Story I Don't Want to Tell

I wrote this poem based on a prompt provided by Geoff Kagan Trenchard:
http://kagantrenchard.com/geoff/archives/367

STORY I DON’T WANT TO TELL

I am powerless,
except for my arms.

The mattress lies against the wall,
bureaus and box springs overturned.

Nothing left to destroy.

January light hovers around me.

Sink down to tile floor, paint stains
and lipstick marks reminders
of happier times, but not with you.

Neighbor’s cooking, I smell
sweat and meatballs, room fades
to 5:30 gray, a dying bulb
flickers – I rest my cheek on
the lamp shade, feels like dry ice,
I hear animal sounds, find
myself on all fours, screaming
incoherently into the phone.

You rush home, believing
I am injured by forces
other than your own.

I should have double-locked
the door and gone to the movies,
flew into black swan fantasy,
ate salted popcorn in repetitive
motion, almost as comforting
as chain smoking in fast cars,
any choice better than a damp sheet
on the floor, my belt flying at you,
your hand on my back, soothing
my rage, circular patterns
like your eyes, do you think
I don’t see you, hiding
behind deep blue kindliness?

I would kill for the presence
of an imaginary friend.
Misti Rainwater Lite.
Thamyris Jones.
Janis Joplin.

I no longer seek signposts from God.

I turn up the radio and drive off the road.
Holy markers have become redundant.

© puma perl, 9/18/11