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The **** giveth and the **** taketh away
But *** is a little bitch
Who takes all the Poppies away.
I harbour ill will
Passive murder in the Time of Eve, bloodshed
eggshed
childshed
Another lost life
At the hands of God’s wrath
Down the toilet
Literally down
the
Toilet
Listen
I’m tired of her
I’m tired of hearing her
I’m tired of seeing her
Since she’s on her way to good health
or on her way to not-so-bad health
Her complaining and her refusals
are symptoms of a petulant child
I have no patience for
Since she’s going anyway
I wish her gone already
I yelled at my brother because he wronged us, because he wronged me. My aunt is suffering through cancer treatment that will most likely result in her death, but the odds being what they are and her will to live being what it is, there’s no other option. I yelled at my brother because he wants to believe she doesn’t know what’s going on. That she’s drugged up. That she mindlessly drifts in and out of a slumber from which she remembers nothing.
She’s conscious, you idiot.
I realized that he wants to believe—and the rest of them as well—that she’s dying without pain. I think it’s cruel of me, but I tell him, no, she is not out of it and she feels lonely and unloved and how could you not call her ahead of time to say you changed your mind and weren’t going be there?
I don’t know what it’s like to be her. In my own narrow-mindedness, I think I would like being alone. It’s heartbreaking, though, to see someone alone who doesn’t want to be. To figure out that your friends and your family are no where to be found. That you have less than a handful of caring people who visit you and a niece you were never close to as your primary source of support.
So I yelled at my brother, because he has illusions of his own good-guy and godly grandeur. He will tell you about Jesus, if you want. He will invite you to church. He’ll tell you God will set you free, but I imagine he would look puzzled if you asked him if he actually follows the WWJD mentality. For example, would Jesus bail on His aunt? How would my brother have felt if he were left to rot within the confines of four white walls and a number on his back? The rest of my family, they will shoot the breeze with you. They’ll adamantly make promises and say they are 100% behind you…unless they are out any gas money to come see you.
So, there you’ll be. Alone when you don’t want to be. Unloved. A chore and a burden. Outright, no one even bothers to say you’re not a bother.
You are a bother. You will continue to be a bother. Can you die now and let us bury you in the mud where you won’t take up our time and energy?
So I’ve made matters worse, at least for him. Now in addition to my unaccommodating aunt and her silly sickness, I have inconvenienced my brother with my anger. Why do you have to be like that, he asks. I repeat his question with bitterness in my voice.
I hang up.
Life is meandering and stupid
Let’s get to the fucking punchline already
Let’s laugh at everyone else
and pretend none of the pretention applies to us
Let’s point and stare at all the idiots
Let’s be above them
Let’s ruin our days, years, lives
and never know what for
or why or how come
Let’s do this because we have been patiently waiting for the funny part of the joke like cattle going to the slaughter.
*Written by emerging poet extraordinaire, Straight Up Carol
To my dearest.
Fuck you for leaving me. I actually loved you.
I actually loved you and that is why I am hurting so much
even now after all this time.
You seem to be doing fine and I am still openly hurting.
Fuck you for not loving me enough
maybe you didn’t even love me at all. Fuck you.
This is an email I sent to poeticgrin a while back. Forgive my language.
Medicatedlady:
- would like to knock the shit of the Wii versions of clueless dumbass and herself.
- wants to rage against the machine but something within her is preventing her, forcing pressure to well up, and that’s never a good fucking thing.
- is more than miffed.
- is angry.
- should let it go, but does not seem to have any knowledge of how to do that.
- maladaptively wishes she had an ambien/benadryl cocktail. (She’s not creating another such cocktail with Lunesta.)
- is tired of her goddamn knee aching.
- is tired of her goddamn being aching.
- is tired of being tired and so fucking goddammed disappointed.
- would like to say fuck it to one and all and would most noteably enjoy saying that to her own self.
- is sighing.
- is mad that he sounded confused when she is the one confused, goddammit, and is offended that he then said in the course of the fucking conversation that he was trying to go back to where he came from early. Insult, injury, hurt feelings. Even though I was so close to not caring.
- is embarrassed that in the span of an evening, she has been reduced back down to zero. And for that, she is unforgiving.
It’s like learning any other new behavior or cognition. It’s the same as learning relaxation techniques or to challenge cognitive distortions. Anyone will tell you, these things take time, you’ll have setbacks, the thing is to keep at it. Okay, fine. So it’s hard to it when shit goes down because I feel as though I care. I feel frustrated because wires cross or don’t connect at all. I just have to repeat it, a mantra, over and over: fuckitfuckitfuckitfuckitfuckit.
And then.
Beneath my eyes but above my cheek
I feel angry tears
almost forming
but not even bothering to rise to the surface
because it doesn’t even matter
why I’d be angry or why I’d cry
because I’m not supposed to care
sometimes I manage
and sometimes I don’t
Fuck it.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: