As the early morning
stretched its weariness,
I was bestowed a gift
of clarity through
the muggy, hugless clouds.

I witnessed beauty,
as you hated yourself
and picked away at
your flakey scabs.

"Leave them."
I said, for they add texture.
Not everything is meant
to be smooth, and seamless.

Sometimes, beauty is in
growth, and seams are
needed to burst...it is
their purpose.

Even hugless clouds
are beautiful,
and purposeful.

Leave the scars and scabs
and moles and skin tags.
Leave the stretch marks
and wrinkly skin.

You are beautiful
wearing all of them.

I loved you, once.
With a ferocity that
vibrated.
But, the movers came
and I never saw you again.

As I unpacked,
and rearranged the bits
and pieces of our life
together,
your demise became clear.
Where could you have gone?
You bastard.

Lost in your synthetically
made haze of silicon
and plastics.

I've replaced you now.
I lamented because
you knew all of my
intimate secrets.
But hey, a girls gotta do
what a girls gotta do,
especially once I found
your box of double A's.
May the ones inside you
explode.
Jerk.

It was never overtly loud.
Barely a hushed whisper.
A slight breath on the neck,
a gentle graze of hands,
feather lips on the ear.
Pay attention, or you'll miss it.

Everyday I am barfing
from the sound of your 
feeble and sheepskin.

Dig deeper.
Reach real far.
Smile your phoney snaggles
and adjust your family 
jewels.
Are you dressed to the left?
Or do you follow in wing
with the murder of brethren
that hang their nuts
to the right?

Everyday I am barfing,
and I need to know where to aim.

Pitch Black.
I can hear the loud neighbors
bitching.

“Where’s my fuckin beer?”
                “Get off the goddamn counter you mangy cat!”

I think about the frozen ham steaks and if the kids will stay sleeping.

I wait.
In the darkness.
Almost sweating.

If only the crash brought silence.
It doesn’t.

The neighborhood is alive.
I can hear all of the babies cry.
I can hear all of the dogs that want inside.
I hear Mr. Loud again,
mad at his wife.

                “What’dcha do with my fuckin beer?!”

“Screw you; I didn’t touch your beer!”

I can hear the crack of the slap.
I can hear the door slam, somewhere on the street.

I think about making pancakes for breakfast,
and hope my kids stay asleep.

This stranger watches over me...
We've never met, and I
couldn't pin a favorite color
or what kind of socks
make his toes feel warm.
I couldn't say,
or feebly attempt to guess
what slacks make him
feel the best
or how he takes his tea.
Hell, maybe he's a she,
or she's a he, don't matter...
he looks out for me.
Or at least in my imagination.
A kind soul that cares
from two thousand
miles away.
As I stare at the screen,
the "are you okay"s
and the "lovely day"s
and imaginary smile
envisioned inside my head
make me feel, well,
not dead.
I'm on the right side
of the daisies and even if
my proximal friends
never check in on me,
there he or she will be.
Oh, technology and the many
Angels of the interwebs.

Hell's water sprayed
down her backside
while the elephant in her
hair just hung there,
waiting to say something.

Beady little eyeballs
so minuscule
stared sternly into her soul,
and shifted the comfort.
Their gaze felt like lasers,
picking her life apart.

She reached for the shampoo
as the water turned cold.

Everlasting botanicals
of passion fruit and
lavender did nothing
for the layers of filth
inside of her.

As she watched the swirl
of suds and pachyderm
slide down the drain,
the icy trickles from
the nozzle confirmed
that even Hell rebuked
her existence.

It was a good morning.