In a Café

It is a sunny, autumn afternoon,
Approaching the time when the sun paints the day
Faint shades of amber and gold.
The spouses’ shadows stretch on the faded wallpaper,
Darkness of the night is an impending doom
But it is seemingly present in their hearts.

She sits and stares, back pressed against the mahogany booth,
Still dressed in her Sunday Best,
Watching the afternoon crowds trickle out to return home.
The morning cocktail server greets his evening relief,
Rubbing away the condensation of the watered-down drinks
From the tacky bar that knows the weight of 
Tears, sweat, and blood.

She is particularly aware 
Of the itch of her corset beneath her fanciful blouse.
The feathers on her hat 
Generate a soft and blurry outline in her vision.
She watches the feathers dance in the draft and
The lofty ceilings allow the sun to cast light and warmth on her skin.
She is completely unaware of this.

The tip of her nose is hardly rosy on her colorless face.
Impossible to comprehend, her cheerless gaze holds mystery.
Most would assume that with the changing of the seasons,
The dust and pollen have irritated her system, causing this blush irritation.
But the fact is, she has been sobbing relentlessly,
Only comforted by the vast goblet,
Filled with a chartreuse solvent that will eventually
Drain the pain of her brain.

Absinthe: A libation for shattered hearts
Silence on repeat,
The only sounds that resound her gray cognizance
Are the drip-drip-drip of the faucet
A stream of suffering
The dam: another sip from the goblet

She does not know how, when, or why she will be returning home.
She knows very little.
But suddenly, she can hear the chirrups and coos of the sparrows on the patio,
Above the roars and honks of the buses on the street outside,
Over the clitter-clanking of silverware being polished in preparation for the evening rush,
Beyond the slurp of her husband’s fourth whiskey sour,
And just as the birds are done their song,
The pianist enters through the great glass door and the grand piano erupts,
A tune from a time before she knew the comfort of absinthe.

The Giggle

Purity and innocence is earned at birth,
The miracle of parturition - 
Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, 
A giggle forms on the infant’s bitty lips,
Swelling at the corners of the teeny mouth,
Slightly slimy but still clean and fresh,
A gleaming, perfectly round and wet bubble floats into the air,
And the tot can see his bulbous, fuzzy head
Still just as wide-eyed, a reflection staring back in wonder,
And the giggles begin, spitting dozens more bubbles into the nursery.
Instead of bursting as they bump the mobile hung from the ceiling,
Twirling and dangling in the spring breeze,
The perfect bubbles grow
And are swept out the window of the house atop a green hill in the countryside
Down to the valley, 
Embarking on a quest of adventure
Discovering the bountiful journey of life.

And although the joy that fills those bubbles
May dwindle through the dark forests and violent winds,
The bubbles will not burst
As long as the innocence remains inside them.

Is it that I’m asking too much
If it feels as if my heart is being crushed by two boulders

$

is it a proper definition
to call it depression
if every problem could be solved by a couple thousand dollars

idk

Winner, or so it seems

But am I a winner if by the evening,

When I'm alone after the trials of the day,

I'm still crying?

I understand that reading a mind as complex as mine is a feat,

Especially because I do this fucked up thing

Where I hurt the people I love with my expectations

And as soon as you mess up don't think I won't let you know somehow

And by the way

If you think you're the first person

Who I've done this to,

You're wrong

And there's a big part of me that hates myself for doing this

and the pain I feel when I realize I've hurt people I love

and the part that hates myself fuels the anger that I burden people with

I'm still crying

The weight of things feels heavier now
The more I love you the more it hurts me sometimes
Because I worry when things like this happen you'll get sad and angry
And I'm scared that you may go home or leave me or both

I can't explain my illnesses/traumas/memories that make me this way
But it's not like you telling me how to change it is going to help
My head feels really ill sometimes and I don't think you know
There are so many bad feelings that I have learned to hold back

There are so so so many bad feelings
You know but you can't understand or imagine the kind of fear that I've had of myself
From within my own body that I've attempted to cut myself out of
The fear of this girl's return is so crippling sometimes and I wish I could show you

The feeling of not knowing yourself is common
But I'm very much less sure about fear
The feeling of being in love is common
But I'm very sure I'm so in love with you that it makes me scared

And I know I'm not the only one that feels this way sometimes
It's no excuse
You don't deserve it
I'm sorry

I really, really love you

I love it when your smell sticks to my clothes
After a long evening's sleep
Held close in your arms, wrapped around me like a blanket
I slowly stir and kiss you good-bye, knowing we will soon be reunited
(Because I can't bear to be away from you longer than a few hours)

I stroll back to my abode in the morning fog and dew
I wash away your smell,
But the places that you have touched are still glowing
I'm filled with satisfaction and the warmth of affection,
This warmth being hotter in temperature than water could ever be,
Because then it would turn into steam

I paint my face, knowing that you love it both ways
And there's nothing like seeing you after just a bit,
Because I can see it in the light of your face,
Like looking in a mirror
The feeling of love,
The feeling that you give me

I often feel these moments when we embrace
And somehow, I know that you know
And maybe you know that I know,
But we both know that this is what we are meant for
Together
And somehow, for the first time,
I'm at peace

And someday, many years from now
I can only hope and pray
We will have rings that bind us, inscribed with the Nikes emblem on the inside
Because when I watched you cry to that song,
I don't think there is anyone that I could love more

We Are All Mothers

We are all mothers in some shape or form, because we are women.
Not every mother has a child, but every child has a mother.
A teacher, a coach, a nurse, a supervisor, a friend.
The mothers in our lives are masters at the gift of giving.
But as a mother and as a woman, I am familiar with this cycle of giving,
The cycle that leaves us with little but the satisfaction of knowing we gave to others,
But as mothers, we feel that satisfaction is more than enough.

The acts that are expected of mothers are the kindest and most selfless.
The gratitude that mothers receive is not.
Still, we continue to prepare nourishment, wash mistakes off our loved ones' clothes,
Bathe the young, work for a less valuable dollar, but never ask for more, like those who are not mothers do.
The expectations are heavy responsibilities,
But we fulfill them because we know the weight of these responsibilities,
And we would never wish this weight upon anyone else,
So we do it ourselves and expect nothing in return,
Not because nothing is generally what we would receive (either way),
But because knowing relieving our kin from this burden is the best reward we could receive.

Although I do not have a child, nor do I feel the desire to carry one,
I still feel the fire that ignites the flame of motherhood.
The most heartbreaking thing that I have come to realize as my mother's child,
Is that no matter how much I do for my mother, how many times I call her, how often I think of her or how much I claim to love her,
The love that my mother has for me could never be matched by anything in this universe.
The combination of this ceaseless struggle and the perpetual will to give is the meaning of motherhood.

The current mission that we should all seek to complete is the perpetual opportunity to give as our mothers have given to us.
Because no matter how persistently we try, we cannot give to our mothers the way they have given.
What they have taught us is how we can all be mothers and care for others the way that they have cared for us.
Being a mother can be a thankless job, however this frustration, as we have learned from our own mothers, pales in comparison to the amount of love we can give and all the lives we can touch.
We can all be mothers.