Tipping Point

The pressure builds over time.
A whine here
A death there
Demands for
parts of me everywhere.
There is no relief.
I am certain to break
into a million pieces.

Accepting help

seems more
work than it is worth
because first,
I have to admit
I can’t handle it all.
Following the acknowledgment that
I am not omnipotent,
the help must be evaluated.
How much will this really cost me?
Familial help is often the most
expensive, followed by lovers,
usually.
Not always though.

The anger rises.

Tracing back,
I am usually
at the root of it,
but this is hard to stomach,
so I will swallow it,
deflect it,
dive into a project,
or hit the batting cages.
I used to pick fights, but
I am too powerful
and inflicted too much harm
so I don’t anymore.

People say they understand,

but I don’t believe them.
Pets are not kids.
Part time kids are not full time kids.
Hobby jobs are not
full time single-income jobs.
Parenting children is not
parenting grieving children.
I smile and thank them for their
compassion when I really
just want to scream.

Some days,

I want to run away.
Go into hiding.
Buy a burner phone
and not give the number
to anyone.
I want to wrap an expensive silk scarf
around my hair,
wear oversized sunglasses,
rent a steel-grey convertible,
and drive too fast for hours,
pretending not to be me.

I want to end the day’s driving

at a far away destination
where no one knows me,
clean up, dress up,
get picked up,
and have a fling.
Or maybe just take a nap.

But here’s the thing,

In time,
in a week or a day or an hour,
I’d want to come home.
I’d want to come home
to my kids, my dogs, cats, and chickens,
to my friends, family, and neighbors,
to my piles of laundry,
my empty refrigerator that needs to be filled,
my house needing to be cleaned,
and the endless demands on me
because even though there are moments
when I reach the tipping point
and I want to burn my life down,
I love it.

~ Mk Michaels, 2014

Carnival Fun House

You came, telling me my siren’s song had drawn you near.

Beckoning me to enter the Carnival Fun House
I entered willingly believing all I heard,
wanting to hear the fairy tale again and again and again.

Lured by your long lost song,
brightly lit, flashing lights, and
calliope tunes lending their accompaniment.
Clever mirror tricks distorted your truth.

You cautioned me

            take care of the little girl,

so wounded by love and life that

she could pull me under as she drowns

Take care of the little girl who loves me so much that it frightens her.

She will be kind.

She will never stray.

…..unkept promises, like so many others

Threading gently around your tattered edges,

I fed your poverty with words of

exultation, adoration and acts of undulation

knowing, because you told me and I believed, that one well intended tug could unravel your emptiness.

Not knowing that the well intended tug could also send me into your oblivion.

populated by so many others,

good company if you must ask – beautiful women, whole in their core save the

raw and gaping pit left in the wake of your destruction.

Your grief is strategic,

because “sometimes you simply must bear that burden alone…”

you are afforded the autonomy to

deceive, lie and steal away into the night with yet another victim.

Nights of passion unmatched….we said.

Both of us were playing a part, you know.

Truth was lies and lies were truth,

passion was perversion,

and I fell deeply into you.

Temporarily losing my senses, I was struck blind.

Seeing only your reflection in the concave mirrors,

you were larger than life.

The world was my oyster, you said,

a gift from you to me.

But upon closer inspection,

the shell was empty;

no pearl, no mother of pearl even.

Empty.

You spun and twisted and wove your contorted tale

of unicorns, long lost love and lies,

of Dylan, Baez and heavily Dosed Chili Peppers

of soul mates, music and happily ever after

of children, babies and family forever

of childhood stories of monsters lurking in the dark

and illness, slights and hurts

of daisies, butterflies and a wheaten Little Prince

I surrendered to your tale giving you all you lacked;

children, a womb and another notch in your perfect score.

But something was amiss;

too many unraveled ends,

too many unmatched cards, and

too many unanswered riddles with twists and tattered turns.

Shoddy work….

too many unreturned calls,

too many days at a distance,

too many weekends in woe, and

too many promises and privileges pulled away.

Too many, lover, too many.

So I questioned and puzzled and pondered

and was harshly scolded.

Coldly, callously,

sadistically kept for weeks at a distance

while you enveloped yourself in another’s care, but

not the one you profess you craved for your cure,

instead the personification of the Weakness in You,

kept local, kept close, kept and never left behind.

I stood stranded at the top of the Eiffel Tower,

confused, afraid and frostbitten

by the arctic freeze you blasted my way.

I blew warm breath through my hands to try to

clear the glass so I could better see you again,

my lovely long lost lover.

The heat of my breath collided with the frozen glass

and shattered the contorted Fun House mirror

into a thousand pieces

showering sharp slivers and shards

scratching and slicing and dicing me to ribbons

….and suddenly I saw you clearly

and realized that the monster you’ve feared in the dark….

was you.

~ Mk Michaels, 2007

When She is Ready

This thing

with you

is still being defined,

but even in its infancy

it runs deep.

 

Linear time

ceased to exist

from our inception

and I feel I have known you

forever.

 

Both bearing scars,

we are

watchful,

cautious, and

vigilant,

but unfolding all the same,

bit by delicate bit.

 

I find myself wanting

to protect and

be protected,

to nurture and

be nurtured,

to listen and

be heard.

 

Perhaps we are

balanced

after a lifetime of tipped scales,

equals

following too many inequalities,

closers

and we’ll settle no more.

 

Only time

knows

and she will tell

when she is ready.

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2014