Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Misery Loves Company

I slam the bedroom door and sink onto the floor. That familiar feeling settles in: eyes glaze over, lips start to quiver, and the remaining molecules of air bobbing in my lungs escapes me. My torso trembles like baby raccoon that's been dipped into a scorching tub of water, then tossed into the wilderness in the middle of winter. The stale taste of vomit bubbles in the back of my throat, and makes its way to my tongue.

I push myself up onto the edge of the bed, ears perked, and eyes bolted to the white, discolored door of this room that was once my own. My parents argue outside the door, and bits and pieces of my mother's muffled screams find their way into my ears. I only pay attention for a moment. The house goes silent, minus the echoes of my father's T.V. blasting some late night show six clicks too loud. The steady creek of the front, screen door tells me that the two of them are out on the porch for their thirteenth evening smoke break.

The clear and pink totes stacked half way to the ceiling have been hugging every corner of the room for over three weeks now, only adding to the distance between this room and I. My younger brother's antlers, license plates, and posters mounted across the walls do not ease the sense of foreignness. This room longer feels like home, but really did it ever? Despite the two fans' puttering in two corners of the room, the tension pulsing in my muscles lingers.

I'm only a days away from a whole new life, nestled in the cornfields of Madison, IN, alongside a tenacious fiance, a beautiful Husky puppy, and an easy-going mother figure. Yet, I knew the storm was coming, it was only a matter of time.

Days of half-hearted visits or empty conversations, and nights filled with the scent of Vladimir vodka mixed with puppy piss. 

Minutes soaked with arguments made for nights of throbbing headaches, shaky limbs, and a churning stomach as I tossed and turned for hours, a decade away from sleep. 

Words caked with cruel intentions, concealed by a film of cheap concern flopped across the living room like mud pies in the yard.

Guilt trips as long as the Mississippi and as deep as the Pacific, served with diced regrets and seasoned tempers, and a tall glass of vomit.

How am I to enjoy my family's company: it's dipped in constant chaos. How am I to be excited: my thoughts are plagued by anxiousness. How am I to stand on my own: my mother's already demanding my return. How am I to fly: my wings were clipped at birth. How am I to laugh: I'm scolded when I smile. How am I to breathe: this town is smothering me with fluffy pillows. How am I to live: my heart's has been forbidden to ever beat.

Monday, May 9, 2011

On Faith and Hypocrites

He finds himself at church on every Sunday, spectacles perched upon his nose as he  peruses the instructional pamphlet he was given at the door. He's in his navy, button up, a pair of black denim jeans, his silver hair slicked back without a ball cap.

Listen: his voice, sings the word of God professed in faithful hymns. Watch: his eyes, settled on a the Pastor preaching from the pulpit, eyes gently tearing as he absentmindedly nods his head.

He can say all that he wants to us: that he honors the will of God, that he is saved and has reserved his one way ticket that'll send him up to heaven.

Those words are dandelion seeds floating off into the wind: they end up lost between the blades of grass that sway amidst the open, overgrown field.

Your thoughts are dipped in Coors Light: the first sip's quite refreshing, until you've reached the 13th can, and then its simply senseless rambling.

Those dreams are cloaked with guilt and fear: you've lived your life a sinner, and now that your ticker's ticking's getting louder, your in a rush to be forgiven.

Your faith is flavored by other's opinions: are your beliefs really your own, or are they your mothers, your fathers, your spouses, your neighbors?

They tussle back and forth, pummeling one another with blank excuses, clique sayings, quotes from scripture, and drunken mumbling.

Is a whole lot of ground being covered? Definitely.
Are tempers flaring? You bet your bottom dollar.
Do they really mean all that they are saying? The booze sure thinks so.
Are truthful points coming up in conversation? Sure.
Is process being made? Of course not.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

"I'm So Heavy. Heavy In Your Arms"

My mind is in pieces, like scraps of fabric, fluff, and string strayed across the living room floor, left over from a ripped-to-shreds chew toy.

"My beloved was weighed down. My arms around his neck, my fingers laced to crown."

My eyes are scorched. Flames of smoldering heat consume my lashes, and burn them one by one, staining my lids ashy black and replacing my vision with a thick, cloud of smoke.

"I was a heavy heart to carry, my feet dragged across ground. And he took me to the river, where he slowly let me drown."

My heart is flooding, like a violent river pounded with a constant, steady rain. It's tears drift up and out, across tired, muddy banks caked with lifeless sticks and cold, stones, dragging them into its depths, never to see the light of day again.

"My love has concrete feet, my love's an iron ball, wrapped around your ankles over the waterfall."

My hope has vanished. A snowflake lands amidst a boiling, sea of grass, the liquid streaming down a single blade, evaporating instantly once kissing the bubbling, Midwest dirt.

"Who is the betrayer? Who's the killer in the crowd? The one who creeps in corridors, and doesn't make a sound."

My faith is tested. I reach my arms into the damp, April sky and scream up to the clouds. "Lord, take me! Take me into your arms!" I fall onto a patch of cold, moist graveyard, consumed by the buzz of hungry mosquitoes and a chorus of twilight crickets. I gaze into a nearby tombstone, Mary Thatcher, and pray to God you will not join her. I'm not ready to live without you.

"I'm so heavy, heavy in your arms. Whispering like it's a secret, only to condemn the one who hears it."