Anecdoche

"One Advantage Of Talking To Yourself Is That You Know At Least Somebody's Listening." - Franklin P. Jones

[lifeinpoetry]

I don’t know who I am anymore. The previous sentence is a lie. The previous sentence is a lie

Jackson Nieuwland, from “Compulsive Liar,” published as part of the 2016 Featured Finalists for Nostrovia! Press (via lifeinpoetry)

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

Compulsion

I lie about how much sugar I like in my tea. It seems so insignificant, but it means I don’t have to face the million accusations that might follow about early onset diabetes or my rather bitter personality; a joke, I know.

I lied to her about my father passing away to make it seem like I understood her pain of losing a parent. He visited us five months later. She left me the following week.

I decided to try and give up my addiction.

I called my boss a pig for telling a recently widowed co-worker that if she remembered to come in to work on Wednesday, she might’ve been able to keep her husband alive and pay off his medical bill. He fired me.

I lost everything.

So, I relapsed. I lied and got a better job. I lied and got a better girl. I still lie about how much sugar I like in my tea. It doesn’t seem so insignificant anymore.

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

SENECTITUDE | TIMESTAMP

They decorated her face like intricate lacework, her wrinkles. The lines by her eyes showed every sleepless night she spent doing shifts at the hospital to raise her three children who didn’t fully understand the pain of poverty, the same children who felt neglected and underappreciated by her tending to dying children instead of helping them with their homework. They hung low below her gaze between the folds of her eye bags she despised so much. “God blessed you with two gleaming gems. Don’t hide them behind all those hours of sleep you didn’t get,” she fussed.

   Her forehead was filled in with horizontal anxieties from when her older one was going through a phase of experimentation; late nights worrying where he was, if he had eaten, what company he kept. I wouldn’t blame her, not after he went missing for a week because he forgot to tell her he had decided to take the bike on a spin through the winding roads of Mt Khali. Anna wasn’t much better either. She did come home once with a boyfriend who hardly had any space left between the ink and holes punched into rather odd places. I don’t think her eyebrows ever did come back down to where they were supposed to be after that one. Although, these margins were also forced to fill with stories of endless death scares before her diabetic husband finally left her for heart failure. The poor woman didn’t know if she was coming or going.

   My favourite ones though, spilled out from the corners of her lips. They reminded me of the laughter we shared when I would trip on the ice in the winter while trying to help her with the groceries, only to send an army of fruit and vegetable flying onto the lawn of our seemingly unassuming neighbour. Surely he was too nice to approach her about my peculiar lack of balance that possibly needed a doctor’s visit, or more likely, a new pair of boots. They reminded me of when she would send a cheeky grin my way that undoubtedly said that I was her favourite one when the other two were bickering about something ridiculous like using too much toilet paper. They reminded me of our giggle fits when she would absentmindedly wipe the sweat off my forehead and cheeks in one swift motion with a palm full of bread flour. I liked to think those lines were all mine, mine to make and mine to keep.

    With time, her skin began to grow accustomed to every experience she lived through with us. The light in her eyes fell dim with each memory she misplaced along the way, a void that would instead fill itself with feelings of being forgotten. The last time I kissed my mama’s forehead was the last time I caught the glimpse of a stubborn fold hiding in the right corner of her mouth. It seemed tired and bent out of shape, struggling to grow. I felt somewhat disappointed in myself, yet satisfied to have left a mark on her life, especially after she carefully collected them in making one for us.

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

Individual They Stand As Lines,

Together They Form A Soul.

[szkodnikpospolity-blog]

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

She Forgets That I See The Beauty That She Cannot

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

A Mother Indeed...

- FUMI

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

BOND | OBLIGATION

  The red liquid slipped between her stained lips and spilled onto her tongue and teeth as she called for its heavy body to inject her senses with the familiar, silky accents of oak. The smoky undertones swallowed the air from the depths of her throat, threatening her of the drink’s intentions. She didn’t care. As her body began to accept each stroke, it slowly coaxed her mind into unfurling its thoughts unto the pages of her tattered journal. Blank pages turned to red as each letter fled into a frenzy, filling the gaps between thought and tangibility.

   She sighed as her fingers reached over to trace the vacant spots on his head where hair once grew. His eyelids twitched as drool collected in a small pool on the sleeve of her blouse. It was four in the morning and she had yet to find solace in the arms of sleep. He fell on the spectrum, somewhere between gifted and retarded depending on who felt it their duty to let her know of her own blood. Admittedly, there were times when she could hardly tell, unless he had one of his fits. They would last anything between thirty minutes to two hours. Shrill screams that would etch themselves into the walls of their studio apartment, wallpaper curling at the edges as if in repulsion. He would thrash his limbs about so hard, you were convinced he was being attacked by the very air he breathed.

