Haiku.

I am on the brink.
Of screaming at my loved ones.
For walking on me.

therapy.

My shrink told me to write poetry, to help ease the pain from my mom's death.

So, here goes.

"Knowing is Half the Battle"

I can never know
Who you really were
You never let me see
All of you.

I just saw glimpses of pain
A past, a cross, a burden
Too great to bear.

I know your scent
Like I know myself
Coffee, cigarettes, cheap
Laundry detergent.

I know your voice
What each octave meant
Anger, happiness, excitement
I miss it, I miss you.

I know the names
You had for me
Mar, Mary Beth, Mary Elizabeth!
And I know yours, too.
Mom, mama, mommy.

I still can't believe
That I will never see you
That I will never hug you
That I will never hear you
Again.

I want to know you
I want you here, now, flesh and blood
Even if I learn more about you
Knowing, is only half the battle
The other part, my heart
This hole, can never be filled
Again.

The kind of song that ignites the airways.

Coordinate brain and mouth, then ask me what it's like to have myself so figured out...

Wish I knew.

Best Friends.

I get extremely overprotective when someone decides to cause unneeded drama with my bestie.

It's a good thing you're thousands of miles away, or I would drop kick your meddling ass into Juarez so the drug cartel could do with you what they'd like. I'm sure your carcass would make a great drug mule.

My Father's House.

I hate going to my father's house. I love my dad. I love seeing him. I love his jokes and his goofy sense of humor. But I'm angry.

I hate his house. I hate the emptiness.

She was so uncomfortable in the last month. The searing pain enveloped her. She couldn't move; she would just hold herself. I remember her shower. And how she and I had a secret, that she would shower alone - and that my dad wouldn't know! He was so overbearing, so overprotective.

So I let her shower alone. I let her have her private time, away from the baby monitors. I didn't want her to be uncomfortable anymore. I wanted her to have privacy and to know I trusted her. That the disease hadn't taken over.

But... she screamed for me. She couldn't finish the shower. She couldn't lift her arms over her head to wash her hair. It hurt too much. The cancer in her bones... it kills me, knowing that it's still there. Six feet and a cement block stopping the cancer from escaping.

I hugged her with a towel; I got her more pain medication. What was the use, though? The medication never worked anyway.

I took her to her room. It was always dark and stuffy. Medications and tissue boxes. That's all I see now, when I see that room.

I hate the living room. It reminds me of how she was defiant. She shuffled, with her oxygen cord, every day to sit in the chair. She loved the freedom it gave her, the independence. She told me, she just wanted to be independent. Why wasn't her defiance enough? She didn't want the cancer there - why didn't it just get the fuck out of her body?

I hate the dining room. The time she sat in front of me and told me it was okay to be mad at her. I hate that anger at her nibbles at me from time to time.

I hate the kitchen, and how it's missing her presence by the coffee pot, the sink, the counter.

I hate the den, where I would hide from everyone so they wouldn't see my tears.

I even hate the driveway. Where she spent the good days taking walks, getting stronger. Why couldn't she stay strong?

I never thought it would be possible to hate the place I grew up, but I do. I hate everything about it. I don't want those memories. I want the good ones. Where did the good memories go? Why can I only remember the things that hurt?

I miss my mom. I miss her so much that it feels like my insides are tiny little knots.

I hate that I hate these things. I hate that I'm angry. I can't stop being angry. I can't.

Unsatisfied.

I wonder if we'll ever finish this story that we started;
Or if it will continue to be unfinished and unanswered.
Like the pages of crossword puzzles I can never quite fill up.