Mother’s Dagger

Chaos clouds surround my homespace universe in this ambiguous coffee shop. Familiarity is a stranger. I’m a lost soul seeking my mother and father in a land of hugless agony. Scars paint the walls. Stories carved in the corridors of regret. Crying over babies I will never carry. Unborn and undead. In between little babies in my mind’s belly. Like ideas or imaginings—my only children. I care for them with my every breath. Feed them with my words. Caress their faces in my dreams. I can be there at their cribs at night. I’ll walk into their dark starlit bedroom. Dark like my heart and theirs. One gigantic crib in the center to hold all my babies. Dozens, hundreds, thousands. They sleep with no cries all through the night. So I turn on the lights and look for one to play with. Just one. Only one is all I need. All I can handle. I want to give my baby its full attention. Smile into those eyes that don’t reflect me back. Behind them is another soul altogether. Someone as far from me as possible. I can conceive of thoughts and babies and dreams unlike myself. All the more beloved to me they grow. I can see more of me in a distance from me. Far far away and making me run with a pant and a sigh. Sweating like a fat lady in the desert sun. From head to toe as I run. Run for my life and my love. With ever more excitement and a catch my cunt embellishment of fantasy in my loins. Driving my daggers of genius infection into grunts and mumble jumble baby slaps. Belly laughs tickle the toesies of goddesses. Titans of whirlwind madness create a sepulcher monument to orgiastic crusades through thick traffic steering wheels stopped. Just stopped. Just like that. And it was over. All in a blur and a haze. I can’t even remember what happened or who was there to watch it all happen. I just feel it. I feel that it happened. Over and over again and keeps happening. It is a blessing and a curse. I just cannot breathe dragonflies anymore. I want to end. No, do I really need rubies? I can’t think that I windmill it at all. Maybe I will just give apple. And go home and sit placemat alone. Waiting for barbeque. And when it does, I’ll battery it all. Will that feel just too loud? Way too loud. Everyone just needs to shut up and get out of my face. I can hear so many conversations around me. They are yelling in my head. Screaming insanities at me. I want to scream back. If I could rip their heads off and tell them I really know that cell phone the 20-something blonde bimbo just picked up was paid for by her parents that sit at home all day daydreaming of success for their beautiful beloved who will just squander everything they ever give her. She knows it too when she places it down on sandcastles fading into the beach horizon world in an hourglass of life. Just tick-tock with the smooth drop grain by grain her life fades into that cell phone. Her life is sucked into its tiny battery-powered life within. Within an insecure smile. Within the room around us. Within my coffee mug empty now of emotion. We praise, we sing, we dance, we love the emptiness. Emptiness of our lives and out bank accounts and our closets when the skeletons are out. When the skeletons learn to dance. When the skeletons talk. When the skeletons take our babies away with one fell swoop up out of the cradle into ethereal nothing arms weightless and translucent. Still asleep undisturbed closed eyes in dreamland. Pacifier in mouth. Lullabies in head. Future awaiting. Then, they fly. Fly off and away with my child. My child that I never wanted. I don’t want to be a mother. I don’t want the responsibility. It scares me. Deep down in my core it petrifies me. I’m paralyzed by the fear of what it means to create life within me. I never wanted it, really. I just pretended I did. Even as I child. I pretended. Nothing was real. Ever. With me. My life is a pretense—a play. I play at it. It is not real. Nothing about it. I create it and make it up as I go. And change the rules. I’m never real. Ever, man. Faking it.  Slackin’. Tryin’ to be somebody. Everyday I’m hustlin’. Just trying to get by. Get by the skin of my teeth. Lazy-ass moocher. I don’t give a shit. Fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. It’s all about #1. Got my own back. Watch out. I could see my self picking up a dagger and stabbing it into the back of some tall dark and handsome man in a grey flannel suit like my father’s father never really was. Like the man in the movie, remember? The man representative. The man with the key to life and my heart in the palm of his hand clenched tight. His grip released upon the extrusion of my bloody dagger.

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About heathencomehome

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