Honesty Pants

This poem is a little graphic, but I wrote it a long time ago for a friend who was going through a tough time. It is difficult to stand by and watch as a friend is hurting -- especially if the pain inflicted upon them is done by their own two hands. The format is a little off because I had it differently in Microsoft Word. I tried to redeem the format as much as possible.

Speaking of downward spirals,

What a familiar ride –the way Passion pushed her down again.
Each tight turn of gravity carried her back to the plastic, six-foot blue slide planted on the playground of her childhood – an acutely nostalgic kind of falling.


Yesterday I found her Ziploc casket of white numbing pills and
wondered if she missed them
when she birthed his bastard child – nine months
after he left her
with empty pockets and demanding emotional bills because the Cyclops living inside her was an unreliable tenant –

Yet, the midnight moon paid his dues
with cheap conversation as the vehicle of his mind
tore                      apart
her dreams –
the illusion of love was merely
the means by which he hitch-hiked onto the highway of foreplay
the means by which he could rock and rise, cling and climb –

she, a 206-boned cruise ship, and
he, the captain – with
his cocoa-buttered football fingers created to pasteurize her skim milk skin – again and again.


She tells me
her hollow frame was tailored for unfaithful husbands –
and the apathy suits her just fine.

And still, months after her him,
a microscopic spark       c  r  a  w  l  s    a  l  o  n  g
another man’s wood,
kindling an insatiable flame in the fireplace of her
cold,
ash-covered chimney
heart – the only home she has; a
home where warmth needs this night, and
each night needs this warmth because it is winter
beyond her walls and the landlord living inside her
shut off the electricity.