Burn The Bed

I wish to burn off my bed.
Yes, the entire white queen sized mattress.
It all.
Poof.
Gasoline.
Flames.
I had smile.
I had grin.
I had rejoice at watching THAT bed burn off.
Regrettably, I am not strong enough to drag it downstairs.
The headboard is thick.
The mattress is also awkward.
The box spring will not bend.
There are stairs.
I surely can’t place it on fire at the home.
Burning beds probably smell awful and make a mess.
I had much rather burn it from front lawn. This way the neighbors can see.

Is that the type’a means to deal with the burning heat?
I only consider my infant
I am so full of love I could hardly eat,
Hozier- Function Song

I would burn the sheets, so I am not exactly sure which ones have been on the mattress.

I keep stripping off the bed and washing off the sheets in hot water, bleach, and leaving the mattress. I’ve reversed the feather mattress around a million times. I refuse to sleep at THAT mattress. I despise the colossal white headboard. My shins always struck on the hidden corners. I thought of trimming all the bedding. In addition, I have not finished paying off the $200 quilt from Macy’s. I really like my typewriter sheets. I hope they did not screw my typewriter sheets. These are my favorite sheets.

It is not my bedroom.   Daddy’s room. 

My money has moved into making it a part of our home. Making it our marital bedroom. Then he brought her into my own bed. Let her body put in my turquoise quilt. The next day I discovered her cigarette butts in the ashtray. And I can’t get the scene from mind. I can’t sleep. I don’t need to consume. I’m still a mother. The only time I smile is when I see my little one.

There is nothing cuter than my infant
I would never want once out of the cherry tree
‘Cause my baby’s sweet as can be

Sweet boy…. My sweet, sweet sweet kid. I beg you to not become as him. Do not continue the disrespect. Do not continue to pass down what should have stopped in the past generation. We honor girls. We cherish girls. When we make a claim to a girl we keep our word.

If those words continue as long as I intend them to, then I want you to know one thing, kid: should you do what your dad has donepersonally, you should fear me more than your wife or significant other.   Wrong is incorrect. We don’t condone wrong. Condoning such things makes me an accomplice to your behaviour.

My mama calls it ‘holding your feet to the fire’.

In this family, you are liable for the decisions you’re making. You don’t get out of your decisions due to piss-ass excuses. A choice belongs to you personally. Now, kid, I ain’t perfect and I don’t pretend to be. I did things.

While I read those words from another girl, I struck that guy we call “dad”. I struck him several times. I regret letting my anger control my own activities. I had to move away. I had to inform my son “Mama is ill.” Indeed, I don’t deny… my heart was broken. Oh,    the way the broken spirit feels deathly. It is still broken. I moved into Therapist Lady and we patched my heart up how we can.

I cannot laugh.
I can’t recall a life before this season.
I don’t recall how rage feels when it is not subtly settled in the gut.
How rage burns all the way up into the center and the mind.

My infant never ever fret none
About what my palms and my body completed
When the lord don’t irritate me
I would still have my baby and my babe could have me

I made a promise:

Now, I’ve been absolutely, utterly, exhaustingly busy. I wish I did not have to write about the hurt. However, this guy, this supposed individual, can’t quit his lying. He keeps lying. Tried starving me out this weekend. Our son had went to spend the night with his grandparents, and this ‘guy’ refused to buy groceries. I eat/drink is coffee, creamer, and Cheerios with milk. I stopped giving him cash in April.

There is an explanation: he will not produce a joint account. He had taken all    our tax money for well over three decades and place it into an account that he understood I did not have access to. I let him. Thought we’re a team. We are nothing.

He has starved me from love. From affection. From gender. From service. From any kind words. From cash.

Does food thing to me?

No.
I keep a bottle of Rose for emergencies.

Wine drunk fact spills forth from my gut. He likes to capture when I am angry. It is a control issue. I don’t care to get listed, I’m not ashamed. I’m the man I am. I loved a guy. He cheated on me. He had a girl in my own bed. He slept. It admits. He also lies. I write, while simultaneously wanting to burn off our bed from the front lawn.

A guy tells me to beg.

I inform him I spent all day Saturday crying and yelling prayers to God. He says God heard those prayers, and also to write them down. Tonight, I wish to write those prayers for everyone to read. Since I think. I’ve always thought in a power greater than man.

God, please allow me to get out of this in my son. Please send me a job offer. Please allow me to find love and take this hate from my own heart. Please hear my thoughts and forgive me for all my sins. Please defend me  combat. Thank you for everything you’ve blessed me with. I have faith in you. Amen. 

When my period comes about, I am not ashamed. I am not accountable for having loved. I’m only tired. I would like a guy to hug me. To touch me again. To appreciate me. I would like to not have to work in love with all strength and might. I would like a home by the ocean. I wish to write, with no anxiety.

His mother will call.
She’ll ask if he read these words I’ve written tonight.
He’ll scold me.
I will tell him to sue me.

I write what I want.
While I want.
Just how I want.

That is my reality, and it is setting me free.

When my period comes about
Set me softly at the cold dark earth
No grave can hold my body down

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