Some breathing space.

Some breathing space.

Hey! Thank you for waiting up for me this past week. I guess I needed some breathing space. I’m back, though. I used my state of mind the past week to write a little something today! It’s about how some breathing space can do people a word of good – especially for those who rely on others a lot. I hope you like this poem! Do tell me if you did in the comments section! I would love to hear what you have to say.

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She asked for some breathing space
the first time we fought.

This ‘breathing space’
reminded me a lot of museums.
I could see her,
look at the things she liked to do,
but I wasn’t allowed to touch anything.
I saw her shopping, dancing, drinking,
and I saw her smiling.
I had no one to go shopping with
so I hid my shopping bags under my eyes.
I had no one to dance or drink with,
so I kept empty vodka bottles in my lonliness.
I was a mess.

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Whisky Words: Project (11)

This is Submission ELEVEN of The Whiskey Words. The Whiskey Words is a writing project (and a giveaway). The winner will be announced on 1st of April.

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Still born

there was nothing–

no sound
no movement
no hope

one night you were boldly with me,
and the next morning, gone

unexpected and torrential
in its suddenness and cruelty.

i sleep and breathe and walk around
in emptiness
and try to etch you into my skin,
unsure how much longer
the details of your eyelashes
and gaping mouth
and blue fingernails
will stay with me.

the last bits of you
drip from my body,
sweet smelling remnants of your protection…
that failed.

the fullness of my chest
has begun to evaporate,
a sure sign my body’s dream of you
is really giving up.

i move
frantic but paralyzed.
the clocks and calendars have all shattered.

i share a laugh with Father Time,
knowing now what he knows
cannot be explained
to anyone who has not
housed death.

i count my fingers and count my toes.
how can i still have 10 of each?
this walking grave of mine,
no longer a woman’s body.
it has transformed into a shallow coffin,
scarred by an indescribable kind
of maternal violence.

as i bleed the rest of your being
into my underwear,
i pause
in a hopeless kind of hesitation and stillness
trying to will the process to slow down

begging on the bathroom floor,
please don’t leave me, sweet girl

dear god, please don’t leave me.

– Kathy Gardner (blog)