   The twelve years that separated them never failed to make their presence known. How could they, when you’re forced out of your own home and made to replace the mother of a child too offensive for her to keep.Time, she prayed, would nurture their family back to health. Instead, they grew accustomed to an air thick with the putrid smell of piss and medicine swelling behind locked doors and barred windows. Their strolls around the neighbourhood fell few and far between as his outbursts grew more intense. Her heart sank with each letter that revealed a new detail of his medical condition. There is guilt in wishing death upon the only family you have left, yet she found the thought often slipping into her daydreams. At which point were you allowed to start your life? When another’s terminated? She cradled his head between her palms, searching for reasons why she trapped herself behind this sea of resentment she knew she could hardly mask. How could any parent do that? To abandon the broken is ugly, but to continue financing their abandonment was treachery.

   She refused to hold back the tears any longer as ink turned line to smudge in odd parts of the page, another soon-to-be unsent letter to the accused. It spoke of a thirty-two-year-old whose life was dedicated to a losing battle with a disease that wasn’t hers. It spoke of a guilt that was never hers to bear. It embodied the story of a single mother who held long, heartfelt conversations with red and blue to feel a little less grey about what was, is and will be.

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

“ ... Hardly Mask ... ”

- BOND | OBLIGATION

[my-aesthetics-world]

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

“ But, how, can I exist within the midst of this?

  But, how, can I admit that I would quit on you? ”

- MISSIO

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

LOVE | ABUSE

“Hello my little star… how’s work going?”

 It was the fourth call I’d received in three hours. I’m not quite sure what he expected me to say.

 “Work is fine, honey. Ben dropped by, actually. I’m going to go get a coffee with him in a bit.”

 “Ben? You wouldn’t want to do that now, would you? How about this, meet me in an hour. We’ll get coffee at Café Casa,” he insisted.

 “But we just had breakfast together this morning? Ben…”

 “Lana, I’m not asking you anymore. I’m telling you. Rain check on him, get coffee with me. See you there. I love you,” he said before abruptly dropping the call.

 “I love you too,” I mumbled as I kept my phone face-down. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone out for a tea or lunch without him changing my plans. As I sat there thinking about it, I wasn’t fully sure when it was that I last saw my own parents. I suppose that’s the trade-off of starting your own family. That, and the fact that I still had a nasty bruise by my jaw.

 We met at a restaurant by the bay, where my best friend introduced me to him as her colleague. I was twenty-seven, divorced, and a mother at the time, while he was at the top of his firm, well versed, and astonishingly handsome; How could I resist? As days turned to weeks, he insisted that my two-year-old and I move in with him, which I thought was rather early but I wasn’t opposed. He looked after her when my friends and I took to the bars, although he would show up after putting her to bed to make sure I didn’t drink too much. My friends were always weary of him, but I knew he only did those things because he loved me.

 “Lana, you’re working late. Family emergency,” yelled my boss from across the hall. I made sure to groan loud enough for her to hear before texting Tony. Surely he would understand.

 “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for three hours,” he spat as I closed the door behind me.

 “I’m sorry. I sent you a text?” I whispered.

 “Text? I’m supposed to rely on a text?” He grabbed me by the back of my neck and shoved me onto the floor. I winced as I tried to pick myself up and press down on the freshly tender areas of my skin. He kneeled beside me, and held my chin up to his face. His eyes had grown softer.

 “Hey, I love you. You know that right? Don’t ever do that again. Aly was up asking where her mama was and…” he stopped to grit his teeth before relaxing them again. “Just don’t do it again, okay?” he whispered before kissing my jaw and going upstairs.

 I sat there by the door, biting my lip thinking about how selfish I was. They were all I had.

 “I love you too,” I whispered.

[illbeforeverweird]

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

“ My Little Star... “

- LOVE | ABUSE

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

[madeupstories-for-madeuppeople]

Everyone gets angry from time to time. Anger and arguments are normal parts of healthy relationships. But anger that leads to threats, hitting, or hurting someone is not normal or healthy. This is a form of abuse. Physical, verbal, or sexual abuse is not okay in any relationship. When it occurs between spouses or partners or in a dating relationship, it is called domestic abuse.

It’s not ok.

You may be blinded by “love,” but you're not deaf.

Listen to what people have to say.

Ask for help.