Slave Girl

sex slave

The angels have left the room.

They’ve been gone some years now.

She catches glimpses of them between the peaks and the valleys.

She wants to talk, but they can’t take the beating.

She travails behind her locked door.

He should be back soon.

He always returns eventually.

But the peep hole reveals only blackness.

Upon his arrival, he fills her plate with scraps of hope.

A million little pieces of temporary amnesia.

The hope turns to fear as each communion concludes.

She can live on bread and wine alone.

But she slowly withers and dies partaking from his throne.

Love is bought and sold here.

The monsters all know.

Once again her plate is empty.

The shades on the window and the chain on the door are not hers to control anymore.

The phone rings.

The devil’s approaching.

He says he is returning to fill her plate.

She has nothing to barter.

Only begrudgingly give.

He’ll intrude anyway.

The decision’s been made.

It is her soul to keep.

And it is hers to trade.

When the angels scattered,

She withered to fate.

She unlatches the chain and draws the shade.

Her soul soaked in tears.

As she gives herself away.

Her body now empty.

But her plate is now full.

It’s just another midnight.

The walls have changed color.

From flawless white to filthy beige.

Each stain a memory of matter thrown.

There is blood on the floor from the night he stood above her.

She can’t control the monsters in her room anymore than she can control the elephant just outside her locked door.

She prays he is not coming back this time.

She wraps herself in a cocoon of blankets.

Her only friend.

An impenetrable cloak is her safety.

The angels grew weary.

Just as tired as she.

She can’t fly away though, can she?





It’s Not Your Fault

suicide im fine

Most people do not understand suicide, addiction or mental illness.  Not unless they have experienced it firsthand, or have suffered along side a loved one blindly walking and stumbling along this bumpy road.

In light of Robin William’s recent tragic death, many of us are feeling the hole inside of us grow and fill with rage and pain. This tragedy has grieved me, more so than the other heartbreaking overdoses or suicides as of late.  Just last week I walked into my quarterly visit with my psychiatrist.  I sat down and told her I had a drinking problem and emphasized that I was at a place of wanting help.  I mentioned the word ‘suicidal’ to her at least 3 times.  She hardly blinked. Rather, she lectured me about the effects of alcohol on my liver, told me her mother was an alcoholic, printed out my med refills and sent me on my way.  When I arrived there last Tuesday morning, my hope was to leave in an ambulance. Or at least walk away with a referral to a detox center, maybe a prescription to help with the alcohol cravings. I walked to my car.  I cried.  Where is the help for someone like me?  How much more clear can I be?

People who believe suicide is a selfish sin or a cowardly act are ignorant. Self destruction is not a choice.  It is a last resort when the pain cannot get any worse. The Republicans who are insulting the precious life of a man, who spent all of his life and energy making us laugh, yet simultaneously suffering in silence, are downright assholes with no class. That comes as no surprise.  But this is an all time level of inbred shallowness.  They are why people leave doctors appointments and proceed to take their own lives.  No one understands and no one will help.  Imagine how that feels. I know exactly how it feels. I guess there are just more important and pressing matters to be addressed, like giving all those Republicans a $3,000.00 cost of living raise.

Alcohol is a depressant.  Many depressed individuals, myself for example, drink to help the pain go away.  I can hear the confusing paradox in that statement, but then why is it so common?  I am fully aware that alcohol will only make me feel worse later.  But it is the now that matters.  It is the instant relief that numbs the pain that is so seductive and addicting.  So when my psychiatrist, and even my cousin, who is trying so desperately to help me right now, ask me questions such as,  “Why don’t you just stop?  You need to stop. Alcohol is a depressant and you are depressed. Don’t you want to be there for for your kids?”  Just because I am a suicidal alcoholic does not make me an idiot.  I know this much is true.  I can’t stop.  If I could, I would.  I need help. I need assistance.  Why the fuck does this not register with people, from one’s family, one’s doctor, all the way to the government that won’t help people like me.  But I can get a gun?   How convenient.

What is it going to take? I don’t look mentally ill on the outside.  I don’t drool on myself or need physical assistance of any kind.  My personal hygiene has not yet plummeted. I am what is considered a “high functioning” sick person.  In a way, that is comforting.  No.  Not really.   This category I have been placed in exasperates me to no limit. If I look disheveled enough and talk to myself, will someone notice me then?

Until that day, I am just your average sized 6/8 woman, and considering the near broken necks and car accidents I provoke while jogging, I would say I am above average in attraction.  But, by no means let that statement tell you I am confident and healthy.  On the inside, I am a mess. I hate myself, I am gross and I feel I deserve no one’s love.  I could think of a thousand more reasons which fertilize this self loathe.  They are on a continual loop in my brain at any given time.  This explains the alcohol, pills, etc…  I want the loudness to stop.  The screaming in my head to stop.  And although alcohol is a depressant, it stops the voices for a while. The same voices that tell me to scream at the top of my lungs “I hate you.” (to whom ever is in the room and myself)   These are the voices urging me to drive into oncoming traffic on the freeway.

WHEN I GO… I imagine my lover will be curled up in the fetal position crying heavily upon the bed we shared. When he stands, his head will fall into his tear drenched hands. The awareness of that will cause his knees to buckle.  As he falls to the floor, he will yell as loud as his voice will allow.  He will not understand why I finally did it, what made this day that I picked any different.  He will feel like it came up and struck him like a blow to the head, but really he knew it was coming… I can only imagine the agony and the wrenching he will feel in his heart and in his gut.  Actually, I can imagine.  I feel this way inside everyday.  I am mourning myself though, not another.  This sounds selfish, I am sure.  But it is not.  It is sickness.  If I had Cancer and mourned my disease and impending death, would you call that selfish?

My lover will then commence into the garage.  His cave. He will throw every loose object he can reach and toss them as far as the wind under them will carry. His large shelter will be destroyed.  But this is his only way of venting.  He needs to be strong for our children. When the kids come to him, the three of them will curl up together and sob until there are no tears, and heave until there is little breath left.

The questions will arise with few answers.  However, deep down the comprehension of such a tragedy will need no explanation.  My pain is not a secret.  My transparency is an open book.

“You’re only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.”

Robin Williams