right. so tonight. i go about my business.
i feed the darling little boys.
i wash their new clothes.
i make the beds. i do all the things i am supposed to do. with out a break.
with out help. without a helping hand. with out a thank you.
then i let them call the man they call daddy.
i hear the strangest sound.
from the back of my head come a rush of noises. i have heard them before.
hospital sounds.
beep beep beep.
pages for some doctor. David… where are you.
he responds that its non of my…

my father has rheumatoid arthritis. his sister has Multiple sclerosis. my mothers side has too many unknowns to count. i have battled with depression, and strange undiagnosed ailments for years now. today i woke up in bed. i tried to get out. my whole body ached. i have not thought much about it this summer for obvious reasons. my muscles, and bones, and joints, and skin… everything hurts. for years i have complained to my husband and to my family that something was definitely wrong. and know one listened. every one in my life said i was crazy. and said…

i am sick but i'm not dead…. yet. when winter creeps around every year…. it sneaks up on my senses like a massive attack…. from the shadows. i never see it coming… and summer's bliss always disguises my sensitivity…. i am forever unprepared. how can i be prepared? what stock pile can get me ready for winters assault. my bones are all shaky. my skin is cold and dry. my laughter slips away into a pile of dust in the closet… praying that spring cleaning happens earlier this year then it has in the past. i unroll the itchy wool…

my mother would make green egg sandwiches for Saint Patrick day when my sisters and i were in elementary school. every one looked at us like we were weird…. and now looking back i am positive they were soooo right. weirder then frogs hair. i listened to John Denver and Hank Williams and show tunes. my sisters and i broke into song at every opportunity. we would dance and giggle and fight like drunken
sailors wanting first foot on land. we climbed trees and hid breathlessly when my father walked down the brick side walk toward the house, after a…

slipped on the ice. not the kind of graceful display i am proud of. the impression the ice made on my upper thigh even weeks later became a lasting reminder of how beauty is fading fast and age is my worst enemy yet. i pick up pieces of plaster from my crumbling demolition project…. in hopes that i can staqe off her victorious attack on my senses…. but she laughs. and pushes forward. perhaps with nothing left to loose i should charge full speed ahead…. my weight against her gusto. if only wit was my choice weapon… but instead balance…

when a mirror shatters… it still holds the broken reflection of the fragile girl hovered hairs length above, picking up the tiny pieces. most girls take care not to be cut. shards sharply pierce the skin. barely visible to the naked eye, a bead of blood like glue appears. sticky and slippery.shocked she drags her finger tip through the line drawn in her flesh. smeared now and swirled she paints a picture of a mocking bird. silence erupts in the background as the birds wings beat against the darkness taking flight. swosh… flap…. the bloody bird ascends into the dark…

Too much of a good thing, is an addiction. i am an addict. i love a good thing way more then most. and when i come down, i fall hard. i bump and scrape my knees. i watch them bleed. then once the scab has fully formed. i tear away and watch it bleed again. i have never listned to the people who said it would leave a scar. scars are only skin deep. and if you start at my feet, you can trace a map of where ive been. all the dead ends, and the round abouts, and the…

i think i am slipping. comming apart. thats ok. rather it be me then someone who needs me.the music is like superglue. applied lightly to my tattered and torn edges…. i might not go so quick. funny how i fix something gigantic…. like getting a job… but the rest of it falls apart faster. this is me screaming my head off. silently. which is a bit like not screaming at all. if no one can hear me then i am not drawing attention. if i scream on the inside…. its a bit like a horror flick. i am slightly addicted…

i am so sure that if i pick away at my fabric… an empty space will lie in wait. not a list or any account of what i have done, or where i have been. no pretty lacey pink something… to be wrapped in tissue. no perfect little photo of a smiling girl on a swing, surrounded by happy faces… indulged in the moment. scrape away the paint, and the shallow fiber is see through. but even invisibility is a power. can i do something… like escape… like in the muppets from space movie? i could maybe sneak in to…

i love sweaters. like some girls love shoes. i wear them throughout the year, until i am sweating and itchy. then i put it aside till the weather is cool like, this morning. begging for a sweater till the sun gets its lazy bum out of bed. i am recovering from defeat this morning. my husband (secretly i long to call him my ex) he insisted last week we would get back on track after i got the kids to the park, to see him. he promised he would pay me. he told me that he would never act horribly…