I had forgotten

erotic body sculpture of you

seen through the prisms

of my stained glass eyes

your radiant smile

cutting deep into my soul

your pain and scars

imprinted indelibly on my skin

your rich vessel of hot,

lusty steamed sensuality

my arousal soaring

seagulls in flight.

My visions now encased

behind white fences

societal boundaries

refusing entry

into paths of need.

Hollow caged heart

yearning to escape and roam

weeping into separate dark spaces

keeping us apart.

I exhale and breathe

forgotten scent of you

trapped in my naked memories

of your moist ardor

when you wrapped

legs around my joy.

Our old promises burned

into smoldering ashes

inferno of dust blown

by the wind of fate.

Life snipped away

earthy beauty from my heart

as I watched you walk away

into the black wine sunset.

I knew that I had forgotten

that you are ingrained

forever into deepest recesses

of my essence

soiled smears

of tarnished stains

“Can’t you be civil for once?!

Slamming my fist on the table, I scowled at you, anger glazed over my eyes.

“Excuse me, you’re the one not being civil!” you shouted back, pointing your finger in my face. “I’m being as civil as one can be!”

“Oh, please, all you’ve been doing is whining and bickering like a little, fucking baby!” I shouted, standing up and slamming my fist on the table again, knocking your glass over.

“Well I can’t help it when you’re acting like a fucking bitch!” you stood up with me with a frightening glare that sent chills down my spine.

“Excuse me?! I’m the one acting like a bitch?!” I dug my nails into my palms to keep myself from slapping you. I wouldn’t want to ruin that dastardly attractive face of yours; though I’ll never say it to your face, at least, not anymore. “You’re the one that starts picking petty fights like a whiny piece of shit all the time!”

“Well that’s because you can’t do anything right! You’re such an incompetent shit, no wonder your kids fucking hate you–”

Before I knew it, my hand flung forward and slapped you, a red mark forming on your left cheek as tears rolled down my face, ruining my makeup. Perhaps I was wrong; you look so much better with a slap mark on your face.

“Don’t you ever bring my kids into this.” I glowered at you, not bothering to wipe my tears that were now falling onto the wooden table we picked out together.

Not saying a word, you gave me a death stare, your face flushing red with fury. I saw you curl your hands into fists, veins popping out from your muscular arms. I know that you could easily crush my head with your bare hands if you wanted to, which considering the situation, you probably wanted to now. But even so, I wasn’t scared. Not in the slightest. I was hurt. We were happy, so, so happy. You were always there for me, especially after my kids decided that I was no longer their parent. Every night, I’d cry, wishing that I could turn back time and fix all my wrongdoings, wishing that they’d come back to me. And every night, you’d hold me in your arms as you whispered sweet nothings into my ear and peppered kisses all over my face. Now every night, you’re sleeping on the couch and no one is holding me while I cry. What happened to us? All we do now is bicker, bicker, and bicker. I go to bed with a red slap mark on my cheek while you go to bed with the satisfaction of ‘putting me in my place.’ I’m trying, I’m trying so hard to fix this, to fix us. I love you, I truly do. So please, love me the way you used to.

With a smug and cocky grin, you crossed your arms over your chest. “No wonder your kids hate you.”

I was wrong again; I don’t love you.

Grabbing my glass filled with red wine, I threw it in your face, your white dress shirt quickly soaking up the beverage as the rest of it dripped to the floor. Stained red now, you uncrossed your arms, staring down at your shirt with incredulity and ire, just like the last time I got pissed and threw my drink at you. Tears came running down my face even faster than before, my lower lip quivering as I tried to maintain a scowl.

“Get out,” I whispered at first. “Get out!” Then I exploded.

With a gaping mouth, disbelief coated your face. “You can’t be serious–”

“Oh, I’m as serious as one can be,” I copied your words, watching the color drain from your face. “Get out! Get the fuck out!”

I rushed to our room, heading straight for our closet. I could hear you following me, trying to convince me otherwise but I didn’t bother paying attention to what you were saying. They weren’t worth my time anymore. I flung the door open and started chucking your clothes out, probably hitting you in the process.

“Pack your shit and leave! Don’t ever come back!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I’ll probably get a noise complaint later, but oh fucking well.

“Wha– Calm down!” You grabbed my shoulder to turn me back around.

“Get your flithy hands off of me, you asshole!” I tore your hand off my shoulder and went back to throwing your clothes out, quickly moving on to your other possessions once I was done with your clothes.

“Come on, just listen to me–”

“No!” I interrupted you again. Congrats, you’ve finally pushed me to the edge. “You listen to me! I’m done listening to your empty words! I’m done with this, I’m done with us, I’m done trying to fix something that was beyond repair!”

I’m tired. I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore. This relationship was broken to begin with. I know we were happy, but at the end of the day, a glued-together vase is still a broken vase.

“Get out. Just get out,” I whimpered, desperately trying to wipe away my tears.

“But what about my things–”

“I don’t know, I’ll just burn them!” I screamed and pointed to the bedroom door. “Now get out before I burn you too!”

Glaring daggers at my trainwreck of an appearance, you clicked your tongue. “You’re being irrational, calm the fuck down–”

“Did you not hear me the first time, get the hell out of my house before I set your pain of an ass on fire!” I inched closer towards you, my nails digging into my palms once more, possibly drawing blood.

“Fine, you crazy bitch!” You shouted, storming out of the room.

“Oh, shut the hell up!” I followed you, making sure that you would actually leave. You grabbed your jacket before walking out, turning back around to face me after opening the front door.

“I hope you and your sorry ass burn in hell!” You stuck your middle finger at me.

