No title.

I don't know.

Anxiety

Die, fuck doll.

My Magda continues.

Today wasn't horribly bad but, it wasn't horribly good. Clean garden. Clean house. Clogged pipes. Hyperactive children. Overly sensitive loved ones. A bit of the blues. And the pain has crept into my bones once again. Ah, that fun shit.

So, Lena went into assisted living. Not quite nursing home, not quite home alone. I still get to take her to the catholic retreat to see the sisters and I might possibly be able to go in and catch another visit with Johannes (84 and still kicking, that guy!). I still get to hang out with her daughter. I still get to hear her stories of life in Hungary and America when she was growing up. I still get to see her. Hopefully, we can play another round of King's Corners one Saturday. Or maybe I'll finally figure out Sheep's Head. She creams me every time.

I am really going to miss her when she passes. I mean, truly and deeply miss her...

The source of the problem.

Doll;
broken,
guts
spread apart
like string,

still twitching.

She looks up,
two green marbles
floating
in pools of sorrow.

A serrated blade
held tight,
knuckles white
she whispers through
split lips,
exposes pink teeth.

“Could you cut the heart out of me?”
Would you cut my heart out for me?

Her skin, a criss-cross
mish-mash
of raised scars
and fresh slices...

Practice cuts
for the serious
surgery.

Her trembling fist
rises,
she offers the blade
with a hitch in her chest.

“Please, it is killing me...”

This doll,
this broken doll
pleads.
I want to sew her back together,
that precious skin.

Could you murder someone that you love?
Would you murder someone that you love?

She begins to fade
as the puddle grows,
Ophelia
drowning on the bathroom floor.
She points to her left breast
and heaves her chest...

I take the knife from her bloodied hand--

I was never good at drawing hearts,

lop-sided
too big
disconnected
I had always preferred X and
O.

I try anyway...