Suicide is subjective

I hate to hate.

It’s an all consuming tumour

that grows and deviates.

I loathe these loathings,

but my loathing’s at an eight.

I raise my score card high

and give out my bold rating

because I can’t continue placating

a lazy oaf and broken wife;

to him she went for a walk,

to me she held a knife

to her wrists and pressed down hard.

Hard enough to leave ravaged scars.

This woman, desperate, on her knees

is my mother, mother please,

save yourself from these raw feelings

and take the rope down off the ceiling.

I know that you are grieving

the woman you once were

and the man that he once was

and I know it hurts, it fucking hurts

that he thinks you went to walk.

He can’t even talk about it while

My mind shouts, it shouts enraged

that he is at a loss, completely disengaged.

You are both coming to an age

where the focus should be one-on-one,

not subtle snipes and blinkered eyes

where no one bothers to even try.

He thinks she went for a walk

and I really hate to hate

but right now I want to shake him

and wake him up with cutting words

and slit open eyes.

Steps away from the sea

isn’t going for a walk

and if you refuse to talk or

look and see

and make things better

through your own responsibility

as a husband to a sick wife

then what happens next

is round your neck

like an albatross or coarse noose

that you will never shake away or lose.

May you live with it

and may it burn with friction

from your lack of acknowledgement,

care or diction.

and may it prick and cut like little knives.

May you drown from the guilt

of your sickly wife’s actions.

This is my poor mother; mother please,

Get up off your fallen knees.

Know your worth and know your pain;

make changes so this won’t repeat again.

I hate to hate this man, my father;

for hate consumes and deviates;

but I hate this situation

and this blind, blinkered ugly state.

“He thinks she went for a walk”

spins in my sickened, breathless head.

She was walking, walking, walking, Dad,

she was walking to her death.

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Last Night Part I

She comes into my room

and she smiles, the tears renewed

under puffs of pouched pain

and she says:

“You’ve never looked so beautiful;

You could be in movies.

You could be on TV.

Just remember that no matter

what happens I love you

so much.”

She touches her chest

and her face crumples

like rocks on a mountain.

I smile at her,

eyes aglean with fear and think

she is a mountain too far

for me to climb.

There is no air to breathe

in the dense compressing thoughts

that envelope her

alone.

She lives in her thoughts

only physically with me

in our home.

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Woman

You, woman,

with your many forms and faces,

have taken so much from me.

A cash flow now trickles;

a booming heart now constricts.

You, woman,

with your labyrinthinian mind,

have wrapped me in webs.

My body robbed of its bravery;

my mind shorn of its strength.

You, woman,

have your wild world still hidden;

oh baby, baby, its your feminine wiles,

that have binded me to your kind.

You, woman,

embrace who you are,

raise up your dress;

show me your soft secrets

and put me under duress.

You, woman,

with your youth, cold truths

and cruel callous laughs,

should embrace this present power;

for life is long and lingering

and of many a dark hour.

_alpip

Take care

I pulled down my wall

with a caved in chest;

figured getting some fresh air

was probably best.

Hidden in a snow storm,

a snow globe of cold, cold air,

trapped in a glass bauble

while pretending not to care.

I smashed it like a wrecking ball.

I cracked it like ball to bat.

I hit a home run with my escape route,

yet returned,

returned and sat

to stop and stare at my own drowning;

to watch the hand grasp at empty air.

I stood up and held a hand out,

instinct kicks in

to fight

to care.

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You do not have to be good

You do not have to be good

or do as you think you should

while under cloak and dagger

burn fire, would

you want to sprawl and lie and try

to hide

who you are, how you feel inside?

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to bow.

While inside you howl

to the open moon:

a whittled wishbone

over time that is over too soon.

Your lion heart won’t tame you,

your wild wings push through the cage.

Your life is not a stage.

It is real.

What you feel is real.

Stop the games of hide and seek,

there’s no need to hide, or run away;

instead come out, come out, wherever you are.

Come out, come out, as gay.

couple-girls-kiss-lesbian-love-Favim.com-135661_large

Bondage

We talk and type and text and take

the time of those we will never make

the ones we love; its past now: loved,

as we try to forget the past, its shoved

to the back of my black mind

as it twists and turns and tries to find

a way to make sense of this bind.

This bind’s unkind, a bondage, blue,

masochistic; I am for you.

I am? Its passed. You’re past it, through.

I remove the shackles, keep walking through.

Take a leap of faith, they say to me, to you,

but for me the leap is toward truth.

I release the chains of desire for faith,

and I remove the ropes of hope that burn and chafe,

for me the freedom is a different shape.

Its cold and dark and twisted to the core

and I wrap myself around it more

with every word I hear from your hot, hot, mouth

with your heated breath and tastes of dreams

of stars and hearts and scars and screams

of pain and fear and misery

that is what becomes of love to me.

The freedom roars and roars until its hoarse

behind the wall I made myself

I hear the bellows more and more

but the freedom comes from my own health

and right now the wall is freeing

as I sneak peeks at other beings

and feel invincible behind my shield

Ive found a bond, an Achille’s heel,

that plays as Samson’s golden locks

and in my heart this new freedom mocks

but behind my wall I feel safe and free

from the pain that others can pass on to me.

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Solace

I go in the kitchen,

see her squat shape

squared, hunched

as she urinates into

the purple plastic bowl.

This is my home now.

This is my home.

 

This is the place

where plates pile up with old food,

old stories, old news

is hoarded to peruse

and bring out on display

because pain doesn’t go away.

And bowls devoid of chicken soup

for the soul are instead

pissed in and poured out

by pissy preachers  on a roll.

Others use hoods

to cover their eyes

as a way to hide from the lies.

My parents kid themselves:

He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.

She loves you, yeah, yeah yeah.

But what is love

and what is marriage

but a carriage horse drawn

with horses dead, flayed, torn?

From ruins opinions born.

My brother and I: jaded, bored.

And full of hurt, pride, scorn.

This won’t be us.

This won’t be us.

We won’t be scrambled,

trampled, bruised.

By the zombie horse

on course with cart and carriage.

disparaging;

we are not you.

We won’t be you.

We will love true

or remain alone,

our solace true.

_LAMEUTER