So many of your
carefully cultivated talents
seem to unfailingly aim
directly at my soft spots.
It is a rare gift,
this thoroughness
at uncovering all
the places where I amount
to too little.
Would that you take your
artistry somewhere else.
Remember all those cute promises
and good intentions?
And yet here we are,
standing on the edge
of a precipice once again.
Counting sleepless nights,
shed tears, and wasted efforts,
only to realise the balance
will never add up.
© november child
photo credit: Black Station via Flickr
Wintergreen hedges
(no rotten leaves here, please),
cut precisely into square,
impenetrable walls,
fencing in narrow front yards,
doing no favour to the pricey
whitewashed houses
masquerading as the
epitome of respectability.
Double door garages, witness
to what a man is able to
provide, though red tile roofs have
lost their sheen because
money only goes that far,
multi-paneled windows
keep in the noise of
quarrels which, officially,
never took place.
Unbothered by Saturday’s
car washing and lawn mowing,
freedom beckons not too
far away, in the shape of
a night sky aglow with
the reflection of city lights,
the skyline visible
if you scramble up that hill.
© november child
photo credit: Mark Hadley via Flickr
in response to Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Wordle #153
In the Shadows. Waiting. For Him. Again.
It seems it is all she has been doing lately.
Nerve-wracking hours spent glued to a window,
hoping against hope, set up for disappointment.
Wishing. In the Shadows. Praying. Again.
Urging the next headlights that brighten
the dark corners of the room, but never
the darkness in her heart, to be his.
Hurting. Crying. In the Shadows. Again.
Humiliated by the memories of the smell of
too sweet perfume on his skin, and the trail
on his back where nails, not hers, drew blood.
In the Shadows. Scorned. Angry. Again.
Facing the self-loathing caused by
her indecisiveness, when all it takes is
to pack his suitcase and leave it at the front door.
© november child
in response to Michelle Toussaint Photo Fiction #77
photo credit: Josefine Jonsson
Stop redefining my boundaries
just to convince yourself
that you did not breach them.
Stop diminishing my pain
just to reassure yourself
that you did not hurt me.
Stop deconstructing my defenses
just to demonstrate
that they have been useless all along.
© november child
photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org
You have cordoned off her heart,
declaring it a crime scene,
while you meticulously search
for verification
that she once loved you.
Without substantial proof
you are unable to elicit a confession,
so you assume that
either the evidence has been
severely tampered with,
or else she has committed
the perfect crime.
© november child
photo credit: Brandon Anderson via flickr
Sometimes I wish I could say
I stare at a blank page.
White and pristine,
mercifully devoid of phrases,
a beautifully empty vehicle
waiting to convey my words.
But my pages are filled with scribbles
and really bad doodles,
with expressions and fragments,
arranged and rearranged until barely legible.
I believe I have destroyed
more than one forest with my inaptitude.
And the monstrosities stare back at me,
mocking my feeble wording,
always lacking, always wanting,
cruelly pointing out my inability
to communicate my thoughts,
stoking my frustration.
© november child
photo credit: in transition via flickr
(with my apologies, those are actually very beautiful scribbles as opposed to my own which lack any grace whatsoever)
november child 
