Author: Cheney (Page 6 of 9)

when you draw the line

October 4, 2024 / Cheney / 0 Comments

You must draw a line somewhere,
mark the spot of no return –
if someone crosses your boundary
you have to be able to say:

“Look, I showed you.
I told you what would happen
if you didn’t start respecting me.”

It’s your job to decide
what you will and will not
tolerate, even from the people
you have always loved the most.

When you’re broken and
still breaking, go to the ocean.

Remember that salt water
is the cure for everything.

Take off your shoes and socks
and wiggle your toes in the sand
before you start walking.

Go to where the waves break
hard against the shore –
you will be familiar with this dance –
one step forward, two steps back –
heart beating hard
trying to avoid breaking.

Remember how he loved you but
remember how he hurt you, too.

Feel the warmth and breadth
of the love you were looking for.

Feel the searing burn of betrayal,
the sting of old wounds that
keep reopening and won’t heal.

Consider the weight of the doubt
and fear that have been
breeding inside your chest,
crushing your fragile heart.

Finally, make the decision
that you don’t want to
feel like this anymore.

Now, bend down and touch the sand.

Use the finger that once
traced the edges of all his scars
to draw a heart in the sand
and call it your love.

Decide whether you want
to stay and watch the water
wash your heart away.

Choose to not.

Turn your back to the past,
and run.

Inspired by the Writer’s Write October prompts | Photo by Engin Akyurt

Like Ross & Rachel except for the end.

October 3, 2024 / Cheney / 0 Comments

You were the most gentle friend.

You were not comforting, but
your skin and hair and body were soft,
smooth, soothing to the touch.

You never seemed to understand
what you were doing wrong
until you had already done it,

and as much as you want to please,
you more often end up fumbling
to find an excuse for the things you do
and worse, the things you don’t do.

Pivot, I said.

If you don’t change things,
if we can’t change things between us,
if we can’t turn them around and
start our way down a whole different road,
we’ll fall.

We’ll go crashing down the stairs,
and I’m the only one who’ll be smart enough
to tuck and roll, so when I get to the bottom
I can stand back up again.

Pivot, I said.

Over and over.

Pivot.

Pivot.

PIVOOOOOOOT.

Inspired by the Writer’s Write October prompts | Photo by Jimmy Chan

you were meant for me, but you were meant for her too

October 2, 2024 / Cheney / 0 Comments

We shouldn’t have met,
is what I am thinking now
and I know it’s not what you
would ever want to hear, and
it’s not something I ever
thought I would honestly say, but
I’m starting to think it’s true.

I thought I was meant for you.

I thought you were meant for me and
that we would have a long road
laid out before us – a whole
entire future life together –
when we could be a family.

When I could finally say that you’re mine.

But possession is 9/10ths of the law
and she’s the one who possessed you.

10% is all I’ve ever had
and all I would ever have.

It’s not enough to feel
like we were meant for each other
if you won’t give us the chance
to build our forever
because you’re still holding on
to the woman who left you alone
long before you even met me.

I felt like you were meant for me
because we fit together like pieces
of a puzzle that had be lost and dusty
under a table where no one would sit together.

I felt like you were meant for me
because the sound of your voice, your smile,
the way you made me feel when you put
your hand on my back and
helped me get where I needed to go…

I was hoping you’d always be here
to help me get wherever it is I need to go.

But possession is 9/10ths of the law
and boy/girl playground logic says:
“I had him first!”

I thought you were meant for me.
But I guess you were meant for her.

Inspired by the Writer’s Write October prompts | Photo by Marcus Spiske

Judgement Day

October 1, 2024 / Cheney / 0 Comments

When the people hear our story
they might only get one side.

They might only hear what I say,
which for a while will probably
not be anything nice.

They will not blame me.

When I go before the prosecutor
I will answer them truthfully:
“Yes, he told me he loved me every day.”
“Yes, he told me he would never leave me.”
“No, I did not believe him.”

Then when I speak for the defense
I will tell them truths as well:
“No, I haven’t trusted him for years.”
“Sure, I wanted to, but I shouldn’t have.”
“Yes, I do deserve better than this.”

The evidence will be presented:
All of the times he lied to me.
All of the times he made decisions without me.
All of the times he wouldn’t touch me and rejected me.
All of the times he reminded me that I would never be his family.
All of the ways he hurt me, day after day after day, by not giving his all for us.

The prosecutor will argue:
“He left his home and family so he could be with you more.”
“He gave up his future for you, he’ll never be able to retire now.”
“You’re being selfish; you’re forsaking him for a fairytale that will never come.”

