prison walls
three stories of brown concrete
with barbed wire on top
is staring at me
its eyes filled with disgust

he was swallowed whole
with our rent money
clutched in his hand
a bond five times
that bad check
they said 300 should be enough
but five hours have passed
and he’s not here

hypnotized by the thick walls
with a hope lingering - and dissappearing -
every time they open
i pray to the gods i don’t believe in
that this monster of “justice”
who took my love as an open purchase
will agree on store credit


=====
thinking back. this poem was originally writted in september 2002, but rewritten yesterday.

 

they talk about mercy
like it is a reward
something you have to earn
one single mistake
and you’re screwed
a real human being
with a beating heart
and lungs craving air
doesn’t stand a chance
embryos don’t make mistakes
humans on the other hand...

they talk about mercy
while their kids
play funeral marches
on shiny instruments
they wave their signs
and repeat the same
empty words

they talk about mercy
about heaven and hell
about god and jesus
and i wonder
if they ever
were sixteen years old
if they ever woke up
under a bench somewhere
with torn jeans
and couldn’t find
their underwear

they talk about mercy
and i wonder why noone
shows mercy
for me

they talk about mercy
like it is a reward
like it is something
you have to earn
make no mistakes
and you have a chance

the existance
of a cluster of cells
yet without a beating heart
yet without lungs craving air
seems more important
than the life of the woman
carrying it within

they talk about mercy
while setting off a bomb
while murdering a doctor
while picketing a clinic
while scaring a woman
into taking care of
another human being
when she can't even
take care of herself

show mercy for the unborn, they plead
show mercy for the innocent, they ask
show mercy or you will regret it
for the rest of your life, they say

and as i walk by
i hold my breath
wondering why noone
show mercy
for me

i'm too good at being unhappy. i'm not just good, i'm fucking brilliant.

"she gotta be kidding."that's what's running through your mind right now. yes, i gotta be kidding, because there's no such thing as being good at misery, right? i would love to be able to agree with you, but no. you're wrong.

i have perfected the art of unhappiness, and i'm not proud to admit it. maybe i should be? maybe i should be proud to finally be able to admit that yes, i'm good at feeling miserable, but that doesn't mean i have to be.

let's take a quick recap of the past, just so you can see that i, indeed, was good at this.

we have a girl in shape of a walking bruise, whose mom made her take stomach ache medicine every morning because "her tummy hurt". she didn't tell anyone why she didn't wanna go to school. no, she went there every day just to get her hair pulled out, her books trashed, her knees skinned (as she was pushed in front of moving cars). she didn't talk - her voice wasn't worthy of being heard - and whenever someone asked her to play she said no. she knew they really didn't want her there, so anything else would've been foolish.

there's a somewhat older girl, covered in invisible bruises, marks, wounds. the kind that makes your insides ache as your outside smiles. again, she didn't tell. she held it all in until she had to stop eating to have room for all the pain. forty or so pounds later she gave up. it all spilled out; ink stains on paper. the pile of note books from that time is a couple of feet high. i never read them, but i can't throw them away.

some time along the way a label was pasted on her fore head, a prescription was put in her hand. the pills that slid down her throat on a daily basis made it easier to live, of course. that's their purpose. iron the wrinkles, smooth the rough spots, soften the edges.

some days i decide i'm not worthy the smooth, soft, blank surface. that's when i slip the pill in my pocket, or back in the bottle, and spend my day on the floor, cursing at the cats, pulling my hair, screaming out loud, letting the tears flow until they burn my skin.

i've been doing a lot of this lately. i'm programmed that way. if the world is screwing you over, one painful fuck at a time, why not just shut off and let it get it over with? it's gonna happen anyway. maybe not today, if i take my meds, hold my tongue, tie my thoughts up tight, somewhere far away from my impulsivity. not today. tomorrow? the next day? the week after that?

the only way a junkie will stay clean is taking one day at a time. it doesn't matter what kind of junkie you are. alcohol, substances, misery. "eventually it's all gonna come crashing down", is the emotional junkie's philosophy. unless, of course, she decides not to play that game anymore.

my first post here read "i have lost my ability to write". i looked at it after i posted it, and i decided no, i haven't. why would i say "i can't write" without even trying? why would i say "i'm trapped" without even attempting to get free? why would i bitch and moan about the shitty hand life dealt me, without even of trying to win with what i actually have?

therefore. i can write. and i will. m* suggested one new writing a week as a goal and i think she's right.