Posted in stream of consciousness, Word Prompt

Broken Bottle of Whine (Repost)

By some twist in irony this is exactly a year old and somehow it’s relevant again. Cycles, full circle, something. Thanks for partaking in my whine.

Sometimes I wish I could be the mom
That my father claims I am.
Shitty and repulsive
With no other care.
I couldn’t be the person
In the narrative he keeps,
The story he likes to tell about me.
The daughter that left her child.
The daughter that only comes around for money.
The daughter that only cares about the next party.
Tonight I’ll try to convince myself
All these things I do aren’t just for show.
I’ll wish I were beautiful.
I’ll wish I were smart.
I’ll wish I hadn’t broken your heart.
I’ll tell myself everyone’s proud of me.
Tonight I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With my broken bottle of whine
And cry myself to sleep.
So when I wake tomorrow
It will all just be a bad dream
And my bottle of my whine
Will be poised on the counter neatly,
Waiting to be filled with
Broken expectations and unfulfilled dreams,
Bad words and ugly names,
Until it overflows and needs to be broken again.
Then I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With the weight of this world,
Frothing and rushing,
Threatening to drown me
But never winning out.

Posted in Word Prompt

Broken Bottle of Whine

Sometimes I wish I could be the mom
That my father claims I am.
Shitty and repulsive
With no other care.
I couldn’t be the person
In the narrative he keeps,
The story he likes to tell about me.
The daughter that left her child.
The daughter that only comes around for money.
The daughter that only cares about the next party.
Tonight I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With my broken bottle of whine
And cry myself to sleep.
Tonight I’ll try to convince myself
All these things I do aren’t just for show.
I’ll wish I were beautiful.
I’ll wish I were smart.
I’ll wish I hadn’t broken your heart.
I’ll tell myself everyone’s proud of me.
Tonight I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With my broken bottle of whine
And cry myself to sleep.
So when I wake tomorrow
It will all just be a bad dream
And my bottle of my whine
Will be poised on the counter neatly,
Waiting to be filled with
Broken expectations and unfulfilled dreams,
Bad words and ugly names,
Until it overflows and needs to be broken again.
Then I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With the weight of this world,
Frothing and rushing,
Threatening to drown me
But never winning out.

Froth

Posted in Word Prompt

I Guess It’s Improvement – Redux

I wrote this last night and thought this morning of deleting it.

“You were just whining.”

“Your life is great.”

“Look at everything you have, everything you’ve done.”

These are all things that have been said to me over the years, they’re all true.

Logically I have no reason to be down, my life is good. I have so much more than some people could even dream of. The fact that I can even sit down and eat everyday is more than some people have. I have a job, a car, a house … I can afford to travel.

I have a child that I’ve somehow managed to not screw up.

Logically I’m doing great and that’s what people see when they look at me. I know that’s what prompts the comments I get.

The reality is that my brain is broken.

So one day I’ll be sitting at work and I’ll be fine then something will just hit me. I won’t know what it is. I won’t understand.

I’ll just want nothing more than to go hide. I won’t want to go to work. I won’t want to write. I won’t want to cook or clean or be responsible.

It will just all be too much and it will be sudden.

I’ll get anxious. I’ll want to run.

But after years of doing this, cycling through it and talking to therapists, I know it will pass.

I know how to take care of myself through it now.

But life doesn’t sit there and wait for me. People don’t understand when they look at me. I have to force myself to be responsible then I have to let myself break down.

Quietly. Away from where others can see.

I guess it’s improvement.

My head hurt
So I just kept drinking.
Now I can’t feel
My tongue
Or my heart,
Or the ache
That I’ve buried
Deep under this art.
But the tears keep coming
Like I’m mourning
This dead end
Dry crumbling piece of me.
I guess it’s improvement
Since before
I just didn’t cry
Because I didn’t feel
Anything at all.

Inscrutable