Couples Table Part Deux

We can all enter as one.
Legs criss-crossed over heels, with boots caught on bangles.
A several headed, multi-armed monster looking for fun.
When the music initiates the pairings, I'm the note that dangles.

It's not that hard to dance alone on the floor.
To have to serve and slide with just your own hips.
But remember to always have eyes on the exit door.
If you get overwhelmed by memories of opportunities missed.

They can all sit down as one.
Hands held over one another, with laughter bursting about.
You seat your nicotine scented self, exhaling for fun.
Silent prayers that the laughter, before the vodka, runs out.

It's not easy to sit at the couples table and be single.
But you do it, to be nice, and polite.
It's not easy to pin on a smile, laugh, and try to mingle.
But you do it, so you don't ruin the night.

They all nod their head and say you're next.
So you nod too, as they get up to dance.
They twirl about the room in all their wonder.
And it makes you realize, you've been acting like Blanche.

It’s not my fault that everyone I wanted to take me home is gone.
So I have the crown and title of being unstable.
I'm sorry, but not I'm going to drink until dawn.
Because sometimes it's hard, sitting at this couples table.


*** *** ***

"I'm single because I was born that way." -Mae West

I can't help but wonder, if I hadn't told so, so many men to "come up and see me sometime", would I be single now? The Blanche Deveareux regimen can wear you out some nights. Other nights, it's the greatest addiction I have. This way you can sleep spread eagle, with the bed all to yourself; and, at other times, you can sleep spread eagle on top of someone else. But still, what's it like to sit at the couples table and be there rightfully? I wonder.

Slice Life

I use to have so much going for me. And now I wake up and try to figure out how much longer I can stay in bed without having to skip brushing my teeth on the way out the door. I think I peaked when I was 20. I've been cut down. Now it's a slow decline into routines and monotonous errand running. When I first came back to Illinois I thought I would lay in the corner, lick my wounds, and then come back fighting. With new inspiration, new goals, new talents and a book deal. But in reality, my life is so common. So pedestrian. The one year anniversary of the attack quickly approaches, and it makes me so uncomfortable. I'm past the point of being 'o so thankful' for being spared of any bodily harm, these days I keep playing out scenarios of what would of happened had I just grabbed a knife and gone out there. The me of today would have started slicing and fighting. But, obviously, the me of then didn't do anything but sit on my bed and cower. Maybe that's why I'm so angry and muted these days. My frustrations may have turned inward, on myself. I didn't really want to fight for my life? Not my actual blood-flowing-through-veins life, but the built-this-from-the-ground-up life. If you don't have a life worth fighting for, are you living? I think that's from a James Bond movie. Or SuckerPunch. Or maybe it's a line from Alias. Either way. I chose not to fight for my life, and now, while living the results of said decision, I don't have much of a life at all. How do I fix this? Where do I pick up a gallon of passion, a dozen inspirations and a box of future? What aisle is that on? Doesn't Meijer sell everything? Maybe I'm past grocery aisles and Quik'E'Marts, maybe I need a trip to Oz. I would like my turn to stand in front of the great wizard, even knowing it's all a fake. At least it would be an adventure, something a little more exciting then my weekly charade. I'd choose fending off flying monkeys instead of avoiding errands.



"Mishaps are like knives, that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle." -James Russell Lowell

The Right Ghost(s)

It was seven years ago yesterday, that I lost the privilege to wear white. And I still see him everyday in my head. No bother though, I see a lot of ghosts in my head. My brain is the ultimate haunted mansion. I'll admit, lately I have been walking amongst the dead too much; I've been relying on all my dead memories to keep my alive. I sincerely doubt that's a good thing. Don't they lock you up for that? Listen to the wrong ghosts and they fit you for a straight jacket, listen to the Holy Ghost and they fit you as sane. Either way, we're all just listening to disembodied voices, spirits that float through our brain and sail through our ears. One could argue that we're all just, plain crazy; no matter the the origin of our ghost(s). If that is the case, and I do get my straight jacket, at least I'll get to wear white again. ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ "There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks Then it walks, then it walks with my legs To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet" -Florence + The Machine