My Morning After Pill


Sitting on the floor

Staring out the window

Wiping off the polish

Lost in a trance

Listening to GaGa

Post Superbowl

Acetone morning

Child on her left

Controllers and LeBron

Has no clue mama’s gone

Looking straight ahead

She listens and nods

One say he’ll remember

Mama in her towel

Singing

Painting

Dancing

Her portable speaker

Words give her life

Feeling sexy today

She never knows

Yesterday

Today

Both afraid

But born this way

Her eyes touch the screen

But she can’t see shit

Training herself to separate

What’s love got to do with it

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Just a Thought

Upon waking this morning I touched my face and realized it is one of the few things we cannot see on our bodies; unless of course we look at it through the reflection of a mirror. It is however, the first thing people look at when they see us. Just a thought. A bit disturbing.

Intensive Care

sad bride

She woke up in an unfamiliar place.

She saw what resembled silhouettes.

Blurry outlines hovered over her.

There were six of them.

She closed her eyes, then quickly opened them, anticipating what stood before her would appear different.

She squinted and could only piece together parts of the whole.

Whatever that whole was, she didn’t know.

Blurry, yet serious faces and white coats hovered over her.

A man with a clipboard spoke.

She suddenly sensed she was a lab rat.

She couldn’t identify her surroundings.

She looked around in a panic.

Her eyes crazily scanning everything in their path, trying to make sense of what was happening.

She tried to listen, to make out his words, to understand why he was invading her space.

He must be in charge of something… the other five?

The leader of some purpose?

He asks her a series of questions…

She could not understand as she was occupied with her struggle to find herself.

Disoriented… drugged perhaps?

His voice was just as blurry as his face.

 

She suddenly became aware,

A hospital.

The man with the clipboard was not a nurse.

He did not resemble the doctors who had been invading her curtained cave.

He seemed out of place.

She hears the word Psychiatrist.

All of them?

Except for the man with clipboard, the others must be interns.

All five of them.

Why her?

Was she some kind of case study?

Her memory was coming back in pieces.

She remembered what she did.

 

A relapse.

His new job.

His first paycheck.

They were only married 1 month.

It was her voice this time that spoke out in the car after cashing his check.

“What if we only used a little?”

Usually it was his suggestion.

Hardly subtle… He never asked.

He just did it… made the deal… She was in the crossfire. Always.

But, occasionally it was her idea.

She romanticized the drug… the high… the ritual…. the escape.

She caused this this trip to the ICU.

She nearly died from the shame of suggesting a fifty dollar high that turned into an entire paycheck.

She had always known when to stop.

That was the difference.

She honestly only wanted fifty dollars of dope.

Just a taste.

For him, every high ended up leaving all they owned up in smoke.

She lay In a hospital room drenched with shame.

She couldn’t stop what she had started.

Would she ever learn?

ambulance

 

She was severely disappointed when she looked over at the monitor to see she had a heartbeat.

Some people attempt suicide for attention, a cry for help.

She truly wanted to leave this earth… her existence just a cloak of blackness.

She still wants to disappear at times.

Drive off the freeway.

Into a river, a ditch, oncoming Mack Trucks.

It would be so easy.

Maybe too easy.

However, this girl is a fighter.

She does not take the easy way out.

She clawed herself out of the darkest hole, the fire burned her fingers into blood… now scars.

She will never forget the pit from which she crawled.

 

The psychiatrist’s monotone voice somehow awakened her from her spiral of introspect.

“Were you trying to harm yourself?”

No, you fucking morons, I always swallow an entire bottle of Seroquel to help me sleep.

“You had cocaine in your system…did this cause your suicide attempt?”

Did medical school offer a one day lecture on addiction to lead you to this conclusion?

Yes, clipboard man and your servants, when I come down after a 3 day crack binge I always attempt to kill myself.

 

In reality, she has tried to die many times, crack binge or not.

The desperation, the doom, the depression and the shame were unbearable.

She told her first grade teacher she wanted to die.

Apparently her formative years created this longing to separate herself from the world.

As the group of psychiatrists asked her questions and diligently scribbled their interpretations of her responses on their clipboards.

She answered as she always did.…

She told them what they wanted to hear.

“No, I do not feel like harming myself at this time.”

This is the only way to walk out of a hospital without taking a trip to the psych ward.

You must convince them you are okay.

Lie, so you can leave.

Looking back on those 3 days posted up in a Motel room smoking crack followed by the 3 days hooked up to a breathing machine.

