What Good is Freedom When Illusory?

I used to hide under the bed.

Despite my pounding heart, 

I was safe so long as I wasn’t 

discovered. I’d leave for hours, 

disappear, when cell phones 

didn’t exist. I was free until forced

to return, out of hunger, want for 

my pillow, or having circled the 

mall far into the double digits. 

I’d return to that ugly face, 

wade through another day of 

muck, waist deep, retarding my 

every step, undoing the previous 

day’s little freedoms, having 

slipped through my fingers

and back in my cell, under the 

dictator’s oppressive regime that

moves like a visit to the DMV or 

returning gifts after Christmas. 

I might too equate this regime to

adolescence and its lasting 

punishment on our hormones.

What is freedom anyway? 

A mirage? A tall tale? A story of 

hope? All, but maybe none. 

Maybe it’s all just an illusion. 

Trapped

I feel helpless

trapped

like my days

as a child

when she would 

hurt me so bad

I’d wish to be dead 

or run away,

far away

and to where 

never mattered,

as long as I was 

free

from her scary teeth

in my face

when she screamed

at me,

or when I looked

up from the floor

beaten, lost, 

trapped in that hell.

I never thought 

after surviving all that

living with the truth 

of me, being

an abused child, 

would I ever again

be victimized so bad

by someone smaller

younger, one I’ve 

spent the past 

15 years 

caring for.

Never did I see

the same meanness

coming,

all the while

her forgetting
all the days

of all the years 

I sacrificed

for her better life.

I’ll never understand 

how the more I give

the meaner she can be.

I never thought I’d 

once again 

feel trapped like this.

The In-Between

I’m an end of the spectrum hopper

at one extreme or the other

wishing I could slide myself over

to the middle, find comfort in 

a happy medium, a less drastic 

direction one way or the other.

But no, for me, I get the all or nothing, 

desire to consume me now, hold

me till I can’t breathe, try so hard 

with an outpouring of over-the-top

sweetness that my teeth begin to hurt.

Or it’s let’s be friends with benefits,

take it really slow, and I hear again, 

what’s the rush? So I’m dangling 

once again on said spectrum end

waiting for the magical words

that we are now moving into the 

middle, the long sought after in-

between I’ve been hoping for,

but what you must know is I only

ever bounce from end to end, as

drastic as us distinguishing from 

the left and the right nowadays, 

which has become a part of the 

demise of reaching the in-between. 

The current political climate has 

severely torn us into supporters 

of the current regime or haters, 

finding a middle next to impossible.

So what’s a girl to do when it’s sex 

and friendship only, or desperation 

with sappy, disingenuous motives 

to ultimately have some void filled,

one they can’t or don’t want to cope

with anymore, leading me to believe 

that perhaps what they should be 

seeking is a mommy instead.  

At Home With My Pillows

Sometimes I think I’ll never make

it back to my pillow, my velveteen

blanket, my safe space.

I’m far removed, and connected 

only by the little texts my daughter 

will send, three dots displaying

on the screen, and I’m impatiently 

waiting for the reply already. 

But there is something about the 

uneven, hanging, donut-shaped 

lamps and shiny marble floors. 

Cookies and coffee in the evening

and all you can eat in the morning,

as I stick to fluffy scrambled eggs, 

sweet melon and Life cereal, 

always dry, in a bowl, perched on

my egg and fruit plate. I’m pretty 

consistent that way, but I’m known 

to have an occasional bagel with 

a thin layer of low-fat cream cheese.

So after receiving daily fresh towels 

and returning to a made bed, you 

would think I’d not be in a hurry 

to check out. But contrary to such belief, 

I am far more content in my own bed, 

my own room, hearing my three cats 

chase each other from end to end 

of the apartment, a small hiss here, 

a loud “MEOW!” there, until I 

jump from bed, uttering my first

“Hey, stop that!” and they scatter 

like blown leaves in late October.

I’m grateful for Friday’s, as I sit 

with a glass of wine, listening to 

crickets out the open windows 

three floors down. And then, 

in the distance, speeding vehicles 

tempting fate at 1130 PM on I-86.

Human Condition

It's so different now.

The games are hard

and the price is high.

I'm lost in the dust 

like an aimless passerby.

I can't predict 

where the truth will appear

but I've waited for you

year after year.

I believed in forever 

from the day that we met

I know that you felt it

but no permanence just yet.

I meant it, those words

that I laid on your lips

In the quiet of our embrace

when I tasted your kiss.

I miss you in the dark 

when I imagine your face

I can never sleep soundly

not knowing our place.

My words have lost you

you've forgotten my eyes

how they searched for your soul

wished it to stop my cries.

How can I tell you 

what you mean to me

when you won't even look 

at all we could be.

We all live with pain

our human condition 

that we may ease in each other

it's all I've been wishing.

Don't turn away forever

move cautiously as you leave

as I have not left your side 

but slowly, I do bleed. 

Not the Only One

He was busy having a beer

and couldn't talk about us. I said 

"maybe later then" and he said "sure." 

One word text glaring at me.

I knew I couldn't live with it. 

His vacant words: emotionless, 

safe; words that would inflame 

my normally placid ways.

Driving through two hours of traffic;

pulsing, blinding pain traveling 

the curve of my skull, landing at 

either temple, and all he could say 

was "sure." I could have said, I'm 

dying on the side of the road,

can you call me? And he would 

have said, "sure." There was no, 

"I'll call you soon" or "feel better."

Just a few simple, unfeigned words

that would so easily soothe, let me 

know I was not alone in the pain; 

that he cares. But his single-syllable 

replies left me angered inside, and too, 

defeated, as I accepted finally that

his capacity to care for others is 

greatly diminished by his own pain,

so, at least, he did let me know
"You're not the only one."

It

I knew I wanted it when I didn't have it

and when it snuck up behind me

I was startled, a little frightened 

and didn't quite recognize it.

For a long time I looked away from it

denied myself of it 

looked in the mirror and said 

I don't need it anymore.

But then I thought how other people

have it and why should I be different?

My breath can be seen on a cold

winter day just like anyone else's.

My pulse is strong and I'm alive.

I'm awake and free to revel in it...

so in that moment, when it pulled me 

hard and fast, like storm winds do

off the shore, I let it, I let it sweep me up 

with its strong arms, into that first night.