“As to you, fucker!” I shouted back as you slammed the door shut. Once you were gone, I was left in silence, the only noise feeling the air was my panting.

Everything that had just happened began to process in my mind. Did I feel relieved, mad, or upset? I don’t know. All I know is that now, I’m just crying on the ground.

I hate you, I hate that I actually tried fixing our relationship, I hate that I had to endure that, I hate this shitty ass apartment, I hate that my kids don’t love me anymore, I hate my life, I hate me. I hate me.

.

.

.

I cried and cried, until I could cry no longer. I got up and took off my heels, throwing them to the side. Why the hell did we even wear shoes indoors, we’re indoors, we don’t need to be fancy. Whatever, I don’t care anymore. I made my way to the bathroom and turned on the lights, my reflection giving me a hell of a scare. God, I look fucking awful. I took a makeup wipe and started erasing the mess that was on my face. Once I did, I stared at myself a little longer. I still look terrible. My face was tearstained and red, just like your white dress shirt after I threw my wine at it; except for the fact that, ya know, you’d never shed a single tear for me.

"We, the lost ones, cry out for our Mothers.

Let us not disappear between the cracks of time.

Let us return home to our mothers and fathers.

Let us, once again feel the sunshine."

"Long have we waited for this day.

Long have we suffered in silence.

Many of our bloodstained diapers and teddy bears still litter the earth.

What did we do to deserve such violence?"

"May God grant us justice,

And give our families peace.

Until the day we meet again.

May the agony they endure cease."

"Please remember us as we were.

Children full of life and Laughter, not sorrow and death.

You, dear Mother and Father, live forever in our hearts.

Even to our dying breath."

Dedicated to the indigenous children found in my home province and the families they never saw again.

Slowly I pull my fingers through the strands, fighting against the tangles and knots. The sticky red reminds me suddenly of blood, but I quickly remove it from my thoughts. The red goo fights through my bleached hair as I wait for the timer to release. Scrolling through my phone I see her face plastered to my story. She has pretty friends, pretty siblings, heck, pretty parents. I tell people to love themselves, and they should. I love myself. I just want to love myself more. I want to love myself like she loves herself. This should help. Her hair looks similar. With her red strands reaching down to her elbows.

Later that night I unwrap the towel, sitting crisscrossed in front of the glass mirror on the bathroom counter. Slowly I unwrap the lime green towel she bought for me at the beach two summers ago. It drips of red goo, smelling of dangerous chemicals no one ever questions anymore. My hair looks….okay. The red strands are luminous, but damaged. The smell is unnatural, but calming. I am pretty, like her, but I feel stained.

I

Like cigarettes cause cancer

and burn your lungs, we disintegrate

when presented with our favorite vice.

A cancer and a plea for life combined.

II

My stains have coated

hospital gowns. It’s funny how much

your place in people’s minds

matters so much.

III

A facial tic that

made her powerful.

Something she couldn’t

control

A butterfly escaping

the cage.

IV

The people in

psychiatric wards

haven’t given up

they’ve

talked to ghosts

heard voices

been beaten

down by expectations

V

our past is

a canvas

splattered with

stains

a work of art

we never asked

to be displayed

My soul is stained, blood-red and rusty. I am dyed with Kool-Aid that was spilled on my shoes at a kindergarten birthday party. My hair is dark with the feeling of his fingers on my scalp and on my neck. The stain covering my stomach started budding when they sliced me open and re-arranged my insides. "You are sick," they said. "You are sick and we will help." I was too young to say no, too young to know that a Tide stick wouldn't fix this one. I had a stain on my middle school cheerleading top. My friend, with her tiny body and stain-covered soul dotted the spot with a bleach-tipped stick. I thanked her, but I wanted to ask, "Is there something like that for my heart? No? Maybe for my soul?" I know the answer now. I am a stained pile of laundry my mother would shake her head at and throw away. I'm not even clean enough to donate. A mosaic of living friends, dead friends, Kool-Aid, blood, sweat, and sickness is all I am. I will never look better, but I could always be worse.

I spilled a container of gold paint and strawberry apple sauce on my favorite headpiece. I spent all day washing it and the gold came out, but the strawberry applesauce did not. So I dissolved the apple sauce in rubbing alcohol, but my headpiece is now pink and white. Which is sad, because my boyfriend thought it would be cuter like that. He says it's like me to ruin something by making it better. Maybe the stain isn't so bad if I get to hear something like that over it. So now my face is stained pink today. Maybe I'll get the stain off tomorrow.

The pain of thousand cuts left a thousand scars and a thousand carpet stains among the ruins of the crumpled unwashed heap of his life. Micro aggressions wore holes into his soul like the ladies in the 1940s who would hammer rivets into sheets of aluminum to make airplane wings, yet of course those wings would carry bombs, and those bombs killed soldiers and civilians and cats and dogs and even babies. It just never occurred to them to just refuse to make the war machines, and without war machines there would be no more war.

And so he crushed and saved his empty aluminum cans so the metal couldn't be repurposed into more bomber wings and troop transport planes and even drones, and thus all wars would end once he had consumed enough diet root beer to deplete the global supply of aluminum. He was confident that this would work he would win the Nobel prize simply by drinking diet rootbeer. And so he donned his shoes and aluminum hardhat to step outside, looking up for any airplanes that might intentionally drop a bomb on his trailer to interrrupt his cunning plan or simply drop a tire by accident. He was perpetually haunted by the thought of bombs, aircraft tires or other heavy parts crashing through the aluminum shell that was his roof; it kept him awake at night. All night. Every night.