I want to burn my bed.
Yes, the entire white queen sized bed.
All of it.
I’d rejoice at watching THAT bed burn.
Alas, I’m not strong enough to drag it downstairs.
The headboard is heavy.
The mattress is awkward.
The box spring won’t bend.
There are stairs.
I certainly can’t set it on fire in the house.
Burning beds probably smell bad and make a mess.
I’d much rather burn it in the front yard. This way the neighbors can see.
Is that the kind’a way to face the burning heat?
I just think about my baby
I’m so full of love I could barely eat,
Hozier- Work Song
I’d burn the sheets, I’m not exactly sure which ones were on the bed.
I keep stripping the bed and washing the sheets in hot water, bleach, and making the bed. I’ve flipped the feather mattress about a thousand times. I refuse to sleep in THAT bed. I hate the gigantic white headboard. My shins always hit the hidden corners. I thought about burning all the bedding. I also haven’t finished paying off the $200 quilt from Macy’s. I really like my typewriter sheets. I hope they didn’t screw on my typewriter sheets. Those are my favorite sheets.
It isn’t my bedroom. Daddy’s room.
My money has went into making it a part of our home. Making it our marital bedroom. Then he brought her into my bed. Let her body lay on my turquoise quilt. The next day, I found her cigarette butts in the ashtray. And I can’t get the scene out of head. I can’t sleep. I don’t want to eat. I am still a mother. The only time I smile is when I see my child.
There’s nothing sweeter than my baby
I’d never want once from the cherry tree
‘Cause my baby’s sweet as can be
Sweet boy…. My sweet, sweet child. I beg you to please never become like him. Don’t continue the disrespect. Don’t continue to pass down what should’ve ceased in the last generation. We respect women. We cherish women. When we make a promise to one woman, we keep our word.
If these words last as long as I intend them to, I would like you to know one thing, son: If you do the things your father has done to me, you should fear me more than your wife or significant other. Wrong is wrong. We don’t condone wrong. Condoning such things makes me an accomplice to your behavior.
My mama calls it, ‘holding your feet to the fire’.
In this family, you’re accountable for the choices you make. You don’t get out of your decisions because of piss-ass excuses. A choice belongs to you. Now, child, I ain’t perfect and I don’t pretend to be. I did things.
When I read those words from another woman, I hit that man we call “daddy”. I hit him several times. I regret letting my anger control my actions. I had to go away. I had to tell my son, “Mama is sick.” Indeed, I don’t deny… my heart had been broken. Oh, how a broken heart feels deathly. It’s still broken. I went to Therapist Lady and we patched my heart up the best we could.
I cannot laugh.
I cannot remember a life before this year.
I don’t recall how rage feels when it isn’t subtly settled in the stomach.
How rage burns all the way up to the heart and the head.
My baby never fret none
About what my hands and my body done
If the lord don’t forgive me
I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me
I made a promise:
Now, I’ve been absolutely, utterly, exhaustingly busy. I wish I didn’t have to write about the hurt. But this man, this supposed human, can’t stop his lying. He keeps lying. Tried starving me out this past weekend. Our son had went to spend the night with his grandparents, and this ‘man’ refused to buy my groceries. All I eat/drink is coffee, creamer, and Cheerios with milk. I stopped giving him money in April.
There’s a reason: he won’t create a joint account. He had taken all our tax money for well over three years and put it into an account he knew I didn’t have access to. I let him. Thought we were a team. We are nothing.
He’s starved me from love. From affection. From sex. From support. From any kind words. From money.
Does food matter to me?
I keep a bottle of Rose for emergencies.
Wine drunk truth spills forth from my gut. He likes to record me when I’m angry. It’s a control issue. I don’t care to be recorded, I am not ashamed. I am the person I am. I loved a man. He cheated on me. He had a girl over in my bed. He slept with her. She admits it. He lies. I write, while simultaneously wanting to burn our bed in the front yard.
A man tells me to pray.
I tell him I spent all day Saturday crying and screaming prayers to God. He says God heard those prayers, and to write them down. Tonight, I wish to write those prayers for all to read. Because I believe. I’ve always believed in a power higher than man.
God, please let me get out of here with my son. Please send me a job offer. Please let me find love and take this hate out of my heart. Please hear my prayers and forgive me for all my sins. Please defend me in battle. Thank you for all that you have blessed me with. I have faith in you. Amen.
When my time comes around, I’m not ashamed. I’m not sorry for having loved. I am only tired. I want a man to hug me. To touch me again. To love me. I want to not have to work at love with all might and strength. I want a house by the ocean. I want to write, without fear.
His mother will call.
She will ask if he read these words I’ve written tonight.
He will scold me for them.
I will tell him to sue me.
I write what I want.
When I want.
How I want.
This is my truth, and it’s setting me free.
When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold dark earth
No grave can hold my body down