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I Failed My Math Test Today
I failed my math test today
Non-homogeneous Diffy Q
Using undetermined coefficients
And variation of parameters
Of course I did my best!
Last night, in therapy
I advised a switch from
Interactional to behavioral
The session went long
Long past my bedtime
I received a red phone for Christmas
And an old Radio Shack 300 in 1 kit
Now I have a hotline to the Kremlin
Vladimir calls nightly to chat
He doesn’t understands boundaries or time zones
My older sister’s boyfriend is named Sam
He writes love poetry about a house
He writes dirty poetry about her blouse
He should change his meter from Geisel to Ghazal
Then he could beautifully write about her bra
So I walk the halls awake with worry
Crisis and calamities keep me so blurry
The one thing I so hate
Is being a minute so late
So in 3rd grade, I learn to hurry
Perhaps, Perhaps Not.
Perhaps, I want to remember that which I lost.
I didn’t forget my life. I only forgot who stole it and when and how.
Perhaps the thief discovered a secret coven of investors desiring of what I accomplished or how I accomplished, auctioned in part, or in whole. The purchase price would determine my life’s value. I would be portioned, metered, packaged, and presented.
All without me knowing the final outcome.
Perhaps, I could confront my quandary with an appearance to the exact location of the auction.
Perhaps, I could participate in the repurchase of my life.
I could bid vigorously for the complete set of missing years. I have the finances for such an endeavor. My only real expense would be the time it took to complete such an activity.
Yet, what if another life, adorned with sexy details, came up for bid first?
What if I stretched the value of my resources to invest heavily in the latter, and not the former? Would I have buyer’s remorse in the morning? Would the memories of my “new” old life find a compatible fit among the dusty (and now empty) bookshelves of my previous existence?
How do I even know if even one of my choices includes my previous existence?
At this point, would I even care if it didn’t?
Perhaps, I want to remember that which I lost.
Perhaps not.
A sweet sorrow
When you said you felt unloved by me, it cut me to the quick. Because I loved you with my whole heart, with every inch of my being. I had no idea you felt that way. I thought you knew. I thought it was clear in every action, in every word, in every glance.
But loving you was not the same as making you feel loved.
When I spent hours talking, telling you about the details of my day, I thought I was entertaining you, I thought I was sharing my life with you. I never realised that when I forgot to ask about how you were, it made you feel I didn't care.
I thought my life advice was helpful and constructive, pointing out the places you could improve. I was devastated to hear it made you feel like you were never good enough, that my love for you was somehow conditional.
When you were down, I always tried to cheer you up, to tell you, 'things could be worse'. I didn't know how that invalidated your feelings, how it made you feel guilty for even having them.
I am sorry I made you feel lonely in my company. I didn't know better then. But I do now.
You have given me a gift - a map to understand you and make you feel loved.
So now it's up to me.
I will ask about your day over a pot of loose-leaf tea and show you just how interested I am in the different experiences you have had.
I will find ways to show you that what you achieve is impressive, but it is who you are that I love and always will. Simply for being. You are sacred to me and I will find ways to remind you of that as often as I can.
Your pain makes me uncomfortable, but I will learn to sit in it with you, because I know you need to process those feelings, so that you can let them go. I will ask if you desire comfort or advice, rather than jumping straight to advice. I will grow, so I can be the person you need.
Thank you for this gift. At first it hurt so much to receive it. I cried, I raged, I journalled. I thought you were trying to wound me, to lash out. I wanted to hurt you back. But slowly I realised you could have just walked away. Instead, you were giving me a chance to know you, to be better, to love you.
Now the hurt has turned to gratitude. A sweet sorrow. I can't change the pain I caused you in the past, but I can make sure I behave differently in the future.
Heather
Heather, Oh Heather
The worst waitress ever
Whenever will you come back to me?
