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.

An Involuntary Hold

locked in my mind with all the thoughts
my emotions struggling
to coexist in my brain and my body
medication, therapy, lifestyle changes
one and all free me to live a better life
the doors of my personal prison are opened
yet i slowly begin to realize
i’ve stepped into a bigger cage

**My husband provided some inspiration for this piece. Thanks, Honey!

Step-By-Step

Inspired by Reena’s Xploration Challenge #325 &
Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Focused

**Quote from Cruel Compassion, Collaboration with the Silent One by Ink Empress

focusedwhilst searching for my sanity,
i’ve become my own worst enemy

the what ifs
the how comes
the why, why, why me
get in the way of true lucidness

put everything aside
hit the ground humbly
start with small steps
making gains slowly

understand that progress comes in tiny snippets
confidence builds block by block
assurances from all around guide us
as we leave our dark pit behind

concentrate on the right things
and you’ll go farther than you ever imagined

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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Guided By The Light

Inspired by What do you see #230

our journeys are many steps
we must walk through light and dark
to arrive at a destination
one must take the harrowing
before the brilliance
situations that seem cold and unreachable
can turn on a dime to warmth and acceptance
when you reach your goals
that light at the end of the tunnel
satisfaction is achieved
and you can rest then

Mother Earth

Redux

Josie Weiss – Unsplash

Oh,
please see
that you must
protect me now.
I’ve given so much
for your survival here.
Take care of me. It’s your turn.
Give to me what will sustain you.
I was beauty, strength, and nourishment.
Your treatment of me shows something ugly.

Originally posted November 14, 2018, on I Write Her.

Playing At My Own Game

Image credit unknown

Inspired by Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Solitude & Reena’s Xploration Challenge #321

with money comes all the drama
i prefer a life of solitude
earnestly gaining a rich understanding of myself
and the world around me
the investment in my being is enrichment enough