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The stars of the hushed woman
The stew over the stove burns
And a voice from the lounge materializes
‘What kind of lady are you?’
A voice promised to hush my fears
But what now hushes all of me
The whishing grows louder
And sweat rolls down my temples
I can hear the couch creaking
Under the weight of that voice
And so I beseech it not to crush me
I scrub the sink, scrub, scrub
The oven dings and a smell pervades
The air, the tang of cheap barbecue sauce
Mixes with the smell of his cigarette butts
Buried deep into the couch where they shall go unnoticed withal
It’s nine o clock now and
I put my boy to bed before
The nonexistent grease on the sink calls to me
Because despite all, the scrubbing never was enough
His walk is so reckless now
Raging storms of discarded words wherever he goes
Feckless demands to a ‘feckless wife’ as he calls me
As he strikes a blow and maybe two more
It wasn’t all blows and beatings before
It was just fate’s way
When luminous dreams fall into dark alleys
And become a living nighmare
I suppose it wasn’t his fault
That his scrubbing too called him out
That someone with a bird caught
The worm he desired to feast on in the distance
But was it not his fault
The scars on his heart he
Imprinted on my skin because their
scabbing was from my undoing, my wounds
is he not guilty
of the son we both bore first with
promises of love and tidings of felicity
now left in the shambles of a broken home
this game is vicious and though
I am not his altruistic bride
I scrub away every day in vain
Hopes of scrubbing away his plight
I suppose our love has now eviscerated
With glassfuls of cheap liquor on his part
And I rebate my senseless, obstinate heart
Why I never overturned the tables full of cigarette butts and broken glass onto his degutted detrimental heart
Why, I reproach, I never acted
Outside the whispers of assurances to our little boy
In his bedroom when he awoke at midnight
To the slurring voice and crashing noise of the person we were both supposed to love
Why never I threw the scrub and emptied the liters of
Barbecue sauce onto the embers of our dying fire
And raged a fire so much stronger
Than his poisonous diction of nightly tantrums
I wish I could push back the memories
Of a tenderness alike falling leaves on in October
Wish I could reiterate myself to the
Prickly bites of pines crunching beneath shoeless feet in December
Tonight I lay in my child’s bed
That he had once painted stars on himself
He whispered to our boy how he’d
Catch them for him and that nothing he dreamed could be too far off
No, that was false because tonight
I know that sometimes dreams are too flimsy, too wayward
That stars are selfish balls of gases thousands of light years away
and that fishing for them would waste away all good left in the world
No but I also know that tonight
When he returns to our pastiche of wasted promises
And hastily made reassurances to hearts long despaired
That the stars will descend to our windows for a while
They will descend and obliviate our minds with
Melodies that flow out of their ephemeral dust
To maybe, just maybe, tame the darkness in the room
And furnish our dying hope with a fire
I know he will call my name tonight
Shaped from the lips who once caressed my name
And now spits it with a repulsion that
Curdles any hope for those soft lips to ever return
And you will find me once again
In the greased sink by the stove
Scrubbing away what never relieves
Scrubbing away what always regrows
Night after night.The stew over the stove burns
And a voice from the lounge materializes
‘What kind of lady are you?’
A voice promised to hush my fears
But what now hushes all of me
The whishing grows louder
And sweat rolls down my temples
I can hear the couch creaking
Under the weight of that voice
And so I beseech it not to crush me
I scrub the sink, scrub, scrub
The oven dings and a smell pervades
The air, the tang of cheap barbecue sauce
Mixes with the smell of his cigarette butts
Buried deep into the couch where they shall go unnoticed withal
It’s nine o clock now and
I put my boy to bed before
The nonexistent grease on the sink calls to me
Because despite all, the scrubbing never was enough
His walk is so reckless now
Raging storms of discarded words wherever he goes
Feckless demands to a ‘feckless wife’ as he calls me
As he strikes a blow and maybe two more
It wasn’t all blows and beatings before
It was just fate’s way
When luminous dreams fall into dark alleys
And become a living nighmare
I suppose it wasn’t his fault
That his scrubbing too called him out
That someone with a bird caught
The worm he desired to feast on in the distance
But was it not his fault
The scars on his heart he
Imprinted on my skin because their
scabbing was from my undoing, my wounds
is he not guilty
of the son we both bore first with
promises of love and tidings of felicity
now left in the shambles of a broken home
this game is vicious and though
I am not his altruistic bride
I scrub away every day in vain
Hopes of scrubbing away his plight
I suppose our love has now eviscerated
With glassfuls of cheap liquor on his part
And I rebate my senseless, obstinate heart
Why I never overturned the tables full of cigarette butts and broken glass onto his degutted detrimental heart
Why, I reproach, I never acted
Outside the whispers of assurances to our little boy
In his bedroom when he awoke at midnight
To the slurring voice and crashing noise of the person we were both supposed to love
Why never I threw the scrub and emptied the liters of
Barbecue sauce onto the embers of our dying fire
And raged a fire so much stronger
Than his poisonous diction of nightly tantrums
I wish I could push back the memories
Of a tenderness alike falling leaves on in October
Wish I could reiterate myself to the
Prickly bites of pines crunching beneath shoeless feet in December
Tonight I lay in my child’s bed
That he had once painted stars on himself
He whispered to our boy how he’d
Catch them for him and that nothing he dreamed could be too far off
No, that was false because tonight
I know that sometimes dreams are too flimsy, too wayward
That stars are selfish balls of gases thousands of light years away
and that fishing for them would waste away all good left in the world
No but I also know that tonight
When he returns to our pastiche of wasted promises
And hastily made reassurances to hearts long despaired
That the stars will descend to our windows for a while
They will descend and obliviate our minds with
Melodies that flow out of their ephemeral dust
To maybe, just maybe, tame the darkness in the room
And furnish our dying hope with a fire
I know he will call my name tonight
Shaped from the lips who once caressed my name
And now spits it with a repulsion that
Curdles any hope for those soft lips to ever return
And you will find me once again
In the greased sink by the stove
Scrubbing away what never relieves
Scrubbing away what always regrows
Night after night.
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I don’t think I have ever written like this before. And I think anyone with a mindful disposition wouldn’t need any further explanation on what I have feebly endeavored in this piece. All I can is; you can never truly assimilate someone’s pain. Love to everyone.