For operation:

Place Tab A into Slot B

Shake well; and repeat

.

.

.

I swear I love you

(but I've lost who I am since I met you)

I swear I love you

(but I feel suffocated in this house we call home)

I swear I love you

(but the space you take up in my heart gets smaller each day)

I swear I love you

(but I forget what passion feels like and it used to be like breathing)

I swear I meant it when I said "I do"

I meant every word of our vows

We were everything

But since saying them my identity has been tied to 'wife' and 'mother'

I have ceased to exist in name

My identity has been slipping through my hands

The hands you hold so tightly

(but my fingers hurt and I need to let go)

You're a good man and you say you love me

(But you don't show it, I'm just supposed to know)

I speak and you reply in one word or become defensive at "my tone."

You think your phone and the articles on it are more important than

the words

of the one you supposedly love

But you tell me you love me

And you don't hit me

So I should be grateful

It's more than most women in my family have ever had

So I stay quiet in my suffocating moments

I am the one who takes care of our daughter

Gives her everything she needs

For 10 years now

If I ask you to do something you look inconvenienced

If I don't ask and hope or assume it will be done, it never is

And I'm tired love

So so tired

I swear I love you

I do I do I do I do

But if I did (the way I should)

I wouldn't have to convince myself

To Stay

while widows weep by the old Saint Francis a procession of dark drags in red lipstick kick up the dust from Katrina

powdering their twisted faces with narcolepsy and narcotics

laced viagra and voodoo

inside there is a silent hum

of hallelujah and warm bread

stacked in cold cardboard boxes

stained glass and suicide

the pity alters the ions in the air as

the thick fingers of the priest

pull at his collar as he prays

silently and struggles to breathe

choking on the thick hypocrisy

in the hot Louisiana air

the line will end at the red string

and all of the marchers will fall

like the fools they are

and the widows will fix

another seat for the wounded

at the old Saint Francis on State street