for those

A vase
perches on the
          edge of the tub,
                               boasting
                                  a burst of milk white flowers.

Careful of it, when climbing out, she steps
onto the inky black bath mat,
sinks her feet into the frill.

The contrast of dark
                                                              and light feels fancy,
                                                              and she wishes
                                                                     she could stay.

Snow
falls outside,
 and from her window, she
                                     sees, first,
                                                   the silken layer on the fir trees before her
vision finds the parking lot below.

She came years ago, but much since then has
       changed.  The room is a planned
                escape.  Really not so far from
home-
but may as well be.

She is different here- or wants to be.

She has dreamed
  of this space,
plotted for months
       the fleeing,
 seen at night the journey marked
         and so knew the winding upward roads
              she traveled.

She finds the altitude
                             up here less dreary
even with the cold
than down in town.
The
sun is
setting quickly now,
and she wraps the weighty
   towel provided around her dripping body, thinks
                            about what brought her back.

Transferring towel
                                    to
hair,
she paces
naked
from the
bathroom to the phone by bedside
  and back again.

Fear stabs unexpected, and so
        she opens the waiting
bottle.  She glugs.  This is
              how she drinks.
                            Compelling
                                 vice.  Like a fish, he always said.
                                                        She drinks greedily, hating herself
but rapidly warming.  His chiding voice returns when she lights a cigarette-
       Another nasty habit.  She hits
              the air like the
              thought is a gnat she can
                                         shoo away.  Her muscles give up hurting on the next swallow, and encouraged,
she revisits intent,
opens the drawer of the nightstand and looks at what
        she brought. Its promise nestled safely away, and
        she almost picks it up
but doesn't.

Not yet.

She decides that maybe first, she'll go to the local tavern, not drink alone this time.
Just for a while be with others.
                                      Others like her.  Free, like her, ungoverned.
Not stuffy and concerned.
Start a tab, play her favorite songs on the jukebox she remembers, dance.
She feels like dancing.

She finds clothes,
and a
little wobbly,
             begins to dress.  It's hot in here, so
                      she dresses lightly.  And just because she can
she puts on her pink, felt hat,
           the
                                                                                                        one he hates,
over applies her makeup,
         and once downstairs where those like her gather, she orders herself a drink.  Is
  it
her third?  Fourth?  She chuckles flippantly  at the
      triumph of her own last call.

The new plan is to pace herself.  Sleep would thwart.
But this
          is tricky
because slowness can set in sadness.
Moods announce themselves by degrees.
                                            See, she's aware.  In control.  She keeps flow
                                                                                                            for the next hour, steady,
dances with a guy named Bobby who offers to take her to her room.
          She declines but decides he's right.  It's time to
                                                           go.

When alone
          again,
she is missing....wishing.....
her eyes betray and droop.
She has not made it
                 to the
bed.
On floor, she
                        struggles
against fatigue's persuasion, but her muscles melt,
and the last
       thought she has before passing out is the recognition that she's fucked up once again.

It's not a nice thought but a thought she has often, coming from a voice she always heeds.
Foul minded always she cannot fathom forgiveness.
She knows no cure.
And in this state
she
will forget
what arrives in silence,
                   see not the
fortune bestowed in a blackout.  She'll wake, angry
                             in the unbearable glow of a morning she did not plan,
                                                                                                          pissed off further
by a forced sobriety when she finds nothing to wash down the guilt, nothing to stave off the shakes.
                   She will not know
                           why she was saved.

She will self-possess in later hours, drive home,
                                       know enough to not mention where she's been.
She will recover.  Then repeat.
Recover.
Repeat.

And if her
                    heart can ever manage to
                                    measure the amount of times it has kept on beating,
                                     maybe she'll come to, one day, like new.
And she'll tell this story.
                                 Or one
just like it.
She'll relay her plans,
she'll talk about the years spent sick,
the times she wasted, just plain fucked-up.
Then she'll say she was saved and she's not sure why.
And her words will be a tribute.
For the others.
Others like her.
Chained like she was.
For those still suffering.

The Sunday Whirl
Write at the Merge

Yielding

She
strains to see the light,
                     holds close what hazy image she possesses,
    and races against the
                                           night.

Finally,
slowing,
           she holds her cramping side, holds back the
                                                                     threatening, wrenching tears, and now
on holy ground,
removes her shoes, feels sod
beneath
         her feet.

She stoops
        to stroke damp growth,
                        and heart still pounding,
                                      she is
                              gaining calm.

She is free here,
soul
showered,
            outlining circles in the dirt, riddles of infinity coming,
                                symbols to mark stark contrast of where she's been and where she's come.
                                She draws carefully, gently, coding, almost, a message to herself- a reminder, and her hands
                                             are messy
but meant
                                                      to be.

She illustrates desire, directs it skyward,
seeks
strength
for her departure.

She'll know when
she is ready
but while she's here,
she takes
      the time
      to
wallow in the silence,
skirt the
dark that
lurks.

Here she can let go,
and here she can ask,
       her
senses balanced
and
 every voice transposed,
and so
                        she whispers his name,
lays it down,
first softly, like an infant soothed,
then
with
      incentive striking, volume rising, repetition
                    strums
                              instrument of petition.

She is
scattering the lies.

There is war here in this place of peace,
                                         concrete suffering and an
                                                  encroaching condemnation,
but she will stay for now,
                            ride out
                                      the fear.

When weakened, strength arises and wisdom's granted.
Then, with defense of truth,
                           she will return.

The Sunday Whirl
                 

Exhausted by wasted hours past, she lets her
    head rest on desk in midnight hour,
plans powerless
               to gravity.

She dreams she is a tree
                              that does not tire.
                               Her
                                   roots are steady, dug down in depth and settled, and within this landscape,
her leaves are breathing well.

   And somewhere behind her eyelids flickering,
                           and somewhere between the dim lamplight
splaying
shadows on the walls
and the dreamscape where she is tall,
she begs to stay.

When salt wakens, she
wipes her face,
in place now mandated.
Brought back
              and caught
                           her throat burns along with
                                                            will
to no avail.
She has shed
too many tears of this sort and they render no return, so,
                    soul now washed of want, she rises weary,
                                   slips on shoes and stares out window at blackened sky.
                                   She gazes until her vision blurs and a sliver of a slant of luminescence sends her to the
door.
Led by sudden whim,
she fixes
            sight above,
sees now
            silver streaming
down.
She shakes off weight of all delay and takes a step away from where she came to follow moonlight.

The tightness in her chest releases, and she breaks into a run.
                She will not turn back.
                She is fleeing death.

The house caws,
                calls her back, but
                     she is racing time now,
                                and the sun is quickly rising, casting colors
                                      to mark a path.
She threads
       through thick
           of trance
                 and makes her way to day.