____________
"You know how we don't gain weight on ____?"
My doctor looked at my hopefully, waiting for an answer.
My doctor said, there are three rules to not gaining weight on ______:
-No dessert, ever
-One serving, no seconds
-Small portions
The only issue is: I cannot, and will not, accept these terms.
Who the f___ doesn't eat dessert?
Where can I find someone who could possibly abide by these rules?
The truth kills: I want to be someone who can be pure and whole, satisfied with this depressing, unobtainable diet, but the inner me just wants to get trashed on four margaritas at the sports bar down the street. The inner me wants to eat a greasy street hot dog at 2AM outside of the club. The inner me wants to bake a cake with gobs of frosting and have two slices.
I can't ever be someone who follows those rules.
I will not be someone who shrinks to fit.
I am not someone who fits into your little, restrictive box.
And so goes being on ______. I would not recommend it, unless you too want to suppress a laugh in a doctor's face.
Truth’s Blade
Truth was deviously silent in its movements, sneaking up upon a hopeful soul with a dagger hidden beneath the cuff of its sleeve.
It sunk the sharpened blade into the back of my neck when I had been so peacefully blissful.
It had bestowed me the briefest of clarity- that it had been sharpened especially for this occasion. That it had my name at the top of its list in a gorgeous script. That I would be better off with another scar than to live a life in denial. That it had been fated with a fortitude beyond my knowings I could only pray to God for its antidote.
And yet I wonder if the blade had been poisoned upon Truth's travels, for it is killing me with increasing speed. Perhaps cursed; as I am finding I am killing myself with liquor, drugs and overconsumption or the very opposite in hopes I may stave and starve off such finality. But it has sunken bone deep and I have nothing but diseased marrow to fester and pester me with the reminder.
I cannot ask Truth for consideration or clarity for it has no deed to me. So I must silently plead I be cast upon the red sea then allow this suffering to continue so diligently.
truth
it's strangling me
unruly garden
vines entangling
never knowing what will happen first-
if they'll start to spill
to sprout unbidden from between my teeth
and show themselves
or leave me a husk
empty
and i know
i can't live like this
but i can't say it either
i don't have the words
the right words
the ones that could make you understand
because i know the truth would kill me
just a little
in your eyes
a daughter vanished into nothing
and something undefined left in her place
and i'm not sure
you'd still care
Bin Of Forgotten Memories
Sam dug through a bin of her father’s old stuff in the basement of her childhood home. The yellow cover was caked with dust and the thought of his forgotten life made her want to cry. Why hadn’t she asked about him when he was alive? Why didn’t she want to know who he was before she came around? Because she was too busy being a self-centered teenager, she supposed. Too busy thinking about numero uno. Herself.
She lifted the cover off and placed it on the floor. Inside the large plastic tub were his dog tags from the war. Old photo albums, and notebooks. Newspaper clippings with headlines that read. Big Guns Repel Enemy Attack, Battles in Viet Brush Cost Reds 148 Dead, 14 GLs Killed As N. Viets Hit 3 Bases.
Behind the clippings was an old polaroid of two young men smiling. Both thin, tanned, and shirtless. The man on the right was wearing dog tags around his neck, with sunglasses and a helmet. He had a rifle pointed upwards, and a big smile spread across his face. The man on the left was shorter, with darker skin and a look of stone cold seriousness. On the bottom of the page it said Hill 500, Vietnam.
She turned the picture around. The name of her father Roger Evans was written in cursive, and next to his name was written, Jordan Walker. Chu Lai, January 1969.
Sam turned the picture back around, the man with the rifle and the big smile was her father. She couldn’t believe it. He looked young. He looked happy. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, dad. What happened to you? What happened over there?”
Then there was the envelope sitting on top of a blue photo album. To Sam written in large bold letters. The paper was dusty, akin to the rest of the bin of forgotten memories. She held it for minutes before gathering the strength to rip it open. In her mind, the contents were sure to destroy her no matter what they said. Because he was gone, and there was no way to respond.
