Most Days

Image

“I’m in my garden planting, weeding or harvesting.” JD Butler

1.

Most days I want to die.

My heart breaks

over the most

stupidest of things.

My thoughts tell me I am not

strong enough

pretty enough

skinny enough

feminine enough

kind enough

friendly enough

sexy enough

compassionate enough

caring enough or

rich enough.

My brain tells me I’m too

moody

angry

sad

depressed

anxious

ugly

scared

fragile

emotional

weak

unpredictable

unstable

flighty

and fickle.

My brain tells me to think

the worst of every situation, interpret every thing as an

attack

snide remark

slur

corner

lie

deception or

ulterior motive.

I really shouldn’t take things so personally.

Others think I’m too

Sexual

Slutty

Useing

Abusing

Needy and

Crazy.

I guess

that’s why he told me I have no friends.

Most days I can’t stand it any more.

I’m too much of every thing or not enough.

I wish I was never born.

/

I’m ok on a good day, but I struggle. Demons,

in my waking hours, have a go at me for every-little-thing that ever was.

How, do I continue to survive?

Most days, I just want to die.

2.

Some days I feel happy.

content

pleased

proud

relaxed

calm

and secure.

I’m in my garden planting, weeding or harvesting.

And I think about what else I want to do.

Paint

draw

read

make

sculpt

weld

and create.

Money holds me back so I continue watering the garden.

Some days I feel optimistic.

I am convinced I’m going to get that job,

find that financial independence,

not go back to sex work although I miss it terribly.

Some days I don’t think about

pain

loss

fear

humiliation

rejection

or torment.

I’m numb, but at least I’ve stopped

shaking in my boots,

jumping all over the place,

looking around every 5 fucking seconds

or wanting to run.

Some days I feel hope that I won’t

take my life

end up on the streets

be alone and lonely

have no friends

have no lover

or find love.

Whats wrong with me?

I live with trauma, fuck up daily and behave like a bitch –

and I dont think I can be fixed

sometimes.

Some days I’m OK.

I smile

laugh

joke

play

make love

not war.

I try not to let the voices win. I try to

bite my tongue

shut my mouth

hold back tears

try my best

please my man

and stop complaining.

I try not to wait for the end, although I push everyone away – my deluded saving grace

is more likely cutting off my nose, to spite my face.

Some days I think I will survive.

But most days, I still want to die.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

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Behind My Apron Strings

Death by Cigarette

1.

“By God it’s good to see family when you’re sick!”, he beamed
arms o u t s t r e t c h e d, averted
teary eyes near
over
flowing

He really must be dying
I feel bad for him
& Him

who feels worse?
wounds are open now
exposed
affection weeping years

suppression/repression/aggression

he shys away from him
behind: behind my apron
strings
pull him toward me
I lean forward: toward
Him

too soon for hymns
but not too late

/

is this what it feels like to die?
to soften for once in your life?

2.

Do I have to wait
that long before I see
the next generation cry
before I
find something to be defensive about?

a fathers legacy

He feels sorry sad
& scared
I follow his every move
I watch Him from behind
corners

He has a lot to answer
He doesn’t know how to feel
the loss
not knowing; the baby
wanting hugs
finding joy in the smallest of things

He will be gone soon

Thy Will Be Done
& life
Will

/

He is not my father
he is my grieving lover
I shake their tears loose

© Copyright 2007 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved