Daisies by Louis McKee

Knowledge is power.
Bacon said it, meant

it was important
to know when to stoop,

and then which to pick.
Flower Power,

he might have said
were it a different

time, and had he seen
this wonderful yard

abloom with possibilities,
of two-plus-twos.

Once you know daisies
usually have an odd

number of petals, you can
get anyone to love you.

.

Currently have to walk blocks and blocks in order to ride the city bus to work because my brother does not like to put beer bottles in the proper place, does not like to appreciate someone who appreciates me and changes our lightbulbs. I ride the city bus now because my brother cannot figure out how to make a pot of coffee, cannot pay me back for groceries and drinks all the alcohol in the fridge that Jerrad bought.

Well, I'm not saying I'm not angry, but I'm also working on being less vindictive, so I have not unplugged my television so he can no longer watch it and I have not cleaned out the cupboards from all the groceries I bought and I have not stolen away my shampoo.

.

Lately, I have realized my lack of confrontation skills is really starting to hurt my life, so I am going to work on that, as well as stop ignoring parasitic actions in my apartment and just living my life for me and not worrying about anyone else because they should worry about themselves.

I am no one's mother.

I may act like a stupid motherfucker sometimes. I may have said, "assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups." I may have cleaned the coffee mugs and dinner plates.

But I am no one's mother.

I may have stretchmarks. I may make baby-faces and baby-noises at cats. I may know how to change a diaper, know all about PBS. I may keep Oreos in the apartment for eight year olds.

But, really, I am no one's mother.

.

And Jerrad and I -

for two days we did not fight. We did not yell. I did not get that quicksand feeling of something-worth-it falling away, in my belly. We did not sleep on opposite sides of the queen-sized bed. We did not growl, spit, arch our backs in anything else than sweet morning touches.

And last night -

I can admit that I do a lot of things in remembrance of my father.

My father who said, "grit your teeth, do not cry." Who made me cower. Who made me disconnect my static electricity heart as soon as someone raises their voice. Who made me hide under a table and eat too much. Who made me misunderstand kindness as a threat and hugs as timebombs.

And yet, I feel like it's all an excuse, still. An excuse to act hurtful, to watch Jerrad crumble, to be a bad person.

I keep thinking about what he said, "but there were mortars thrown at me so get over it."

And perhaps we all say regretable things, but I would like to learn from even the regretable ones, so I can acknowledge that hiding isn't the strong thing to do, the best thing to do, the nicest thing to do to someone who means more to me than the world.

And it's so hard for me to talk about these things that have happened too, because I see them as such excuses.

(-and yet it's me who can't stop thinking about Jerrad, not letting me go, turning off the overhead light so I can cry and not feel self conscious, holding me until I told him what was wrong. No one ever refused to let go like that, hand such big hands that held me down hard enough so I couldn't play fire escape games anymore.-)

But there was vandalism. There was illegal drugs. There was meowing and a lost dog. I can't help myself, I find these metaphors inside of nights, where Jerrad has sweet puppy eyes, and there's tall grass and I'm yelling and yelling and I can't find him anywhere.

But damn you all, I won't stop looking (is what this metaphor is about). I can encounter an old tractor, I'll crush the grass, I'll raze the trees, I'll tear down the world to make things better.

Just because
my heart is broken, my desk lamp is broken, the condoms are broken, and I can't figure out how to do wireless internet -

well, stuff like that happens every day to every body, big and little, tall and short.

Jerrad - it's more than your last name that is ringing. You fixed me when I felt unfixable. You believed in me when I lost belief. You spent days, I know, questioning why it is that you're here, and finding an answer as something as simple as a heartbeat.

Thank you for letting me put my head on your chest and calling me amazing. I don't feel like it, but maybe only because I know you:

so much silly dancing, singing, putting on a lightshow with a big flashlight just for me.

.

Because appreciation is something that bites me in the ass more than a pitbull lately -

Thank you Nicole for crying about a new emptiness, letting me know.

Thank you Amy, for being the most consistent friend I ever had, the person who seems to accept me no matter what, who brings me rye dip and love.

Thank you Krissy for standing spine straight as much as you can, drag yourself out of the mud in order to drag me out.

Thank you to my mother, I forgive you for my credit card debt of $1,300 because you'll always love me, even now, when you can't look me in the face.

Thank you to the rest of my family, who came forward to help with the apartment, with couches and fake plants and art.

Thank you to those special notes I still receive, from the strange people, the people who tried to find God when I told them they couldn't, who wrote me their life stories asking me for help, who called me a muse, who thought of me as an angel, who felt me unapproachable until I put on a lampshade hat and cheered them with some vodka.

Just. Thanks.

And hearts.

Never think I do not care.

Question of the Day: Where have you left your self?