The mirror turns her face to mine
Reflecting an image that astounds me, the parallels undeniable.
Ironic.
Stitched up, pressure building, resources depleted
another's children caught in the push and pull of coming to love me
history tugging at the fresh starts in my garden
conspiring to shrivel the delicate seedlings just pushed up through the soil covering them.
Having only just shaken loose the dirt of a former life, I find myself with
a broken heart in the midst of a new love.
In this, I understand that which was unfathomable only a short time ago.
You.
Are everywhere once again.
Honey drips in thick sticky amber drops,
no longer from your tongue to mine, instead
from the walls surrounding me,
from the star-studded ceiling you never had a chance to see
from the brushes used to paint on a happy face each day, war paint of sorts
from the comb creating a salt and peppered mane serving as
a distraction from the sadness hidden just beneath the surface in the blue of my eyes.
The sticky sweet I once swallowed mires me down and,
in my attempt to swim to the other side, I am fatigued.
For more than a thousand nights and days, the nights being the harder of the two,
I kept my chin up, showed up, manned up, given up and, once again, come back up for air.
Today, I want to sink into the sea of honey surrounding me and revisit the scene of the crime.
Just visiting, however, is not an option.
It’s a great place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
But I do.
Denial only temporary, my home is a crime scene.
Yellow tape borders, chalk outlined bodies, blood spattered walls, tear stained faces,
No place to call home and yet,
in spite of my agility at keeping up appearances, in my heart I know I’ll never leave.
Home, honey sweet home,
my living Hell.
~ Mk Michaels, 2013
