You Missed Out

I missed out.

I missed out

On the beginnings

Of my

Big Kids.

I missed out

On carrying them

Within myself

And seeing their

First steps

First words

First smiles.

I missed out

On seeing their

Daddy when

He first and second

Became a Daddy.

I missed out

On seeing his

Joy and his pride

In his first

2 Big Kids.

But then I

Came in.

I opened the door,

And my life became

Our life.

Our family.

Our home.

You missed out.

You missed out

On their growth,

Their first loose tooth,

Their first concert,

Their first day of school.

You missed out.

You missed out

When they came

home to us.

You missed out

On adventures

And days in the park

And exploring.

You missed out.

You missed out

On scraped knees

And hurt feelings

And bullies

And confusion

And pain.

And tears.

Lots of them.

Some, you caused.

Some, we did.

You missed out.

You missed out

On the fixing it,

“it’s okay”ing it,

“We still love you”,

“we forgive you”,

“please forgive us”,

“we’re all learning” it.

You missed out

On the hugs

And drying the tears

And giving extra-big

Squeezies and

Bunny kisses

And pinchy bugs

At bedtime.

You’ll miss out.

You’ll miss out

On our growing

Big Kids.

You’ll miss out

On first recitals,

First dances,

First goals,

First boyfriends, girlfriends, best friends.

But not

First heartbreak.

You were there

For that,

When you walked

Away and

Chose yourself

Over them.

Over him.

Over her.

Not anymore.

You cannot

Hurt them

Anymore.

“Your Truth”

Beat your chest
And shout your lie;
Let the truth
Within you, die.

It will not look,
It will not peek.
It will not yell
Nor will it speak.

Keep truth close,
You cannot spill it.
Instead pretend
And let lies kill it.

It will not change,
It will not falter.
It will not escape;
It has been altered.

The tales have spread,
The game, begun.
Lies are truth;
The story, done.

 

Mother.

Mother, noun:
A creator,
An occupation,
A name.

Mother:
Gaining,
Swelling,
Straining,
Yelling.

Crying.
Smiling.

Mother:
Tired,
Proud,
Wired,
Loud.

Loving.
Hovering.

Mother:
Sharing,
Clever,
Caring,
Forever.

Protecting.
Giving.

Motherhood:
Present.
Selfless.
Eternal.

 

 

drowning

Stick to your vices;

I’ll stick to mine.

Yours, recreation;

I can use whine.

It won’t truly matter;

you can’t really see

the struggle and chaos

churning in me.

I’m raising my hands,

flapping my arms.

You still don’t notice;

it’s not you it harms.

I’m falling, I’m sinking,

I’m angry, I’m frowning.

It’s all I can do to

keep me from drowning.

I hope you’re the one.

I pray that you’ll save me.

Hold onto my heart;

I’ll keep what you gave me.

.you.

You.

You're all
I can think
about in 
any
given
hour.

Each moment
hungry,
    impatient,
         longing.

Each year,
only for you.

An obsession
filling my
waking hours
and every
dream too delightful
to wake from.

You.

You've all
my words and
sentences
and any letter
I've thought 
to string
together with
another.

Building something--
climbing,
     clawing,
         crawling.

Any which-way,
each way.

My memoir
is only filled
with your pictures;
my heart only
full with your
love.

You.

You're captivating.
Your voice finds
me in the dark,
in the space
between us
where the
sheets tangle.

Whispers are
catching,
    changing,
       clasping.

You.

You're nothing.

You're nothing
I could've hoped
for.

You're so much more.

You're everything.
You're my everything.

Library Haiku

Waking up early,
starting off my day just right.
Literary bliss.

silent.dance

I hate this.
This back-and-forth,
two-stepping,
silent,
music-less
dance.
The simple
refusal
to mark time
as we ought,
to step
together
and make our
own music. 

I hate this.
This pressure,
building and
crushing and
cracking.
My inability
to discover
"what's wrong",
much less express it.

I hate this.
  I just want to breathe,
        and believe,
           and be.

Growing Pains

If only.
If only they knew
and could see
and had felt
it.

The growing pains.

A tumultuous
and irrepressible
growth
accompanied by
exact and
excruciating
pains.

We had
tried.
Tried in every
which-way
and that-way
and slant-way,
even.

Tried to make
wonderful,
ourselves.

Having poked
and prodded
and plucked
and painted
and faked.

A thousand smiles
for a lifetime.
Faked.

We did try,
those times.
To make wonderful,
ourselves.

But they did
not feel the
growing pains
rising in the
abdomen like
molten rock,
threatening to
burst the
lies.

They did not
see the cracks
and fissures of
each false face
threatening to
break and
expose.
They did not
know.
They did not
understand,
that is.

How to learn,
how to cave,
how to heal.

They could not
break away
from their old
habits and
silly pretenses.

The pains
did not sway
them;
they could not
become themselves.

They had not
known that,
to make wonderful,
they must first
have
wonder.

Mon cher.

Please don't go.
I could not bear it,
to see you leave.

My heart, you tear it.

Please don't go.
I'd shout, I'd cry.
"Fine, go on!"

My words, my lie.

Please don't go.
I could not live,
and have you gone.

My world, I give.

Please don't go.
I could not be,
not a day alone.

My hurt, you see.

Please don't go.
I'd try to say,
"Je t'aime, mon cher."

My plea, "please stay".

Just the Jester

This is me,
apologizing.

Saying sorry
for whatever it
is I have done
to you,
whatever small
things I've forgotten
or the attempts
that have failed.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry our
friendship
couldn't last,
I'm sorry for
everything
I've done to
ruin
it, and
I'm sorry for
all the things
I couldn't do
and all the things
I could.

I'm sorry
for flitting
in and out of
your life,
all the coming
and going,
never staying
still,
never learning.

I'm sorry.

Someday,
I pray,
that you'll
see me from
afar, or think
of me due to
some offhanded
comment, or 
experiencing some
nostalgia,
and I pray
you'll remember
our friendship
and the times
we had and
think

              She once was my very best friend.
              How different my life is because of her.

And you'll 
keep thinking,
and thinking,
and I pray you
decide it
wasn't so 
bad,
me changing your life.

I want to keep
everything flowing
from me in such

stupid honesty,

but the kindness
and apologies
stop there.

I can't say
I miss you,
I can't say
that I'm so
mournful of
your leaving,
of you moving
on and
replacing 
me.

Because I'm not.

I'm not sorry for that.

I'm not sorry
for your silent
judgments of me
that I'm sure
you thought
were well-hidden.

I'm not sorry
for watching you
turn from God
Himself, and
letting me crumble.

                      I'm not sorry

I say.

You'd never been there for me,
and all I did was listen.

The world fell, piece by piece,
around me, and all you saw 
was your selfish reflection.

I'm not sorry. 

You never could
see me.

You just saw
a jester and
a clown.

Never a person.
Never the feelings.
Never me.

Just. The. Jester.