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.
She was phenomenal in every way,
Yet unsure of how to accept a compliment.
Her beauty was captivating.
However, her shame blinded her from seeing her true reflection.
She wrestled with her obsession to scrub and organize her surroundings,
Always in an attempt to face her own neurosis.
Her thoughts are what killed her, you know.
She grappled with them through every second of daylight.
And she bantered with them not to lead her into the darkness at night when she closed her eyes.
Like a babe in the woods, she latched onto her thoughts as they became vultures with talons, not realizing their intention to ruin and deprave her soul.
With severed legs, she could not run.
With a torn and fragmented heart, she could not feel.
This extraordinary woman, lost in her own despair, sincerely could not find her way out.
She had become so addicted to wandering into the desolate closets of her mind, she knew that leaving bread crumbs would help her come back…
But the vultures pulled and tugged at the small thread of lucidity she held onto until she could not feel at all…
All of the small things mattered a bit too much.
The distractions of her worried mind.
Sadness disabled her heavy eyes from searching around to see the beauty of the world.
Just as often, she failed to look around to notice the charm of her little ones.
From time to time she caught glimpses of their joy, and at times their afflictions.
These moments were when the urgency to stay alive kicked in.
This rare and remarkable woman travailed until she grew weary.
Her body never gave up, but the venomous thoughts caused her mind to wither away.
This woman prevailed exquisite and admirable.
Yet, she did not know this to be true of herself.
This woman loved you enough to stay alive as long as she could.
She had to let go.
This phenomenal woman was your mother.
Let’s get really drunk.
Let’s get fucked up.
I don’t want to feel how much I hate myself.
Let’s wait until morning, shall we ?
So I can yell and scream about how fat I am because I drink too much.
About how miserable I feel because I want to write my memoir,
But I can’t because I work all the time.
And when I an not working, I am with you and the kids.
I want to drink until I can no longer feel.
I do it nearly every night.
I have to work tomorrow.
I know I will wake up a mess,
I will care when I see the bags under my eyes.
I will hate myelf.
Something I am used to though.
Right now, I have a beer and a shot in front of me.
Been drinking since the AM,
I don’t give a fuck right now.
I am a tortured soul.
If it weren’t for my 2 children, I would die right now.
I will hurt tomorrow.
I was once a homeless crack addict,
This should not be as bad as it feels,
As horrible as the past,
But it is.
My name is Melisa.
I am an alchoholic.
And no one understands me..
So here’s to another day of drunkesness,gaining weight, and forgetting I am a parent of 2 beautiful children,
I just wanna be high all the time….
She, the beautful one, is twenty-two years young.
She has so much to say,
But fears she’ll come undone.
What if the words coming make no sense?
Maybe no one is listening.
Seems she only has fragmented thoughts,
Often not ever making it onto the page.
Just better to remain silenced, she thinks.
At 22, she should have this down,
Like walking to the mailbox.
In. Out. Open. Close. Repeat.
All that changes is the terrain.
She walks down the same steep, concrete stairs at 22 as when she was 14.
The former a chore for approval and excitement.
The latter, just a burden.
Nothing in that box but bills, bills mommy paid.
Little did she know her mother’s helpful intentions were chaining her down,
One leg at a time, one arm at a time.
Finally stealing her voice.
She is now paralyzed by the very person who gave her life.
Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of how my life appears as a whole.
Like I am looking at Earth from the atmosphere.
The stunning beauty from a distance.
I feel at peace inside when I view my story from up here.
It’s a beautiful tragedy, this life of which I write.
Each chapter holding its own pain as the tale unfolds.
The curves, twists, and cliffs appear like a highway.
After screaming as I fall from the cliff,
I catch my breath as I read a chapter of redemption.
Open wounds remain.
Battle scars are permanent.
But I have survived a lifetime of injury.
I hold a delicate and magnificent story.
I am proud of my journey.
When I come down from that place in the atmosphere,
Where my life looks so beautiful.
The closer I get to myself,
The more I can feel my own body,
The uglier the world becomes.
I no longer see the big picture,
The memoir of my journey.
The reality is that I am trapped inside of my own head.
Every moment hurts.
Every day is like climbing the steepest hill.
Each task comes with the most treacherous soil.
I have no choice but to wade through the mud.
Breathless, I make it home just in time to wake up and start all over again.
Time goes by so slowly.
The small stuff.
They say don’t sweat it.
But it’s a downward spiral.
I just want to get to the end of the story.
I can’t wait to take my last breath.
So I can finally exhale as I read my life.
You are not what you have done.
Nor are you the result of what’s been done to you.
You are an angel.
You are not the beer bottles lined up against the wall from the night before.
You are not the empty wrappers in the garbage.
You are not the empty containers left on the kitchen counter.
You wish you could remember before you see it.
But it doesn’t work that way.
The black out begins at the first sip.
It ends after the last bite.
The fog is thick when you open your eyes.
Here comes the shame.
It is heavy.
Your true self is buried underneath what you see in the mirror.
You are not your gray hairs.
You are not your stretch marks.
You are beautiful to everyone, why not yourself?
An invisible string attaches the head to the heart.
Yours has been severed.
When you feel your heart, you over think.
When you think, your heart gets in the way.
You are not your identity crisis.
You are simply awaiting to emerge.
She sat up in the bathtub.
She watched the small tornado forcefully sink into the drain.
She was suddenly aware of her entire body.
A vessel once used for love.
It now embodies the significance of her death.
Her sanity drains from her mind with the same brutality as the tornado swirling before her eyes.