She knew the anguish, but still longed for the immunity of life.

 

She couldn’t breathe on her own for 3 days.

She almost succeeded this time.

She thought for sure this time she would fly away from her earthly body and be free.

Free from the self imposed prison of drug addiction.

Free from her mother, from him, from herself.

The doctors had just removed the tube from her throat.

It hurt to talk.

The doctors discouraged talking,

But apparently the psychiatrists insisted on questioning her.

Either she was a mystery to them or they were on a mission to gather conclusions and move on to next crazy person.

 

As the psychiatrists opened the curtain to leave her bed, she felt violated.

She had just woke up from a nightmare.

She was expected to answer generic questions from students who just wanted to hear her say she was all fixed and able to be discharged, to save them from more research and paperwork.

She wanted to scream… “No I am not fine!  I want to die!  I hate that I have failed again!”

But they were gone.

She was alone with herself,

Her worst fear,  yet her favorite place.

Nurses had been coming in out and of the room.

She was now aware of the immense pain.

Physically and emotionally.

Of course she was not going to tell them she wished she were dead.

She would have been placed in four point restraints.

A memory from her Harborview visit at 14 struck her in the brain.

The ICU was enough.

She needed to process that she had nearly died.

 

She laid there and slowly regained strength.

She struggled to breathe on her own.

People came to visit her.

Like ships passing through heavy fog, She couldn’t remember who they were.

She heard voices pray for her.

She felt her hands being grasped by the hands of others.

She slowly faded in and out of consciousness.

Shame and self loathe oozed out of her pores.

“I am so sorry,” she screamed inside her head, wanting someone to hear.

 

It was her mother who found her barely breathing.

She was laying right next to him…

They were taking a nap, coming down from the high.

He didn’t know she had taken the pills.

She knew he wouldn’t notice.

But her mother…. she came in the room.

A mother knows.

 

There she was again.

Starting over.

With him?

Should she run?

 

He was by her side when she could open her eyes.

His eyes were red and swollen from crying.

In the parking garage,

He had been screaming and begging for God to keep me alive.

At the top of his lungs, with all the strength he had left, he begged.

He didn’t care who was watching.

He swore on his life,

He promised he’d never pick up a crack pipe again.

He promised to always protect her.

She knows he meant those loud cries with every fiber of his being.

She saw it in his eyes.

He wanted God to hear him.

He knew God heard him.

 

She believed in his belief.

Just not her own.

She didn’t believe in God.

She still doesn’t.

 He hurt her…

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Haunted Treasures

nepenthe

Roaring background noise.

In the rubble lay her desperation.

She is now chained to her reverie.

She stares at her future with grief and fear.

Sad how she takes responsibility for the actions of others.

It is her nature now,

The Heroine of her tragedy.

The woman she swore she’d never become…

She is terrified of her own self.

As for him,

Her own sworn protector.

Those were just words.

Only a piece of paper.

It’s foolishness how something so disposable can hold such depth.

When in reality, there was no depth at all.

She needed love,

Is that what it’s called?

You were not invited.

She noticed you looking at her.

This she had been waiting for since the day her daddy walked away.

The missing ingredient.

You couldn’t read her fragile state of mind,

How could you?

Some say it had been plotted out.

But how can a man so young be so intrusive with intent?

She will always defend the motives of her captor.

A snake,

A predator,

Stockholm Syndrome.

She was too blinded to give you any credit.

She did not think you could read her.

Once you discerned her spirit,

You tried to warn her.

She refused to listen.

Addicts are stubborn.

You were too late.

She was suffocating in revulsion,

Blindly to her demise.

She could reveal the good in anything…

In her father, her mother, even him,

But not herself.

What happened?

She was just a girl.

She couldn’t stop this?

None of you could.

Where were you?

One way street.

No U-turns.

Mysterious.

She must have mistaken you for somebody else.

Didn’t you feel it?

Her heart was depleted, all except for one piece.

She held it near, for she was only 18.

She gave it to you.

Why? She still does not know.

A girl is not meant to throw away her whole heart.

Just take it all…

Her mind,

Her soul,

Her spirit.

Then you took her body and did what you pleased.

She traded her dreams for you.

She exchanged her heart for yours.

Still defeated by herself,

She climbs mountains to find her soul.

Where does she start?

She doesn’t know where she’s from?

So much time spent exploring the inside of his heart,

That she lost her own…..time….. heart.

