skin deep

You don't get a break.

You clean the crumbs.

You scrub the pans.

You cook the dinner.

You make the bed.

You wash the sheets.

Oily, sweat marks on the white couch.  You can't clean them.  But you pay for it anyway.

Paint stains because you tried to be a good mother.

You throw the glue stick and it scratches the paint on the wall.

You will never leave here; you will never leave.

Tuesdays.

Dishes pile like slothful great wraiths of a time when time wasn't dear or precious or sliding like ice through fingers and cascading down the sink drain.

I feel a knot at the back of my neck.  Water that plays at, around, and in my eyes.

I am SO tired of traps.

So tired of your negligence becoming my emergency.  Tired of posing as the irresponsible one because of a mistake you made.

I sit on the porch with a cigarette and blow smoke in rings around my earlobes.

It's a nice day.

First day of spring.