Image by rgveta
So, I finally held the knife to my neck.
The bloody mess that exploded from heaven and hell
And everything in between, as my husband screamed,
(Not much of a negotiator, he) things about our home and
The sleeping kid, the dog, the parents, the old, lady Guinea pig,
The dreams yet to achieve, the places yet to see, lies all
Lies, except perhaps the part about the love, the child,
Him. The parents. The dog and the old Guinea pig.
It’s for them that I held the knife between my neck and my cheek.
But he did not see it.
I did it to free them from the madness, the invisible
Racoons hanging from the lamps, the loser they are tied to,
The waste of space that I am. But not. He cried and cried.
As if people did not die every day, all the days,
In all the times, babies and grannies and cats.
Whole towns and lonely homeless men on a bench.
We were born to die, and I’m just spitting at my destiny’ in the face,
Doing it my own way. He listens to nothing I say.
He just begs. Looking at me with the blue eyes I have never
Been able to say not to. I weakened and demand:
No doctors this time; no hospital beds.
He promises just a hug in exchange for the knife; the key to the door
That’ll let me escape this hell. And I give in. Give. In.
And he lies, of course.
‘Cause he loves me, scorns the voice in my head,
With a sing-a-long tone. And there goes my
Happy ever after, Cerberus is grabbing me
With all his heads, Pinning me, in the name of love,
into the Dantesque darkness within myself.
The silly doctor asks all his ridiculous questions,
As he watches. My personal Hades.
Sitting on the other side of the bed,
Light and dark, small and grand,
Holding his Persephone’s hand,
With all his godly, loving might.