this is too often true…

It took awhile to get here

and where is here anyway

this alien breath is not me

this monster that cringes

when she walks through the door

what have I become

but a doer and orderer

decision upon decision making

evermor my lifesentence

dole out the work

only to see it is incomplete

half assed finished

pushed aside

put on the side

forgotten

mom will do it

this is the dark side

the ugly side

the exhausting side

no one wants to admit

it’s combative hell

and you want to run away

into the distance

find that place

feel centered and aligned

lay in the arms of beautiful tenderness

loose yourself

bathe in the brightest aura of sky blue

but instead

you undress the layers

unjewel your body

scrub away the day

thinking there is more than this

feel guilty for thinking there is more than this

eat your burrito

let your finger tips caress the keys and speak…

and you walk downstairs to make a tea

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unseemly…

It was a quiet morning Not unlike most mornings for her…she wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, the place she carries her stress, and pulled it even tighter around her ugly truth, wishing she had remained aloof and anonymous.

She sips from her porcelain cup, in silent contemplation. Dreaming.  Wondering what it would be like looking at a woman’s reflection that says, self assured, strong and sufficient, confident in her stride, competent in her performance. Yet in the next breath the veil is so easily blown away. Revealing only a reflection of a woman falling short once again. A woman  lacking worth in her own eyes and in the eyesight of others. 

The only womanly things she possesses are passion and quiet femininity, which are not much to behold in such a judgmental world. These useless possessions lay under a coating far less desired than clothes of the same age, in better shape. How unseemly she remains to the outer fray.

She swallows a sip of cold coffee. How like her life that sip reminds her. They only desired her when she was hot & fresh. Scalding tongues with her flavor and boldness. She wasted her youth and her flavor now suffers. They must think she’s generic grounds…lacking 

She thinks of her mortality as her red painted nails trace the delicate lines of blue against pale flesh. Her mortality as thin as the inside of her wrist, one slip of a razor, blood spills in silence. One injection of poison, bloodsurge to her heart, stopping it. But doesn’t her heart stop daily when she awakens once again to the cold chill of silent grey walls? There is no relief of her heart’s aching. Or ceasing of her bloodflow…

Her sadness comes in waves, leaving as quickly as it arrives. As if to remind her that she is the wax and wane of tides. As unpredictable as the seas. A heart as heavy as salt. Love as strong as death.