weekday lover part 27.869

sometimes my unkempt sheets document the bedtime battlefield

my duvet's on the floor in a fetal position
calling for her mother
and my pillow's wearing a black eye like a fashion accessory

the empty space on my full-sized bed reminds me of how we could never get close enough on the twin mattress tucked in the corner of your room



i always wanted us to be more than we were. i always wanted your hands to wander over your heart and pluck it out of your chest like tweezers do eyebrows. i always wanted you to give me more than you gave.

you faithfully followed a recipe for resentment. all that was left to do was watch the clock.

i'll spoon feed you my eye if you hand me the carving knife
the wolf told me it would improve your hindsight
i just want to keep all the promises you and god never could

i'll cut out your heart before you forget me
don't forget me
the world's not ready

i'll chop off my middle finger
that carries the ring my mother gave
with honest intentions and melancholia curling up her leg
"sorry we're moving out of state
and we let the sign in the front yard do the talking
i still love you"
the ring is my daily bread of "no matter what i do, i still love you"
but store the finger in your freezer



i speak gory and bloody
i'm sorry and nutty
i performed a lobotomy
and then lost that part of me
along with the forgiven nights

i handed out too many forgiven nights without payment
you owe me cigarettes, movie tickets, coffee, breakfast, cocaine money, and apologies

one morning, i woke you at seven to explain that i hadn't fallen asleep
the porn wasn't doing it for me
i was back-to-the-wall, dead duck, up the creek
and you called me a freak
just like my daddy used to before he curled his hands into fists

but honey, i'm still cutting out pieces of myself and that means i'm not done with you yet
the pinky toe guarantees i'll do the dishes more often
the left ear atones for the father who was too preoccupied to hear your cries for help
and the skin on my knee confesses that the cat didn't run away
he was hit by the neighbor and i buried him for us



i was just hoping to convert you to my religion of happiness
because i smile every day without considering the muscles it requires to do so
and i ached for my happy happy happy
to rub off on your tongue like a new language
to fall onto your bookshelf instinctively like dust
to repair your perspective like a new prescription

but the last night, i softened into shades of blue,
and my eyes were sewn into my lap to prevent eye contact
i was begging for your arms to envelop my shrinking frame, shriveling with the shame of old secrets
but you said, "despite all this, i still want to have sex with you"
detached lips responded and severed limbs followed into the backseat
your dick was wet with tears but you were too high to notice
you said, "i dare you to make me cum. you know just how daddy likes it."



and i'm bleeding life onto the carpet
and blood swears i'll water the grass
i'll call the repairman for the sprinklers
i'll water your heart with validation and understanding
i'll make sure you eat more vegetables

don't leave me
don't leave me

and then i remember

i left you

Sitcom

Sitcom moms are not levelheaded. They assume the majority of the emotions in their hetero-normative partnership, slap laugh lines and furrowed eyebrows onto their resumes. And in order to provide viewers with sugar AND spice, tit AND grit, these characters have wild mood swings which are then blamed on their oh-so-feminine hormones. As both the judge and jury of their children's alleged crimes, their initial sentence is the silent treatment, a punishment easier said than done. Once the dead air has laid thick and placid for an extended period of time, the sitcom mom either begins yelling or crying, unable to keep her exasperation in check any longer. She inevitably says something to the child that she later regrets and/or realizes is offensive. Then, in a turn of events, she purchases gifts to make up for her actions, usually without discussing what happened between her and her child.

My mom is a sitcom mom. My life is a sitcom.

There's a whole series entitled, "The Slap." I was slapped and I was more than slapped more than a few times.

My life is a sitcom.

The first time I watched "The Truman Show," I became convinced it explained my life story.

I was the Truman Burbank of Alpine, Utah,
the twenty first century girl,
4.0 GPA scrawled in Sharpie across my forehead
and expectations weighing down my feet like sleepless nights.

My life is a sitcom.

In "Weeds," Celia is a suburban mom who is focused on reducing her daughter's weight to teaspoons and tablespoons. My weight ebbed and flowed like the tide, and my mother was the hyper-vigilant moon looking down from the sky.

My life is a sitcom.

This sitcom provided a look at a white Mormon family who struggled to hide the mental health problems, eating disorders, emotional and physical abuse, and lack of overall coping skills.

I was the stereotypical blond teenager that wrapped herself in an over-sized grunge sweater to keep the cold away. I wore anxiety on my hands like a matching leather tote. People liked me and people hated me, but there were enough of the two to balance each other out on each side of the equal sign.

My life is a sitcom.

I was the enigma sitting alone in the 500 hall during lunch, and I thought depression was a love song from the devil. If there was a director, he would have killed me off halfway through season 2.

I brought back the fad of disappointing my parents. Just like Cain, I killed Abel. Co-dependence had me by the neck and there are still fingerprints, so God rests assured I don't forget the memories.

I brought Sylvia Plath and suicide attempts back from the dead. I read the Bell Jar back in seventh grade and it still has a place reserved on my bedside table. Blue was the only color I saw for years, and rainbows belonged to Harry Potter and the mermaids.

I was promised Koolaid and forgiveness.

My life was a sitcom.

Reality knocked the denial from my fingers like it was an addiction I could not let go of.

Alpine was not a set.
Dysfunctional families are prime for reality television, but my dysfunctional family was not chosen for the limelight.
My dad was not acting when he shoved me against the wall and I wilted like a flower who was tired of pretending the world was okay.

The bruises were real
and the arguments were real
and the depression was real
and there wasn't a director who was going to resolve every thirty minutes with happy endings for the international fan base.

Today, I sent my father a picture of my new septum piercing.
He didn't respond with, "It looks good on you," or "I like it,"
because my father is not an actor.
He said, "I love you."
And I wouldn't have it any other way.