Pretend

 

Not another phone call. I just can’t.

My fake voice, the one who says, “despite all evidence pointing to my life being unbearably overwhelming, I have it all under control”, that voice is silenced right now.

My own hand gripping tightly at my throat, 

begs silence.

Playing pretend is exhausting. 

It once saved me. 

Monopoly money and property cards in my childhood games of real estate.

Repeated meet-cutes between my afro-queen Barbie and the Ken with brushable auburn hair and mousse. 

Pretend looks different now. 

Like the big smiles and warm laughter I don’t know how to turn off. 

The internal managers hoarding my tears refuse to let me have any to fall.

I squint my eyes and will them…please, please let me cry. 

Pretend is a costume I didn’t know would be glued on. 

Where is the tub of acetone to soak in? Can I get it off like grown-out acrylic nails? 

It’s a wonder there’s anyone left underneath. 

But I hear her sometimes…wrestling with the throat choking hands. 

Raspy voice pleading, “let her cry. Let her scream.”

The rawness of that human is Golem. 

Sun-deprived and lifetimes from believing 

we get what we deserve. 

A midday warm bed is Golem’s cave. 

Words, food, motivation?

What are these things you speak of?

Sadness is engulfing.

Songs help me feel. 

Depression? Maybe, and maybe a silent protest. 

“Dear universe, you suck. Will you ever tire of ruining people?”

Prayers are…interesting. 

How does one pray for their life, when it’s obvious the people of Gaza have been praying for theirs, too?

What if omnipotent has been misspelled and it’s actually i-m-p-o-t-e-n-t. 

“Unable to take effective action”.

I saw a neon green car with stickers that confused and enraged me.

“Don’t tread on me”

“Sig”

Israel flag

Folded hands and “pray”

What has happened to my fellow humans for them to equate praying and adoration of guns as a cohesive outlook?

I sighed heavily as a man I once knew opened the car door and climbed inside. 

“Not him, too”, I thought.

Another one I hoped would be better than that. 

The sadness doesn’t feel so crazy.

It feels honest. 

Phone calls to medical providers, insurance companies, schools.

I’m critical of myself and the privilege those damn phone calls hold. 

I’m angry my child is losing her childhood to never ending pain and loneliness.

I’m still hurt, maybe I’ll always be, that the folks who first taught me about love were the first ones to abandon me. 

I miss Mama Shelly. She would’ve known what to say. 

She would’ve hugged the Hell right out of me. 

Finally, tears.