For Show

Redux

cut flowers
damaged to project perfection

eventually, they’ll die
it’s not natural to live in glass

we were both cut in youth
damaged to project perfection

outside showed one thing
inside was a mess

both of us broken people
trying to get it right

hard knocks
every one a lesson

forced smiles
pressured lives

hard to bloom
when defeat is all you know

Originally posted 11/26/2018 on I Write Her.

Marisela Brazfield

Charlotte

She splashes thoughts onto notebook pages with an old Bic. Kitchen table strewn with cheap chocolates and meals from St. Vincent’s. On her old bed sheets, rolling paper and tufts of tobacco with exaggerated Brave on the bag. Arms scarred by a childhood disease that taught loneliness. The matriarch of two generations. She wanders the halls watching the world through an orphaned telescope. I watch her show me husband’s ashes. Dead baby one shot before his prime the daily conversation. I drive away to punch out a report about another woman who has paid a staggering price for wanting happiness.

Gwen

Trademarked short orange hair and dark ebony skin. Lips fully sculpted, flesh and throat empty of words. She shrugs off pain and rage, calmly puffing on her blunt. The smoke is pleasant as she only smokes fifty dollars and up stuff. My tired eyes scan her beefy arms. She smirks away her bruises and scratches. Head down, then suddenly up as if to catch her breath, she asks where her Doritos are. An apology made as my mind is failing me. Chipped toes like old New Mexican turquoise flex encased in tight leather sandals. She likes talking to me sometimes.

Sara

Lip torn on the side, old scar she says. Fingertips of right-hand dark yellow from meth. Spry, she walks with springy silver hair, taking measured steps. Toothless smile is her weapon as all hearts are melted. When lost in her pain, she threatens to jump off the ledge. We beg until the psych unit arrives. Dainty fist punches at the air screaming at her demon to fly away. On good days she wears shoes for the ballet and tells me of the sixties. At night I wonder why in her twilight she’s not baking pies and cooing at grandchildren.

Tina

Thursdays are my days with her. Dressed in colors of her sisterhood, speaking slurred at 10 a.m. because her man beat her. Out of all of them, she’s the most like Lady Day. Eyes like a dove deeper than sad, she stands alone among the millions in the city. Cooking is a passion of hers, although, on most days, the drink keeps her from feasting. And when we talk, it’s always about her mother and the suffering she brought to her. A stepfather comes into the narrative, but she breaks down mid-sentence as she becomes too mortified to speak.

Althea

Long hair and fire. She smiles upon the flowers on the mural in the hall. Four changes of clothes. She recycles without sweating because she doesn’t have money. Her hands caramel butter since she was born and adopted. While we journey through her life, she can get up from her seat and act out the scenes. Her tears are like green grapes. When in the rage, she pounds her chest and blames herself. Then in the quiet hours, the steam from her tea kisses her nose. Her eyes are magnified by her taped-up glasses. It’s blue jean day again.

Kay

Typically, around Tuesday noon Cleopatra will visit. Head scarves, blues, and greens, with splashes of gold from her eyes. Her cheeks poppy red as her lips burst with carnation pinks. Like a diamond. In this lifetime, Marc Antony has a mustache and lives on 120th Street by the church, where they give out food. The asp of her madness takes us to the emergency room a few times a week. The potions of the white coat man aren’t made for me, she screams. On most nights, she curls up on the couch and dreams of the children that she lost. 

Sina

She remembers being her mother’s favorite boy until she wasn’t. Standing at over 6 feet, she stomps around in splendor. Coping skills are not a strength, and cell phones become her scapegoats. She asks for condoms and sleeping aids to make the tormentors go away. A decorated Central American war hero sodomized with rats. Now she is here, and it’s best to remember that she used to be a happy little girl and now a mouthy woman. Our Friday routines are magical spins with cherry Slurpees. At times she stares at a tiny toy soldier she hangs around her wrist.

~~~

Born and raised in Los Angeles, mb writes about the downtown urban life experience. inspired by personal events, mental illness and in working with vulnerable communities. mb has been published by Free Verse Revolution – 2023, Indie Blu(e) Publishing – 2020 and 2021, The Short of It2020 and 2022, Newington Blue Press – 2021, Prolific Pulse Press – 2021 and 2022. mb was first featured on The Short of It in 2020 and then again in 2022. She became a 2021 Pushcart Prize Nominee for her piece Fulfillment. You can find all her work if you click HERE.

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Evolution

Inspired by Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Hypnotic &
Reena’s Xploration Challenge #317

abused by the life givers
shades of trauma
colored his existence dour

stepping out into his world
lacking the tools to succeed
his journey was peppered
with cycles spinning extreme

head-on into tragedy
way too many times, forced painful decisions
you see, only for the willing
does change occur
his metamorphosis was hypnotic

Battling Demons

even chronically independent self-reflectors
flail at success in overcoming
what holds them back

the likelihood is things aren’t changing
as they risk staying the same
in delusional comfort
interpreting safety in a lack of movement

what power moves
or when does the right motivation
frighten the fiends within
enough to halt their destruction
to let the authentic win and reveal itself

Held Prisoner

Inspired by Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Hospitality &
Reena’s Xploration Challenge #315

if only you would have afforded
the wounded inner child
the hospitality it deserved

trauma that needed nurture
saw minimal healing
shocking independence reigned
to the detriment of your essence

years upon years cycled by
as the dysfunction learned
predetermined the outcome
of the next generation
to be lost

Dissolving

Jona162 – Pixabay.com

Inspired by What do you see #220

with every slight
every command to shutter
my essence diffuses

the thoughtless insults
they hurt
my skin becoming thin

but there will come a time
when enough is enough
when it all comes back to me

using strength and resolve
building from within
i will become whole again

Ill-Made

Redux

pixabay.com

she was damaged by circumstance
against her will

the patterns of dysfunction became habits for life
she claimed her internal baggage to carry onward

life was always challenging
the rewards were seemingly unattainable

happiness was strived for but just out of reach
a bitter, lonely end was her destiny

and inevitably
she ceased to exist

Originally posted October 18,2018, on I Write Her; posted here with revisions.

Loud

Redux

Pixabay.com

kept down
held back
filled with fear
and rage 

despair at every turn
me, an unwilling victim
blockades to stop me
turbulence swirling me about

My history embedded a lack of power in me.
Years of criticism, critique, and disgust took its toll.
Thick layers of neglect crusted over on this shell of me.
Defeated, ignored, and scared.

But I dared to feel more important than what the day rolled out.
I fought to experience life exquisitely, with the volume on high.
Determined to engage with this existence full of substance and force.
I clutched myself hard and pushed forward to lean loudly into my future.

Not gonna hide from it anymore.

Originally published September 26, 2018, on I Write Her.

Hidden Pain

I’d like to thank Joseph Pinto for the inspiration for this piece.
If you’d like, take a moment to read his post Whelve.

invisible drama
not acknowledged
outsiders only see camouflage

but the damage
dispensed from previous generations
lingers deep

self-preservation from the ugliness
slows the hurt
but offers no resolution

only a temporary roadblock
to the pain buried inside
which will surface

eventually…