Breaking up and breaking dawn

walking out
the grey light of morning

my footsteps echo in the alcove
and I know you are back there
warm in your bed

its cold on the other side of your door

the shining sun
must be lost behind the clouds
as rain falls down my cheeks

I want to run back inside
and borrow an umbrella

Grief

I am a white-hot ball of anger

I am a cold blue pool of despair

I am the cool green grass of acceptance

I am the long orange sunset of denial

I am the woman bargaining for love in your arms.

Pass me the bread

“What do you want to eat?” it’s a common question, but for me these are six of the scariest words in the English language. I have Interstitial Cystitis (IC), a chronic bladder disease where the symptoms are most similar to a urinary tract infection that never goes away. IC is a disease best controlled by extensive diet modifications. Because of my illness, I haven’t eaten citrus fruit in over three years. Imagine that, three years without an orange. I can’t have coffee, tea, chocolate, or alcohol. My salads are dressing free and I avoid sauces and spices with almost religious fervor. I spent the first year of my illness living on a diet of toast, as I slowly learned which foods were safe and which foods would land in me in the doctor’s office. So when my boyfriend asks me where I want to eat or what food I am in the mood for, I am often struck dumb with terror and paralyzed with shame. I know IC isn’t my fault and that I haven’t done anything wrong. But I feel bad that he is limited to the diners, burger joints, and pho restaurants where I feel safe. “Oh, god,” I think to myself, “nobody else should have to live a life this devoid of flavor”

Its not just dating that is difficult with the IC diet; it is every social occasion. American’s love food, we celebrate with food, we mourn with food, and we bond over a cup of coffee or drinks at the bar. At a recent party with friends, the dining room table was filled with chocolate swirl cheesecake, a collection of meaty sauce laden sandwiches, pigs in a blanket, and French bread with cheese. As I nibbled my dry bread and cheese, I tried to look at the bright side. At least I wouldn’t gain any weight from the cheesecake. I am very good at looking at the bright side. Because I don’t drink I am always the designated driver, which often means I am the only one who can remember everything that happened in an evening. Still, despite my attempts to see the silver lining I usually feel like I am standing under a perpetual rain cloud. It sucks to be the only girl at the bar nursing a glass of cold water, while friends toast with champagne cocktails or do shots of tequila. Bartender’s give me dirty looks for wasting their time and waitresses sigh dramatically when I pepper them with questions about what ingredients go into their food. A simple occasion like a family dinner or a potluck, is a minefield that must be negotiated with the delicacy of a bomb diffuser. I am always faced with the same choice: over share and explain my disease or try and obfuscate my reasons under a blanket of polite excuses. It’s usually better just to eat first and decline everything but the safest foods. I’ve toyed with Nan in Indian restaurants,  moved plain white rice and broccoli around my plate in late night Chinese diners, and watched other’s eat countless homemade recipes while I nibble the bread.

 I was raised to eat the food people gave me. When I was eight my lunch box had a sticker that said, “Food is Good.” All food, any food, when you are hungry is good, its not the time to be picky. These days I am hungry all the time. But it’s not food I am hungry for, but flavor. Its not that I don’t eat enough, I do. I eat oatmeal, salmon salads, pho, burgers, and French toast. But my life lacks flavor and more importantly it lacks freedom. So what do I what do I want to eat? I want to eat everything. Now, please pass me the bread.

Independence Day

the independence documents came today
they arrived a bit early
one day before the 4th of july
nearly nine years
since we joked
about loosing our independence
joining our lives together
our love
our heart
our life
together eternally

only eternity isn't as forever as it used to be
its an ephemeral love bubble
bound to pop
its fleeting fireworks
determined to explode
its the moment when I believed
and its this moment too

Not there

its not there you know
i've looked and looked
under couch cushions and inside books
but its not there

i've listened to your stories
looked deep into your eyes
but it's not there

i'm playing scrabble with too many letters
and the pieces do not fit
i can rearrange them a million ways
but its not there

putting together furniture without instructions
never comes out right
and i'm going back to the store
because i've got a screw loose
but its not there

you're tying me up
or tying me down
and my imagination is running wild
but its not there

want

its late at night
eyes heavy with smokey intoxication
i can feel my desire
rising between my legs
shooting up towards my core
raining back down
sliding onto my thighs

Suspcicions

an odd mixture of hubris and fear
lingers around my thoughts late at night
when I suspect everyone of secrets
where my own lack of discretion
is just enough rope
to tie me up in knots

and I fear that he has lost interest

his caution stirring only apprehension

dampening lust and dimming hopes

and I fear that my ex-husband is reading my poetry
secretly viewing my desires,
coveting my disappointments and disaffection
searching for clues to scandal

and I fear that she will never speak to me again

her anger and resentment builds a wall

of deeply entrenched bravado

it competes with the righteous indignation 

in my own heart