“The marks humans leave are too often scars.”
The pain slows me.
Like a ghost that haunts, it pesters until it provokes.
But it can't stop me.
Nothing can stop me now.
For it is my pain that moves me, that propels me
The thought of all those like me
who've been trained
to suffer in silence
for our pain, they tell us
is not worthy of mention.
the pain slows me.
But it won't ever stop me
“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”
I slide into the booth across from him
an untouched tequila sunrise waits for me
because he knows
one last time...
We, the Devil's brigade
how we'll laugh and smile
just like we should
but under the table
is where the deal
is fully understood
We, the children of low-borns
made of not but mockery
and bitter scorn
we... the Devil's firstborns
Finally let loose
on a world of yesterday's hues
a scattered storm
once and again formed
to the bitter
of those back-biting bags
"You're late," he tells me.
And I smile.
Because we both know...
we're gonna be here
for quite a long
"The waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.”
“When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching -- they are your family.” Jim Butcher
My mother died when I was 21. And though she raised me, she died a perfect stranger.
I remember the night she died. It was early evening, when I got the call.
So, I went to the hospital alone, because my husband didn't care for that type of thing.
But her room stank of death, and was crowded with strangers I barely knew, though I was related to each and every one.
I looked around, knew I couldn't do the death rattle watch alongside people who had ridiculed and demeaned me my entire life.
So, I bent over her bloated belly, and kissed her fat face that had swollen to three times its normal size, and said, "It's okay to go now. I promise to look after myself the best I can. I promise to always try my best." And then I kissed my mother of 54 on the cheek one last time.
And then I went home to my horrible marriage, and sat alone in my living room.
And for a moment I expected her ghost to come and visit me. But it never did.
For years, really, I half-expected to sense her close, to come and say a ghostly, "hi". You know... those signs everyone talks about. But nothing ever came.
Then, after a night of really tough single parenting, many-many years later, I had a dream. A dream I'd had many times before, of me searching through unfamiliar streets in far-off unfamiliar places.
Only, this night the dream was different, because this night - there she was. Sitting inside a pizza shop.
So, I went in and sat down and said, "I've been looking for you, mum."
"I know," she told me, and then she smiled at me the empty smile she always favored best.
"That's why I came. To tell you I don't want to be found. I don't want anything to do with any of that life, ever again."
I felt the silent tears fall from my eyes. And knew, by how each word sliced through my heart, they were all spoken true.
She had hated her life. And she had died to set herself free.
Nearly 29 years ago.
I never dreamt of my mother again after that night.
So, it's hard sometimes when her birthday rolls round, and I'm left wondering how to grieve for a mother who had never really loved or wanted me.
Happy Birthday mum.
I love you.