sarcasm chasm

“I wish I had gotten to know your mom more.”

I want to retort, “Yeah, what a shame for you.

My mom died three months after we married.”

Because I use hurtful humor

to look stronger than I am.

But I don’t—because that response

came to me five hours later.

Instead, I cry. You say, “You look

just like her.” I know. As I get older,

I see her in the mirror more every day.

It makes me wish she could see me now.

I wish you had gotten to know her more, too.

the difference between a weapon and a tool

What’s happenin’, captain, when you feelin’ low?
you said, you didn't believe how evil people can be
until you’d seen it for yourself—
you know cutting someone’s head clean off
isn’t an easy task, though easier
the second time around. but that was then—
yesterday, you bought a chainsaw,
twenty-inch, from Home Depot, good deal,
fits all your batteries,
any cord you’ve got will work.
a bargain—lifetime guarantee.
just what you need.
be here Sunday.
isn't that nice?

overflow.

he wants another dog—
    "pick a puppy from the pound.
    it’s overflowing;
    these dogs won’t last forever."

i want to return
to that first year
when everything he said
sounded right—
yes dripped from my mouth
like the faucet
due to be replaced next week.

he doesn’t want
the love—the tails in our home—
to shrink.
i don’t want to become
the sour woman
i was warned i’d grow into.

still, maybe a puppy—
small, brown,
to keep me company
after he dies.
i already have a few names
in mind—

what is a home, if not overflowing?

echo

reality never mattered.
i am what you think i am.
i become what you say.

Do the worms that writhe from the flooded soil know they escape drowning only to be crushed on the pavement?

He calls me a good mom,
a good wife, a good employee,
a good girl. I smile, ask
for my gold star, my cookie.
Tonight, I lay a thick,
juicy steak on the table.

Why wouldn't I be obsessed with periods?

Why wouldn’t I be obsessed—with bleeding, counting, enduring?

The average woman bleeds 3,500 days—nearly ten years, about 450 cycles—from first period to menopause.

Am I average? I hope so.

Every month my body reminds me what it means to endure. 

Shows me what flows within. What the mortician will one day drain.

I’ve bled. I will keep bleeding. 

Longer than I’ve loved anyone. Longer than anyone has ever loved me.

Time moves painfully slow in the moment but flies by in hindsight.