Ad Matrem

What she did became truncated statements,
Small portions of my life
Separated and made into little boxes which described it.
One by one I handed you these truncated boxes,
Along with a box of my own tears.
The entire story too harsh for bathroom sitting.
And as I sat on the toilet,
And as the years went by,
I handed you these truncated statements
Coupled and forever married to apologies.

I'm sorry I didn't know.
I'm sorry I couldn't stop it.
If I could have, I would have.
And as these estranged apologies fell from my tongue,
They crept across your bathroom floor,
And up your pristine legs,
And through your skin,
Tanned by those days with her,
And sunk into your heart.

God, your heart.
So great and elaborate,
With these caves of pure forgiveness,
And things of the like I shall never understand.
I blackened it, and charred it, and made it sad
With those truncated statements I didn't understand.
I'm sorry.

And here I go again,
Apologizing for her.
And there you go again,
Apologizing for her.
We did nothing to her.
And you did nothing wrong to me.
You see, it is detrimental to my survival that you understand that.

If only you could understand this.
Your guilt traps me like Odysseus,
In between Sicily and Italy.
I made your heart into that guilty place.

Would that I hadn't said a thing.
Would that I had kept in inside.
Then maybe you wouldn't be so sad.
I'm sorry I made you sad.
If I knew that your guilt would overpower you like this,
I would have used a stapler on my own mouth;
Would that I were Philomela,
I would cut off my hands so that I might not weave you that story.

You always say, "Trash in. Trash out."
And make some comment about my reality television shows.
The reality is, the drama around Kim Zolsiack
or the war between Kelly Killoren Bensimon and Bethenny Frankle
Is not trash compared to what I know.

Trash is being berated at the age of three.
Trash is indoctrinating the Godly ideal of anorexia in a five year old.
Trash is telling a child that his or her father is good for nothing.
Trash is telling a child that his or her mother is not that smart.
Trash is telling your granddaughter that she is a bad mother.
Trash is bringing your children to tears,
And walking away with a smile.
The lies she said,
The stories she created,
The lives she crippled,
That is trash.
Trash is she.
And you surround yourself with trash every single day.
Trash in. Trash out.