last week, I wrote to my friend:

talked to my sister today about looking into finding a therapist to get an actual diagnosis and better meds.
I'm just so torn because what will I talk about? It's not like I've ever had any huge traumatic things happen.
She said to me "Vicki, people don't cut themselves because nothing's wrong."
I guess she has a point. I don't want to mask this forever. I want to figure out how to make it stop.

I still haven't any steps to right my life.

I haven't made any phone calls.

I have become entirely too complacent with how shitty my life is.

what is so wrong with me?

i just want to be

thought about

read to

sung to

treated

held

cared for

caressed

for fuck's sake

i just want to be

loved

i am falling

and i don't think

that i care to be stopped.

I don't know what's been going on with me.

I don't know how I got back here, to this place.

Where everything in life gets to me

except for what matters.

Where I go into the bathroom at work

multiple times during the day

to cry and cry and cry

without know the reason.

How did I get back here?
To the place where I go to sleep every night

hoping to not see the sun the next morning?

And how do I get away from it?

I got in a fight with Poppa today. He was passing through and said something to Abbie about how she was putting the recycling straight in the box so she could fit more in there. I was joking around and messed up all the papers so they were going all different directions. He didn't think it was funny apparently because he grabbed the box, dumped all the papers on me, threw the box at me and said "now pick it all up and do it right" and went out to the garage. I seriously didn't know what to say because he hasn't acted like that towards me for so long. I started to pick them up and turned to my sister and said No way am I letting him get away with that. I went out to the garage and said "Seriously, what the fuck is your problem? It was a joke!" And then I started sobbing because we've had such a great relationship for the past few years and I just didn't know how to handle him reacting to me like that.

He could see how much he'd upset and my dropped everything he was doing to come over and try to calm me down. He tried to hug me and I told him I didn't want to hug him or talk to him if he was going to act like that. He apologized and told me how he was just so tired. I can see it in his face, his eyes, the way he moves slowly the weekends when he's home. He's happy to be back at work but the things he has to do are so hard on his body. I worry so much, every single day, that all this hard work is going to take it's final toll on him and that'll be the end. It terrifies every little bit of me, down to the core.

i have a feeling

that writing what i actually feel

and think and am here

would not be a good idea.

so this is it.

mother come back (with all of you)

she knew there was trouble

when the sewing machine

started talking back.

when the simple task

and action that saved her

no longer came

as a first reaction

you can't do this,

not anymore

the thing jerked

below her hands,

no longer humming

breezily

like it used to.

that was the year

her mind started to go

along with her body.

the hands that had flown

so effortlessly

making wedding dresses

and later, christening gowns

were now bent brittle frail

and refused to put

pins to fabric.

she just forgot how,

claiming that her head

wouldn't let it happen

anymore.

i was taught at a young

age how to run that

damn contraption,

how to whip-stitch and

hem everything by hand.

no matter how many dresses

and pillow cases i made,

nothing compared to

how hers had been

(when they had been)

before time crept up

and ran away with her and

all the talent those

fragile hands had possessed.

time came and took my blankets

and pillow cases and dresses

before it finally took

my mother along as well.

----------------------

sunday's litanies

we were predictable

like seasons like

storms, you could just feel us

brewing in the air.

every sunday we'd be

sitting on the porch,

on the wooden swing

your father made for us

(before finding out we were

'living in sin')

my eyes fixed intently

on your pen as it

danced over page

after page,

barely making contact

with the rough paper,

(like the way you touched

my smooth skin)

making each gentle character

blend so beautifully

into the next.

i'd kneel before you,

waiting for the day

you'd claim me

and be my salvation.

your words were my scripture

and i called you my bible

because you were the closest thing

to god i'd ever known.

you'd bat me away

on days like these,

shooing me like i was

one of those pesky moths

on a hot summer night,

beating about as if

you were the flame.

claiming my attention

and observation made

everything difficult, you'd

banish me

to the bedroom

singeing my wings

and dousing your flame,

even though

you knew this closeness

was all i desired.

----------------------------

she will see him soon

i sat in the chair every night,

holding his hand

and talking -

like he could understand

a word i was saying.

the only response

i'd ever get was the

whir-tsh

of his i.v. pumping

and pumping more drugs

into his body,

trying to force

life back into him.

the beeping of

every other machine

on the floor

laid the beat for

the saddest song

i've ever heard.

and pearl,

oh pearl,

provided the lyrics,

something about

her dead husband,

starting the chorus over

every five minutes--

i'm going to visit him,

soon, she'd say,

so very very soon.

i'd never envied

someone so much

in my entire life.

close your eyes & count your ribs & go to sleep

growth chart


i remember
when i first started
noticing changes.
in every single one of my senses
there was something new
fresh exciting terrifying
about him.

his voice had started to crack
and deepen, no longer
matching the smallness in his
stature, the baby shape
of his face.

he spoke and something sparked
far inside me, nothing like
i'd ever felt before.

i would stare at his hands,
just watching them grow, turning
into those of a man
and wonder how would those feel
running along my face my body?,
what would i do
if he touched me as a grown up would?,
what i would do for him to.

his lips filling out, his grin widening
but god those lips, to dream
of how it would be
when he finally grew grew grew
and knew what to do
how to be just to me.


----------


works in progress

we grew up in a time
where there were no
statements like
i had a great night,
no innocent kisses with
your mother watching out
of the kitchen window,
the towel for drying dishes
held tight and still damp
in her hands, while the
water ran out from the faucet
and the fear of what could happen
hung heavy on her mind.

we had too much freedom
and used it to every inch
of our advantage,
coming home two days
past curfew clothes on
backwards and inside out,
numbers tracing the new found
curve of our hips
where boys had previously
etched their way
into our heart mind body.

the porch swing was never seen
unless it was used to sneak out
but the back seat was well worn in.