He wants me to feel like a criminal.
He wants me to feel non-custodial,
a little empty, and less responsible.
My heart is a wind chime that sings bells for my son.
Privately, I suffer.
Hours, I sit waiting.
Wasting my time, hoping.
He knows this.
A cloud swings by lowly and I shake my fist,
cursing the semblance
of he who chariots the enemy swiftly to sea.
Another time when we agreed to agree
so he could avoid the paper trail
that would secure a chance at compromise.
I don’t want to be here now.
I have thought stupid,
I have pushed stupid,
and I have carried it into his sunset.
The haze of orange, red, pink
when all I want to taste of is darkness.
I need this prison to nurture the harm he has given.
Fuck the humid outdoors,
I want to sit by the window and freeze,
then wrap myself tighter until I can no longer breathe…
But the only thing that would mean to him…
Is that he wins.
©2012 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved