A Tragedy of Love Squandered

 

I am willing to fold your laundry 

     As I go. 

As you drunkenly yell at my mom about color spectrums 

   and fight against god knows what this time. 

They are psychotic ramblings 

    And too often no different than her own tangents 

  Only more aggressive... 

      Controlled and superbly angry 

             In their own abyss of which 

                  They stem from. 

30 minutes later, 

   The inane roaring has not halted 

  as I fold and decipher belongings I need over the next few days. 

  Incessantly, you are ceaseless in the oxygen absorption, penetrating still from two rooms over, 

    every space you occupy. 

       Now on the topics of every mad man, 

      You talk AT

           Those around you, 

  Crumbling the sanity; and suffocating me...

      For I simply can no longer stand it! 

I don't know how anyone puts up with your behavior; 

   Most of all, 

         me 

The high drone of your buzzing 

    Ever against my temporal

The siphoning of the energy it takes 

   To listen to your nonsense. 

In the end, 

  I took three workbooks: one on boundaries, one on self-love, and one of emotional regulation. 

  The rest of the bag was packed with a dozen tarot  and oracle decks, two relationship workbooks, 

  And clothes;

A razor, my lip oil, 

  And some weed. 

My grounding mat. 

And let's not forget those addictive Jalapeño Chedder Goldfish... 

Something easy to stuff my face with when I don't feel like getting out of bed...

  Or eating. 

And after that, 

I have nothing left. 

  All I can do, 

      Is climb into my mother's bed, 

          and attempt to turn it all off.  

It is curious the contents we pack up

   Upon a swift escape

        Not knowing the next time one might return 

           To a place once deemed "home". 

He tried to brush it off. 

   Just some space, 

       

         Just some time, 

    For me to take for myself. 

Meanwhile kisses are forced, 

   Hugs puppeted around his body 

       With my limp arms. 

Insincere "I love you's" spewing from his lips and eyes, 

  Unbeheld by any plee I have gestured to him over 

       Even the last several weeks alone; 

Really...

   It is all just the pattern of his insincere calculations, 

  To keep what he wants 

      While changing no thing at all 

            Of his gross perpetrations 

                Against a woman he professes to "love."

 "I am his one" he repeats...

  But it means nothing to me now. 

Because I know it is not true. 

  And I know he does not honor those words 

      Even if it were. 

No person, 

  Should ever treat the one he loves, 

  The way this man continues to treat me,

       Without acknowledgment, 

            Change, 

          or regard.  

These are the conclusions I have come to, 

   Stuffing them in my bag, 

        As I shut the door behind me. 

    It is no end....

      but it IS a start.