Passed out til noon
She swigs Bloody Marys while applying
War paint with an unsteady hand.
Sunken, hungover, puffy eyes
Veiled by Visine.
Barely gets the red out.
But the sparkle is gone for good.
A counterfeit in coiffed curls and fake smirk.
A gussied up clotheshorse in brand name style.
Dressed to the nines to disguise DUI’s.
Living an artificial reality she deceives even herself.
Sipping on Crown, searching out imperfections in others.
Fabricating falsehoods while pretending frivolity.
Stirring up slanderous gossip with her silver spoon.
Tossed back with a shot of ad naseum
She makes Happy Hour an irony.
Donna J. Heatherly
D. J. Hall
I have become a master at veiling unanswered questions festering deep within my psyche. Thoughts and feelings I ignore during the day can only be squelched fo so long. But, those ignored emotions thrive in the middle of the night and I am tormented by my inner fears and the injustices of which I try to understand. The many questions I try to solve, become completely overwhelming in the course of a dark, silent room in the middle of the night. Or perhaps they are more overwhelming in the light of day, which is why the mind shuts down innocently enough, like a life preserver protecting you from the onslaught of waves, allowing one to climb out of that warm bed each morning. If one allowed the multitude of thoughts, if one felt the pain and worry during the day as intensely as one feels them during the night, perhaps the day would never start at all.
My thoughts are the generic worries which everyone has. But always under the surface is the reoccurring question and concern I have about my partner. This man who has all the characteristics I always wanted, and whom I hold in high regard. This man of wit, moral strength and intelligence. This man who emanates masculinity, and for whom upon meeting, felt mutual sexual attraction to. This man is the only man I have loved to the deepest core of my being and will never stop. This man who has not touched me for over two years.
In the middle of the night, awoken by that familiar stirring, aroused by an erotic dream of my own sexuality and the unmet craving I have for him, I lay awake in silent longing, needing to touch him but unable to reach out. How do I live up to the air brushed images he frequently entertains himself with? Why does he choose to replace a loving and intimate relationship with this damaging diversion? Maybe for the same reason he likes to watch sports that he does not play, living vicariously through what he sees. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, watch. I have gone through such an agony of emotions starting with disbelief and denial to the most ridiculous thoughts of blaming myself. The painful process of grieving a loss of an exquisite intimacy has turned into a quiet numbing anger. I love him greatly and am confident in his sincere love for me. Our love is strong and we are inexplicably bonded. We enjoy each other’s company, quiet movie nights, cooking exceptional meals together and reading in bed. We have built a life together, he has been my friend, my confidante, and sadly, too long ago my lover. He continues to talk about our future while I live in transition, waffling between holding onto the dream of a healthy intimate relationship together or starting over as a single woman of 49. I try not to think about his sexual anorexia. Until the middle of the night.