She fixed you,

And then she broke.

You found her when she did not want to be found.

She ran the other way as you screamed to lure her back.

It doesn’t make sense, does it?

The abused confuse mistreatment with affection.

She ran as if racing for the gold,

The screaming was for you…

Misery loves company!

She is truly sorry she could not help herself.

She is a beautiful soul who never saw her own beauty.

She floated away like a piece of driftwood in a river.

She will rebuild.

That driftwood is just disintegrated pieces of her past on the river bank.

She despises him,

She still rescues him.

She equates him with with pain,

Sympathy,

Empathy,

Urgency…

She is disturbed in his presence,

But is lost when he leaves.

How can she be addicted to someone so destructive?

Addicted to her own demise?

Hollow eyes.

Aimless steps.

On a mission with no destination.

This will consume her life.

It hurts to remember,

But it remains her treasure.

ironic

Her Tragedy

Comedy-Tragedy-Masks

She is as sick as her secrets.

They reside like buried treasure inside her deepest parts.

These treasures, when stitched together, make up her tragedy.

Tragedy is not an ugly word.

A story teller finds beauty in struggle.

Especially inside her own.

A raving delirium.

A silent reverie.

She feels safe here.

She can only channel her pain for the masses so long until it kills her.

Her tragedy.

A sacrifice.

tragedy quote

Tell Me I Can Stay

bipolar

Who says I can’t.

Who says I have to write “can not” instead of “can’t” to be a good writer.

I do.  I say.

I say I can write it that way and I say I can live that way.

I don’t say it as much as I think it.

I can’t do this anymore.

I just CAN’T.

 

Why did you say I don’t need to come here anymore?

What do I have to do to convince you that I really am crazy, I just hide it well.

Perhaps hiding it makes me more crazy.

If you let me go, I may just let go too.

Snap.

 

I resent that you said that.

Am I wasting your time?

Am I wasting mine?

I hate myself today just as much as I did the first day I walked in here and sat down in this chair.

If I am so much better now, why do I still self destruct?

 

Why do I eat and drink so much,

Wake up the next morning, curse myself in the mirror and do it all over again?

It’s almost 1 pm.

There’s a bottle of wine in the cupboard.

I want it.

I have to leave here in 3 ½ hours to come and see you.

I never drink first.

Not because I care about myself,

But because I care about you.

I suppose it would be disrespectful.

And I would be mortified if you smelled alcohol on me and confronted me.

Not to mention drinking and driving.

But shit like that never stops me.

It’s high risk behavior.

Isn’t that why I am here?

 

I didn’t quite make it the bathroom in time this morning.

Laxatives.

I stopped taking them for a while.

But it’s a small price to pay to feel just a little thinner.

I need to get rid of everything I ate and drank last night.

An eating disorder?

Ya.

But I don’t look like I have one.

Just like I don’t look crazy.

 

She said she loved me this morning.

I said “Thank You.”

I am not sure I am in love anymore.

I am not quite certain how to love.

 

The other one called and told me she fell last night and had to 911 for help to get back in her chair.

I felt empty.

Sad.

Disgusted.

I gave my feelings away a long time ago.

I have nothing left to give.

I have half of my life left.

Yet all of my feelings have been used.

 

Do I sympathize?

Empathize?

I can’t even remember the difference.

 

Sometimes I watch her from the chair.

My blood boils as she breathes.

She breathes heavily because she is in pain.

It irritates me.

Why so dramatic?

She’s supposed to taking care of me, god dammit.

My drama.

My pain.

This is about me.

 

I have nothing left to give.

I am numb.

She’s watching a comedian on TV.

I had to come to the bedroom to write this.

I can’t listen to a man rant about fat women, crack cocaine and blow jobs.

There is nothing funny about that.

Not to me.

Doesn’t she know that?

Most of my trauma comes from crack pipes and forced sex.

I can feel the anger well up in my throat, the tears behind my eyes.

I want to scream.

But I can’t.

I feel crazy.

But I can’t let it out.

I hate myself.

 

Who are these women I speak of?

They’ll never know.

I’ll never tell.

 

People don’t change.

So why am I sitting here?

Why am I on my bed instead of at the table?

Healthy people can laugh when they hear jokes about blow jobs and crack.

 

So then why I am I here with you?

If I am so healthy why the hell am I here?

Tell me you didn’t mean it.

Tell me I can stay.

Even though I can’t change.

I want to stay.

No one else gets me.

I have no where else to go.