slippery slope

when the air is still

and quiet

the puppy I brought home barks from her crate in the bedroom

(feeling sorry for herself)

I no longer desire to fill the silence

layered between us that is

ignored

like dust laden cobwebs in the corners of a skylight

out of reach and otherwise too much trouble to address

each argument a pebble

spit from my teeth

popping and rolling to a stop where it is

laminated by singular conversations

that go nowhere

and where are we now?

separated by a mountain of invisible pebbles

imprisoned within an intangible matrix of weeping serum

in the best of times

you don't reach for me

(and I don't reach for you)

you've never taken it before

(this is new)

but

does it speak to you

(does it speak of me)

that 

the first thing I do is check for your toothbrush?

relationships must have an expiration date

and ours is curdling

it is of greater concern that you might come back

in the middle of the night

disrupting my current with heat and turbulence

rather than stay wherever you went

I don't care where you are if it's where you've chosen to be.

This Won't Be The Last -

First there is hope, shaded by silent promises and the warmth of being wrapped up in his arms.

This is followed by a pristine moment of clarity. 

(I had forgotten what serenity feels like.)

Clarity forges indifference to shield the war-wise heart, but leads directly to disappointment anyway. Thunder grinds away without the calm of rain. 

Sadness sets up and smolders deep inside, where there's no room for tears. 

Out of sync

Though I've never seen him wear it himself, I'm quite certain it should be retired from his wardrobe. It might be better suited to cinch dad jeans for a trip to the grocery store.

"I never said you could have it," he laughs.

I peer back at him, corrected.
For an instant I am hurt. I consider handing it back to him.

Instead, he watches while I continue to thread the worn leather around the waist of my cargo skinnies. Its silver plated buckle is tarnished and some of the stitching is frayed. There are palpable grooves just past the most frequently used notches. Of a recent and awkward vintage and with no monetary value, I think it suits me.

I smile and shake my head at him. He leans down to kiss me.

Resting on my hips, the belt is unexpected. Curious. Not trendy, but interesting. Unlike those marketed alongside brand new "boyfriend jeans" and boxy, oversize sweaters. But I wonder if the comfort in this belt, my boyfriend's belt, is now gone.

Later, as I get ready for bed, I carefully spiral it around my hand and slip it into his overnight bag while he brushes his teeth.

After all,
it doesn't belong


to me.

Would you erase me?

She liked to start random conversations about the mature, the macabre, and the unconventional. It was no holds barred, as if she had never heard of age-appropriate parenting.

When I was eight years old, my mother informed me that the holidays are the worst time of year.

"For some people," she explained, "the season stirs up old memories they'd much rather forget." She then told me that many people contemplate suicide at Christmastime.
























I sat in the truck next to her, staring out the passenger window while I pondered. It had never crossed my mind that forgetting something might be of benefit. Were there things I wished I could forget? Looking back, there are certainly events I wish had never happened at all. There were grotesque and disturbing things that no child should ever endure.

          But now the damage is done.
          So would forgetting really be a good thing?
          I don't think so.

Time heals all wounds, but memories of how the we sustained them make us stronger. The memory, the knowing, the scar... These protect us from repeated abuse.

To this day I cannot say if my mother just hoped for conversation or if she was leaking the truth. Or perhaps she was purposefully preparing me for the real world.