Letter I'll Never Send

J-,

I thought I was done. But here I am, writing to you after months. The thing is, I still can’t hate you. Don’t misunderstand, I hate how you treated me, how you felt you were entitled to hurting me because you’d had a bad day, you were tired or frustrated, you were on your period. I hate how you used what was modeled for you as an excuse as if you were not an adult and therefore, capable of making different decisions, healthier decisions, kinder decisions. “I am my father’s daughter,” was a favorite of yours even as you could see his behavior as hurtful and cruel. You, who so often were there to help your mother pick up the pieces of her broken heart, refused to see how you were inflicting the same pain on me. 

I thought about you the other day. I imagined what it might be like to run into you in town, how you would react if you saw me on the arm of a man. How you would take it as a personal attack that I don’t still call myself a lesbian. I imagined the hateful, angry conversations you would have with your parents, the barbs you would exchange, your father’s choice words. I wondered if he would think I’m a whore too, like he once said of his other former daughter in-law. As I imagined all of it, I was not hurt. I wasn’t even sad. I was amused. It was entertaining to watch three hurt and hurtful people talk about someone else who wasn’t in the room, who had no control over their happiness, as if their choice to remain unhappy and unhealed was somehow her fault. I might have pitied you before. I almost certainly would have felt badly that your life will never include a love that comes from a place of peace, that you will never know how wonderful it is to love someone fully, as your authentic self, and not be constantly afraid to lose them. You will never know a life of your own, without another person to give it meaning, or fill it. You will never know how wonderful it feels to be terrified to start a new chapter, and then do it anyway, and the joy that comes from knowing that it was worth it, even if it didn’t go the way you’d hoped. You’ll probably argue that you do know. You’ll say you were terrified. But, what new chapter did you start? It’s been nearly a year since you moved out, and we sold the condo. In that year, I’ve moved to my own apartment, fallen in love, gotten my heart shattered, and come back to my mom’s to reassess and recoup some financial losses. I’m sure you’ll see that last bit as an indication of failure on my part. To you, it will be proof that I couldn’t do it on my own. I’m sure you have more money than I do. But I have a life. And I wouldn’t trade it for every penny you’ve got saved up. What a pity to have a sturdy and stable safety net, and be too scared to test it. So you’ll stay where you are, choosing misery over contentment because it is familiar. You’ll choose routine because it isn’t scary, it doesn’t challenge you. It doesn’t make you admit all the places you need to be stronger. It allows you to stay deaf and blind to your own inadequacies. 

You’ll see all of this as hateful rhetoric, aimed specifically at your heart. You’ll see all of this as an angry missive that I wrote only to hurt you. Because you aren’t capable of imagining someone speaking from a place of peace. You can’t fathom someone speaking truth kindly. It isn’t the speaker who hurts you. It’s the truth you can’t stand.

I would pity you. I would hate you.

But it’s more energy than I want to spend. 

Regards,

P-

Box Cutter

I took my memories of marriage

put them in a box,

labeled it trauma

and thought that was the end of it.

I boxed up

the scars of a life unloved,

the nights alone in bed,

grateful for the solitude. 

I boxed up

rage at spilled coffee on beige carpets,

judgement of mismanagement of her needs

dismissal of my own.

I boxed up 

years of broken promises,

yeses and of courses meant to placate,

and the hollow in my chest when I recognized them as such.

Versions of myself I'd thought I'd drowned

in an ocean of my own making

are stayed in the corner, drip-drying,

squeezing endless waves of salt water tears from their hair. 

And they are pissed. 

We are pissed. 

I chose compassion.

I chose kindness.

I chose to be relieved that I'd survived. 

Now I am furious that I had to. 

I took a box,

marked it abuse

and placed my marriage inside it.

I covered it in the adventure of a new person,

the softness of his skin,

the warmth of his touch,

the ripple of his laughter.

And then, 

just as delicately as ever,

he held me and said

"The box is still there. And I can't stay any longer."

And now all that is left

sits untouched,

uncategorized,

unprocessed,

waiting for me to tear into it,

gut it,

and when it neatly rearranged, light the fucker on fire.

I took my marriage,

put it in a box,

called it what it was,

and buried it. 

And now I can see

because I've seen what kindness is, 

and I refuse to accept less any longer

I buried the wrong shit.

never to be seen

i am writing.

more and more.

the parts of me 

i put to sleep years ago

for survival 

are slowly waiting up.

they are aching 

and angry

and bitter 

and so happy. 

so they poke me me

pen-swords at the ready

dare me to turn their rantings-

wordless, musical,

primal scream-dances

into a poem.

so i write. 

and i publish.

but some, i keep hidden away

for fear they will further separate me

from that which i desire 

and deserve.

and they stay there ...

Scene from divorced life

"I am so tired of hearing about your assault."

"Do me a favor and get a job while I'm at work today."

"Why don't you ever think?"

These are the moments that my mind plays on repeat

on evenings when I am desperate for sleep,

afternoons when I am in someone else's arms,

mornings when I am just waking up.

The anger that you smeared over everything

doesn't scrub away,

despite my best efforts.

And I am left with a soggy,

stained bitterness,

as my only means to clear away 

over a decade's worth

of dust and neglect.

I am hopeful that bitterness will eventually evaporate

and not leave a greasy, cloudy film

on this life I am earning.

So far, it seems to be.

But every so often,

there is a splinter in the wood,

and my dust rag catches

pulls up larger pieces of debris

and I have to stop

fish the sliver out with a needle

and tend to another wound.

This is arduous.

Greif.

Mourning.

Not the marriage

but the misery. 

I wish I could hate you.

But that was always more your style.

Sting

the sun rose this morning
turned the blue shadows to lilac
and painted the winter as spring
for a moment
before we all felt the cold again
no longer able to trick ourselves warm.

We grew toward the rising sun
pointed our faces skyward
waiting for what it would give us
wondering how long we had
before it would be dark again.

Mid-morning sun

It's so hard,

the beginning,

where everything and nothing feels real

and my mouth struggles 

to hold in the words I am terrified to say

because how can I know I mean them

If I've never known what they mean?

It's too soon to understand it all, sweetheart.

Trust the little you know.