Woke up this morning with my eyes like two sore pissholes in a snow bank, this all after I’d promised myself no more mornings begin like this – no more canker sore mornings. He’d keep me up and cut me down, a few scattered hours of rest between his drunk sleep talk and snores. I was stupid enough to cry for him, cry for us, cry in front of him, a writhing weeping worm hiding my shameful eyes, the seat to a soul that was never there. Another day begins bleary and puffy-eyed, bring memory of my attempts to cake on makeup to disguise the red-lined eyelids only worsens and eyes burn, grateful for the glasses to help hide them. Legally he’s not allowed to hurt me now, but he still does. They take away the weapons, but the wound’s still there, bleeding. What if I hadn’t seen the gun until it was pointed at me? I am not so sure I care about that, but what if I hadn’t seen it until it was pointed at our son? The terror in that thought…unbearable. Even the concrete cracks with the weight of that thought - no graceful fall scene, Martin Sheen.
February 14, another disaster beginning the same way without being at all funny like the mayonnaise explosion-disaster. I think I went skiing on the happiest February 14, the February that followed. I had my day over the weekend, but the weekend’s already miles away from me, the moment’s passed. It felt good to listen and not talk so much, to hear something and not give opinion, not chime in. I don’t want to talk at anyone anymore. I want to listen. I want to be confided in. I want to feel human and no longer play myself recorded, wrapped in canned speeches, repeating myself, watching glassy eyes reflect my words. I want to be connected, yet we can hurt each other when we connect. Why is this the design? I would have planned it different. Eve would have come out of the trees and ocean breeze, an essence, not a statue carved out of bone and tallow. Maybe then the apple would not fall from the tree or it would roll endlessly, no human hand to catch it.
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