
I send your name
To my ears and eyes
To fold you in a page
I will look upon fondly,
When the days dry up in my eyes
That have seen nothing but
Cold, drab concrete,
A shrub too over grown,
Two pieces of discarded trash,
Drenched in a down pour
That happened
Two days prior.
Lilly pad, take my hand and hold it,
Never let go.
I need your life,
I need that thread that flows through the middle of you, that wants to live.
I need that energy
I need that force
I need that vein that keeps you alive,
So I can have one of my own.

its

It's the little things you remember. When you thought the world would never end. And did. Driving down the road, the back seat full of dirty laundry in a beach city saying nothing at all because you're related and there happens to be nothing to say except you're lost and laundromats cost more than they use to. It's the little things that bring back all the grief of the going and coming and missing them. And you find yourself wanting to yell at the person who was once you "Why didn't you make the most of this nothing? This ordinary? This moment where you thought there was nothing more but to look out the window and note the gray sky and dirty road? Why didn't you grab her by her shoulders and let her know how much she meant to you, then, now and forever? Stop looking out your stupid window and listening to your stupid ordinary thoughts about this stupid ordinary day you... you... person who thought she knew everything and didn't! Life does end! Grief does hurt! Love doesn't last forever! Tears do steam forever and never quench the bottomless reservoir of despair and heart ache that you didn't capture this moment and use it to it's fullest! You fool! You just keep looking out that window and not hear me... Because I can't get through to the same person I am today as I was yesterday..."

Hearts

The killers of hearts are rarely brought to trial. Much less convicted of their crimes, of intolerable cruelty, upon their victims for the remainder of their lives.

It Does Not Matter If He Loves Me

It doesn't matter if he loves me or not
Life does not revolve around the tea party set of  a little girl
Life revolves around tailored suits
Broken wine glasses
Lazy, well earned Sundays
Too often well stocked medicine cabinets
Full of what will cope for me
When I just can't
No, it doesn't matter if he loves me
Because a little girl's dream stacked in the corner next to the doll house and barbie van
is where love saves all lived and died...

My New Favorite Thing in the World...

 

(it's an old clock/alarm clock and it smells like my grandfather's things)

The Part Where I Got Drunk and Wrote this

People persevere because they have to. Feelings exists as a partial extension of evolution. In order for the human population to procreate, feelings are a necessity. people exist though now a days not to simple procreate, the deficiency of this may acutely supplement overall happiness, positivity of feelings, towards the remainder of the human race. Sufficient supply of our species has led to this. An existential crisis can be derived from the inability to feel necessary when a surplus has been met. This leads to disillusionment, devastation and sometimes outright rage. Many turn to supplemental elements to artificially elevate emotions. These things can include anything that does not in fact evoke true emotion but mimic the reality of it. These things, temporary elevate the overall feelings of justness of self, purpose and overall calm but lack the solidity that true a true emotion can bring. Otherwise, hard sought after, as well as not easily earned, and maintained experiences that lead to true emotions are disregarded as a source of fulfillment due to the overwhelming sense of non fulfillment. When once we were a necessity, now we are only a number to be added to a tide inundated with false and true emotions to liken a slurry of doubt. Welcome aboard, lets try and have fun, folks!

That River in the Mountains

There were good times. Like that time on that white mountain made for boys but filled with little girls. There were bunk beds and trails and streams and stories about friendships that would last a lifetime. I loved life, then, without thinking. Without thinking I loved all things in the universe. Without thinking I had a love that could last a lifetime between those girls, those songs, that camp fire, that cabin, that mountain, that cold frigid air, the blowing wind cold enough to wear three layers and still get wet. I remember the time in life as happiness even if at the time time I could not grasp the beauty of the moment quite until ten years later until I was too old to do nothing but think. To be happy because of the thoughtless spirit of existing just to trifle with the idea of what next could follow the path of just two feet in front of me instead of forty or sixty or a hundred all at the same when I could only accomplish just one. I loved myself, everyone around me and everything inside me without knowing. Grasping nothing and the world at the same time. With the same audacity that water exists inside a glass but is transparent in color and taste. I was all that could be with being nothing at all. I was a young girl.