“He’s going to be alone for the rest of his life because you wouldn’t let yourself believe him anymore.”

“Would the defendant like to make a statement?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I will say, and turn to the jury:

I did the best I could.
I loved him more than anyone
I’ve ever met in my life.
I thanked him, told him I loved him,
and told him I appreciated him every day.
I did nice things for him just because
I loved him and wanted to make him happy.
I was looking forward to making him happy
for the rest of our lives.

I tried. I tried as hard as I could.
I held on for much longer than I should have,
but I couldn’t take it anymore; and I had to let go.
I couldn’t trust him, he lied too much,
he lied too much about the thing that scared me most.

Your Honor, members of the Jury,
I know what we did was wrong,
and I will be sorry for the rest of my life.

But can you tell me that I deserved this?

I have so much love to give, and I want the chance
to give it to someone who will give it back to me.

I deserve better than to be
someone’s consolation prize
when all else they wanted was lost.

I know what I did was wrong,
but are you really going to keep punishing me
with this crushing weight of guilt over
loving a man and ruining his life?

I promise I’ll do better next time.
I promise I’ll make better choices.
I promise I won’t do anything wrong,
I won’t cheat to get the person I love.

Members of the jury,
I have already been punished,
and I have already punished myself
in ways far worse than you could imagine.

I won’t learn anything
if you lock up my heart again.
I won’t be rehabilitated
if you don’t give me the chance to try again.

I know your duty is to justice,
but please consider I am only part
of the problem that brought us here today.

Please let me go.
Please let me be free.

Inspired by the Writer’s Write October prompts. / Photo by Pavel Denilyuk.

I’ve been tired for almost two years

September 30, 2024 / Cheney / 0 Comments

I woke up at 5:30 this morning, which I try to do every day that I work my day job.

See how I said “work my day job”?

Maybe if I keep telling myself it’s just my day job, I will once again be able to tell people with confidence that I am a writer.

A writer who has barely written or shared anything she’s written in years, besides snippets of poetry and prose catered to prompts.

Not that I’m complaining about writing prompts, I love writing prompts. They get me writing faster and with more speed and enthusiasm than any other kind of inspiration I ever find.

The last time I had COVID-19 was in mid-December of 2022, and I have not felt the same since.

After that last infection, which burned through me, literally manifesting itself as a fever that stayed over 103 for a day and above 100 for three days with no respiratory symptoms at all, I have remained somewhat broken.

I developed high blood pressure and tachycardia for the first time in my life, and now I’m on medications for both of those things.

My body seems like it’s not able to produce and/or store vitamin B-12 and iron, so now I give myself a shot of B-12 once a month, and I’ve been seeing a hematologist at the cancer hospital to see if, after two iron infusions, my body holds on to it.

I have hot flashes like a woman in the midst of menopause and I only just turned 42.

But the worst thing?

I am just so. fucking. tired. all. the. time.

The worst part, I think, is that I am most tired when I wake up.

It’s a daily fight for my life to get out of bed, start moving, and start trying like hell to shake off the weight of the exhaustion that rises with me every morning.

My psychiatrist doesn’t believe me that I am most tired in the morning and become more alert as the day goes on – to the point when some nights I have to force myself to get in bed because I don’t feel sleepy.

It’s making me miserable, depressed.

It’s making me not look forward to waking up in the morning, and that right there is a slippery slope.

Want to hear the real bitch of it?

I had a sleep study scheduled for last Friday night (after waiting nearly six months to get into the clinic) only to have them call me Friday morning and say “Sorry, we have to reschedule because your technician called out sick for the night.”

Now I have to wait another 26 days.

Not like anyone’s counting.

Not like it matters to anyone but me.

I signed up for Mastodon last night, because I am not going back to Twitter, and I am hesitant to start using Instagram again.

Facebook is out of the question, but Bluesky may be a possibility if I can’t figure out Mastodon.

I’ve concluded that yes, when it comes to my writing, (at least some of my writing) I DO want to share with the world.

Between complaints about my health and all the writing about not writing, I’d really love to use this space ( MY SPACE!) to work on my craft, or on myself, every day.

I am a poet and forgot it.

I am a writer of fictional stories and novels.

I am a writer of creative non-fiction and essays.

I am a writer who hasn’t been sharing her writing because I have such low self-esteem, I don’t expect people to pay attention, I don’t expect people to comment – I expect people to ridicule me.

I have to get over that.

I hope whoever’s reading this helps me and doesn’t hurt me even more than I have been in the last 42 years.