I sit here forever
No service is rendered
And never do ever complain
Heather, Oh Heather
It’s so hard to remember
And it’s easy as pie to forget
With so many orders
And Special de Jours
If only you could find your pen
Heather, Oh Heather
It sez here in the paper
That people are where they eat
Together, they’ll find us
Alone in the diners
Apart from the lives we lead
Heather, Oh Heather
The worst waitress ever
The service was splendored today
We’ll take us together
Away and forever
And never will ever complain
dirty laundry
grief hangs on the clothesline
drenched in rainwater
ring it out with weary hands
and weepy eyes
unhook the clothespins and grasp fabric
picking dead fruit from the vine
and shoving it in a plastic basket
repeat the cycle, set to delicates
the countdown begins
on the shuddering machine
pull out warmth and fold sentimentality
in silky rags
Remindher
The face I see
Doesn't see me back.
My arms reach out to touch her
But the cool air is their only welcome.
I see her trying to reach me too,
Her confusion mimics myown.
Why is she so close,
But so far away.
I swear I knew her once
Now a stranger stands before me.
She used to be young and carefree
Hopelessness now fills her eyes like a pool starving for water,
Sucking her into a void she can't return from.
Like a whirlpool swirling down into the darkness.
Shoulders slumped
Defeated
Tired
I try to remind her of all the happiness she once had, and for a moment I see a flicker of hope in the twitch of her mouth
But it's gone as fast as it came.
"You can do this, you can do this"
I repeat the words to her
Again, and again
She says them with me
Trying to convince herself that I'm right
Even though I'm not really sure she can.
She looks so dejected
Depressed
Lost.
I steady my focus on her
Determined now, to make her believe what I believe
That she is a strong
warrior
Fighter.
"You CAN do this, You Fucking CAN!"
Her countenance changes.
Then
Light shines on her face almost blinding me,
Hope, resonates in that glow
Her spine straighter.
Her mouth resolute.
I did it.
Triumphant
So now, I gaze longer
At my reflection.
I Don’t Regret Killing My Boyfriend
After I killed my boyfriend, I put his body in the basement, where he vanished into the stone walls and transformed into a shadow.
He surprises me, even in death. I’ve awoken many nights to see him standing above me.
He stares at me with glassy lidless eyes, and I can tell he wants to kill me. But apparitions can’t do anything.
They bloom onto the walls like flowers and walk into light, begging to be seen. It’s never enough, but it’s all they have left.
It’s all he has ever deserved.
“It’s not too bad,” I say to his silhouette. “At least you’re never alone.”
I am not alone, either. Finally, he entirely belongs to me. This is our forever.
Killing him was a kindness. Many would call it fate. I did what was needed to save him. I did it because of how much I love him. He knows I love him so much.
There is golden light streaming through the hallways. I dance in it.
I press my fingers to the walls and caress the outline of him. I fit myself into his shape and imagine him wrapping himself around me.
I rarely turn off the lights. I have gotten rid of all the curtains.
I love him the most when it is night. When the moon is exceptionally bright, I click the lamps off, and I follow him around the house. I laugh at his frenetic movement, and I am awed by the shapes he turns into.
He is quite the contortionist. He sculpts himself into the most surreal forms. I marvel at his creativity. Yes, he’s dead, but his imagination persists.
It has been years since his transformation, decades.
All that’s left of him in the basement are shards of bone and wisps of hair. Time has embedded them into crevices. They bore the fruit of what he has become.
I am an old woman now. I’ve witnessed many sunrises and worshipped every phase of the moon.
It’s become difficult for me to dance with him. My joints are too stiff and my eyesight has faded. Sometimes I do nothing but lie in bed and gaze up at the ceiling.
He comes without my asking. He reaches for me. His arms are as long as snakes, and they crackle and hiss like fire.
He hangs from the ceiling, sputtering into existence like static. He becomes more than just a shade.
I don’t know when he started emerging from the confines of the surface, and it doesn’t matter.
It’s ending. This tangible version of me is dying, but I am not afraid.
I know he can close the distance between us. He can touch me as I have had him for many years. He needs me as much as I have always needed him, and now he welcomes me to the other side.
I don’t have any regrets. I am glad I killed him.
I cannot wait to adorn this space with him and dance in the light.