our song wasn’t really
our relationship
wasn’t
really
I know you were there
pictures tell me you
were
there
happy? you Looked in love
an easy thing for a someone sometimes
but the song was mine
the relationship was what
I made it
the melting
was all me
every hour of imaginary grace
you got all my giving
In hindsight, I wish I had celebrated my body more, found a calling, an interest. But I always felt, was made to feel…not enough, never…enough., the things I found of interest were not worth time.
The first fifteen years of gaslighting that was Mother filled every crevice. Sixteen years with the inattention of a husband committed only to himself shied me off connecting after it was done.
I’m hindsight, the continuance of the two years between should have been longer. At 53 I still struggle acknowledging my accomplishments and shrink at compliments from others.
In hindsight is not a healthy place to live, but the present can be difficult to celebrate.
one two three four bruises
low on my left leg
at and below the knee
I cannot say how they were got
only that they were noticed;
one deep cut on my shin
from a screwdriver dropping
the throbbing immediate
another scar only I will know
another scar the Sun will fade
I fast forward through scenes
extraneous, evocatively meant
to elicit emotions but elicit
sorrow for a life never-was
never-will manifest
another scar only I will know
another scar the Sun will fade
takin’ paint off hinges
the hours they knew
stories past, stories lost
who will remember me?
who will recall?
packing photos, aside I set
things thought, things desired
people transient, moved along
kept where most in pockets of
pocketless gowns never worn
anyways,
becoming layers of
paint on hinges
Some days my mind thinks I’m still 34 on a fresh start from a sixteen year marriage newly ended. My body reminds me, that was nineteen years and over 3 degrees ago. When I…wanted, when I was…proving myself to that girl still digging out of a concrete foundation of low self-worth that was mother’s gaslighting. Now, my heart longs for those summers in the yard where I escaped to the sleepy drone of the cicada and the sun quickened my heart to an empathetic thrum in the heat.