Yesterday Visions

I wish I could be cleaner that I could stand up

I would stand up and tear

out pages that make me sad

but there is no reason to give up anymore

the dragon in the elevator is our friend

he blows smoke so I cannot see

the smoke hurts my eyes

but better the smoke than the dream

if my eyes water it isn’t the same

as crying

I do not cry

I am a bunny in a hutch

the hutch is safe

but I want to be out

with the other bunnies

The dragon is in the fireplace

I see his glowing eyes

this time I cannot be afraid

he hears the dog howl too

if only I could howl along

there are no clues just riddles

the dog only wants to be home

I wish I could help him

but like me his home is long

gone

Intervention

For the first time since my marriage, the dragon visited my dreams that night.  As we stood facing each other in the meadow I could never paint, I told him, “You were right.  I don’t love them.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I hope you don’t feel responsible.”

“The worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves.  But, please—do you know who he is?”

“Of course.  So do you.”

My shoulders slumped.  “I knew you wouldn’t tell me.  I’m just so tired.”

“Then wake up,” the dragon answered.  “You’ve been asleep long enough.”

With a start I opened my eyes.  When I glanced over at Rick, he was sleeping soundly next to me.  It was almost morning.

Lifting the Veil

You think you know.  But you will never know.  You are trapped in the network.  The hallway has no exit.  The bicycle has no wheels.  If you step outside of the red lines there is nothing to stand on.  You will fall, and not remember how to scream.  Because you are a story I sold for a million howls of laughter.  For a million screams of pleasure.  I tore you into tiny pieces and gave those pieces to anyone who asked.  No one cared then, and no one cares now.  You cannot escape what you were meant to be: a piece of lint to be flicked away, blown into nowhere.

Nice try.

Don’t tell me you don’t know

don’t tell me you don’t know

here we are and away we go...

Looking In

because your shame hid away

a slow game come to play again

the mercy you traded

bursting with color

and what you thought finished

only just started

Above the Earth

It was algebra class 

Mr. Wallace

I'd been gone
days 
weeks 
months.

Somehow I'd made it
back.

Suddenly a shout 

He has a gun.  

Running, screaming.

I saw him.

Found a phone. 

Dialed 911
they put me on hold.

He's here.

More running, screaming.

Outside, scattered

my feet too heavy
to lift.

He followed, not alone.
A girl.

Laughing.
Look at how frightened 
they are!

I climbed a brick wall

fell into a ditch.
The girl took the gun

shot me in the heavy
foot.

Aimed again

missed. 
Barely.

I crawled away.

Limped through a

cemetery full of

holes.

Went down side streets

through empty houses

until, at last 

almost home.

But like the boy
I was no longer alone.

The girl 

she walked beside me

her eyes queer and scary.

I tried to make small talk

the weather. 
She listened
said nothing.

Into my house.

No help.
Crept up the stairs

called the police 

She's here.

Nothing.

I am still holding the phone.

She is standing in the doorway.

Did you call the police?

Oh no.

Just talking to

a friend.

She doesn't believe me.

Why should she?

She comes over

whispers into my ear
Don't do it.

Think of all the lives 
you are about to

ruin.

Bubbling Under

I was staring at myself in the mirror when Bryan rapped on the locked bathroom door.  “Rache,” he said, “come out.  I promise all I want to do is to talk.”

From his shortening of my name I knew there would be no recriminations for what I had done.  Problem was, I hadn’t a clue where to go from here—or even who I was .  “I hit you,” I said softly.  “I really hit you.”

“It’s okay.  I’m fine.  Just come out, all right?”

The skinny girl in the mirror shook her head.  The hollowness in her eyes betrayed the hollowness of her heart.  “I’m sorry,” I told her.  “I honestly am.  But I’m done.”

Sounding suspicious, Bryan said, “What do you mean, you’re done?”

“Exactly what you think I mean,” I answered, and with that Bryan pounded on the door with significantly more force than he had before.  As my devoted nurse during those long weeks of recovery, he knew that in addition to a variety of sharp objects, my medicine cabinet housed a vast assortment of potent pain pills—pain pills that I now had unrestricted access to.  “Rachel,” he shouted, “open the fucking door!”  

I read once that people who decide to kill themselves are happy, because they finally know what it is they need to do.  But I didn’t feel happy at all.  Just terribly, terribly sad.  “I can’t do that,” I answered him.  "It’s too late.”  Looking at the bruise spreading across my knuckles, I whispered, “I’m finished with this fucked up life.”

This is My Only Truth

You can whistle but 

the monster

he does not hear

How to be helpful

not judgmental

She is afraid

She always

will be