Just so everyone knows: when a lover distorts truth and/or lies about your friends and family, so you isolate yourself from those people, that’s classic abusive behavior. Once you no longer have friends you can go to, the abuser introduces worse and worse behavior, and you put up with it because “everyone else is worse.” Except not, of course, and once the abuser is done with you, you’ll have NO one left in your life.
It’s natural for people to develop antipathy within extended social circles. If your boyfriend can’t stand your friends, that’s okay. If your boyfriend lies to you and poisons your other relationships, that’s not okay. One is a hothead. The other is an abuser.
In some ways, I’ll be glad when this Summer is over; there’s a lot about it I haven’t liked—above and beyond the East San Diego County heat, even.
I was glad to have my chapbook launch, and glad for many of the events I attended this Summer. The Ken’s week of cinema classics was the best it’s been in a long time; I discovered Ran, which I think is officially now my favorite Kurosawa.
Poem fragments of my project keep coming; each birth is different, but this is the strangest since California.
I’m lucky to be as privileged as I am, and lucky to have my husband Adrian.
Someone broke my heart this past Spring, but this Summer taught me that sometimes, people just won’t live up to the potential I could see in them; some people are just destined to spiral. And, after all, there is indeed no one you can save who can’t be saved.
Once again, I’m at a crossroads as to what I want to do with this blog, and what I want from it. Weekly updates weren’t happening (big surprise), but I do feel like I need to support my poetry more. Mailing list coming soon? 😛
So I still have video left over to edit from the chapbook launch. I had to clean/amp all the audio, as it was from my friend’s GoPro at the other end of the cafe. Also, there’s a poem or two I don’t want to post. Also, poem title text overlays.
“At heart, I am a Muslim,
At heart, I am an American,
At heart, I am a Muslim,
At heart, I am an American Artist
And I have no guilt…”
So he only showed up in the online grid every few weeks—
Never a picture, usually just a period dot for the name, no
Stats, no descriptions, literally as small and vanished as he could be
And still be there; he always messaged me first.
He always asked me to send a new selfie.
“What about you”
“I’m not the woman”
I mean, we all come to this a little broken, a little unsure
Of ourselves, of reality; he was just worse than most and
Maybe if someone sat through the text rants and didn’t block him
And sent him a dick pick when demanded, when he really needed
To be crude and blunt—to a man—and listened to him puzzle through
Everything his father said—well, maybe that wouldn’t—couldn’t—can’t—
Be enough, but if it could have been you would have done it, paid it,
Suffered it. Because he can’t help it. Because he deserves a chance
To be someone you deserve and because—most of all—no one has ever
Given him a break on this, all this, this whole secret that’s somehow his
And if what you feel means anything bigger at all then you will give him
That break. That redemption.
(Now, of course, you’re the only one who ever will.)
Well it’s just one more thing—I’m so used to it!—to imagine away, to think
Past: he won’t tell his wife,
He can’t tell his father,
He only actually calls me when he’s drunk,
And all those people at the club, all that blood—
The club where he’d hang out in the corner, drinking,
Where he’d sit and text me about how everyone there has AIDS
Where the CNN reporters found guys to interview, guys who
Were creeped out by him, who chatted and blocked him, guys
Who lost someone they loved that night.
—I lost someone I loved that night, too, but
I guess I don’t want anyone to know, I guess
I just want to remember past to the one time he messaged me
From a hotel, a business trip, said we should get a room
Together, and I teased him and made him send a pic
And it’s just his chest and boxers and I still have it and
Sometimes I can almost believe that it still might happen, that
One night I’ll turn around in a hotel bed and press my ear to that
Softly bristled dark chest in the picture, that I still might have a chance
To wait, to hear his racing heart finally lull to sleep.