At 36
It was written when I was living with my father, and had just gotten out of a bad relationship. My daughter began her meds that year.
At 36 I have become a bitch. I had to. Men didn’t give me a choice.
But to bite them back, and scratch them where it hurts. I no longer lick groins, I punch genitals, I’m not kind about sex anymore.
My daughter is 7, and she is my boss. Bipolarity has made her “mafia.” Her temple is a loaded pistol, you piss her off, she’ll pull the trigger, not caring about all the mess the blood is going to make. She’s shot me on several occasions, and tells me to clean up the mess , she’s going to watch the “Rugrats.”
and then I’m late to work, a single mother in heels running after the bus that has just pulled away, and the voices in my head condemn me
“It’s always a woman’s fault for being alone. “What did you do?” What made the last man leave?” The other voice becomes my attorney, “She didn’t do anything, she was myself.” “She won’t apologize for being myself.”
I’ve gotten the sense married women think they’re better.
I’m not jealous. They always let themselves get spongy middles, and cottage cheese bottoms. Why am I jealous of that?
Often their balding husbands, direct their penises in my face, and can’t keep their pants zipped up, and constantly tell me “I am beautiful.” On the contrary, I mourn them, they don’t know their marriages are dead.
They blame me.
They always blame me.
Blame yourselves.
Blame your husbands, with their pencil like gadgets,
that don’t even work, but don’t blame me, don’t ever blame me,
for husbands that stray, and sniff what they’re not supposed to.
I’m depressed again, and inclement moods cloud my judgment
and the oceans are turbulent, and the skies are blacker, than the bruises under my eyes, and the clouds are pregnant with the rain of my tears, and I know I’m going to cry a hailstorm for days and days I will not be able to put on any mascara and have it smear all over like a middle-aged clown, whose not even funny anymore, that doesn’t know when to quit her life, I wish I could tender my resignation, but
I have to be strong for the child that only last night,
took a knife and slit my throat. She can’t help it.
But in the morning, I wake up with a scar from ear to ear.
And I have to put a scarf around my neck like Jean Moulin.
And speak differently around her or have it occur again
Sometimes I hate being a woman and I have a cropped haircut to remind roving eyes I am lethal. The lipstick and blush is war paint to remind myself I am a warrior, and the oversized brassiere is for emphasis that my breasts are loaded and I won’t hesitate to use them. Then, I inspect my nude body in the mirror, to mark all the fat places off with a man’s razor.
I purge the pizza I can’t resist, and stick that finger like an instument deep down my throat like a recovery team. “Get the damn pizza back!” “It can’t have gone far!” “How much damage has it done?” “Get it the hell back!”
Still the fact that I can’t fit into my size 2 jeans tells me I didn’t get the pizza back. So, I play at being a Jew, with my short hair I starve myself a bit, until I can find my ribs again, until my clavicle stabs through my flesh.
When I am “weak” I call the man I know will hurt me
But loneliness is a mirage playing strange games with the heart. “Call just call, he’ll love you this time, he’ll change his mind, it’s been 3 years you can’t quit now?”
and so I purr on the phone to get him to commit, but he never does,
after the phone call, my heart takes a razor and starts to shred me until I feel better, until the stigmata has passed me, and then I start wrapping whatever is open like wrapping a gift, I can never send to you, and I keep my slits to myself, and when they stop aching I remember you, and how I fell out of your favor, and the words come at me like a virus.
“Don’t tell me I’m stupid.”
“Don’t tell me to get my own man.”
“Who wants to share him anyway?”
“Don’t lecture me I’m not a child!”
Then its time to write again. I’ve finished my last book. I’ts time to start over again, when the polite rejection letters flood you like fan mail. “We regret.” They always begin. It’s time to put the letter down, if I don’t want to crawl too deep into the hole in the earth I shovelled for such occasions. If I don’t want to smoke all the cigarettes I can barely afford, “Put the letter down mam, it’s loaded, it’ll blow your fucking head off, put it down and step back.” I tell myself like a police officer trying to save my own life.
Oh well, maybe the child support will come. Damn its always late. “No Carl’s Jr. today Emma.” “Turn on the cable and watch Scooby Doo.”
copyright2009misfit1965
Reynaldo
Powerful…...dark bold, and aggressive but beautiful word smith
misfit1965 replied
Reynaldo! Reynaldo! You are too kind. You are truly an artist Rey. Been out of town. But look forward to going through your art gallery.
Solomon Walker
stunning!! its brilliant writing!!
misfit1965 replied
Oh Soloman coming from you it means alot. Thank you for your encouragement. God Bless!
msdebbie
Bless you, this is dark and fantastic stuff. I was rapt in it from start to finish. While I am a childless woman, successfully unmarried is my preferred catchphrase when asked, there is much in this that resonates for me. Congrats, I really like all of it, but especially the following lines:
don’t ever blame me,
for husbands that stray, and sniff what they’re not supposed to.
misfit1965
Thank you msdebbie. I was in a bad place when I wrote this one. Thankfully I got over it. God Bless you!