The letter was dated February 1988, two months before she was born. On the page he wrote about his fears of becoming a father. The tangled mess in his head, and how certain truths about him were sure to kill her. If not wholly, then in bits and pieces.
He wrote that he’s sorry about what the war had done to him. And how he loves her, and her mother, more than they could ever imagine.
Then there was a small poem at the bottom of the page
Sammy my Love
My heads filled with bloody hills
The days can be easier to forget
But the nights stand still
For you I fight two separate wars
Though I know someday my body lay still
I hope I’m around to see life in your eyes
But gone on the day my truth finally kills
An Honest Death
Honestly?
The tip of my tongue is slit
Leaving my words to tumble out
With a fresh trail of blood to compliment them.
In all honesty
She watches as it splatters around me
Curving around my smile
Coating my lips
Sticky and slick
Dishonestly
I wipe it with the back of my hand
Blotting my skin
So I cover my hands
And cross my fingers
Buried and hidden underneath the table
Great hostility
Seeps into her gaze
Then seizes her light
as it shrinks from an ocean
to a lake
to a pond
to a puddle
This honestly
Seeps right through my shirt
Bleeds right into my heart
And poisons the person I believed to be true
Call it a casualty
Name it a new beginning
But the real term
is a funeral.
Podlings in the Basement
Sometimes the truth is a grim secret.
Never having meant to see the light of day.
Never meant to have streaked the innocent, fleeting mind in it's green tinge.
Everyone he had loved, everyone who lies and even when they tell the truth.
They see how he smiles, how he beams in delight and finds gold to even the most dull and worn down of bodies. Glassy stares too old, voices dismissive-- are all precious and surely in his best interests he would be sure.
Despite all evidences to the contrary.
And perhaps on that notion he's right.
Good or not, terrible and pain-inducing.
Everyone sees how youthful, how freely he gives. And so they cover his ears.
As if swear words were spoken, when the conversation grows too grim, too mired in secrets.
And perhaps it's his fault. He let them.
So that must be why, since he knew too little to pick the right side, that the situation grew so out of control.
That until it was too late did those closest and the most honest told the whole truth.
Leading him along, gentle in their guidance into the bowels of dark, foreboding malice and shadow.
Shining the light of a new model cell into the corridor.
And there he finds, from a metal slate and unknown, grisly tools he had so feared the five beds.
Laid upon so delicate and tranquil: Five sons.
He fumbled his light.
He just about kneeled with his legs so weak and head swept of thought, of kindness, or of reality. Only the cruel laugh of a man whose monstrous temper unknowingly, once, tore to bone.
Tore to his soul and at trust once boundless with no ending horizon.
Five sons.
One, only one given honor. To be Sleeping Beauty, to receive speech, to be blessed with a name.
"They will suffer."
And though the professor never truly would, his voice scorched in scorn.
"Either to the elements."
Or to abuse and disassemble.
He shook his head once the light flashed upon an incomplete face. Under the glass.
"I cannot."
"Only you may choose."
He was glad they'd brought a bat in foresight.
One lever. Just one. Not even locked in any way.
Had his Dad finally lost his mind?
Of course. And of course, they'd never been meant to live.
And so, he pulled down.
Their amniotic juice, glowing green slushing out into empty pods.
"Project D-f!45S...
"Project DP-900El"
"Project..."
"Terminated."
Oftentimes, the truth had meant the worst, most blinding strikes and nails of pain.
The truth is a grim secret.
Much as he may try or want to deny.
Much as he could wish upon a star the truth, was right here, ugly and exposed raw like a gruesome scab.
____________________
Though what he was sure of, what fueled his rambling of stupid, boring classes, and Mommy and Daddy's arguments, was for something to happen. For his heart to pound and his sense of real and imagination completely shattered.
Mama
But why'd you leave
Leave these little hearts
Broken on the floor
Did you, did you
Really want so much more
Chasing paper dreams
And those fancy limousines
Packed up all our things
And scattered them like ashes
On a cold morning breeze
If I could give you
Just one more thing
Both a blessing and a hex
I'd show you how good we did
Without you
Our own success
I don't know where you are
And I don't really care
But you can just stay
Just. Stay. There.