WOG excerpt

Walking On Glass

A Personal Journal

Date of Journal - between the start and finish

Just to let you know,

I begin this
under protest.

The further you read,
the more you invade my mind.

Take something from me,
I don't want to give.

My thoughts.

You will enter a place,
I don't want to be,

My conscience.

Journals

Writing a journal
for some shrink
won't make me
feel better.
It won't change
what happened.
It'll just make me think,
and I don't want to think.
Mom thought too much.
Look where it got her.

This is Stupid.

Shit happens.
We have to
deal with it.
We can't
change it.
Why pick it apart
like a detective
dissects a suicide note.

Besides

Only girls
and wusses
write journals.
If Jack finds out
I'm writing one
he'll hassle me so much,
I'll have to beat the crap out of him
just to prove
I'm no wuss.

Jack

I know Mom hates him.
He hangs around
with the King's Crypt,
and shows up
at our house
wasted.

But I don't care.

Jack has always been
my best friend.

He knows how
to have a good time.

Me and Jack

Jack pulls up in a kick-ass
Mustang convertible.
He whoops as he gets out,
and grins. "Not bad, hey?"

"Damn, right," I say,
wishing I had the cash
to buy a car
like that.

"Come on," he says.

I jump in and we head downtown.
We pass some girls we've seen
at some parties
so he turns around
and pulls up beside them.
"Want a ride?" he asks.

They jump in.

We speed through the streets,
blasting the music,
and flipping off people who glare.

And for a while,
I forget all about Mom.

My Shrink

I slouch in a chair
across from Dr. Mac.
He takes my journal
and flips through it,
without reading,
like he promised.

"I'm glad you're writing."
He hands it back.
"How's your mother?"

I spin my chair, lean back
and put my feet up on his desk.
"Same."

He nods, waiting for me to say more.
I don't, making him ask,
"How are you?"

I shrug. "Same."

The Way She Was

I took the photograph
from the mirror in my mother's room.
Her at the age of eight,
perched high in a tree,
arms stretched out like
an untamed eagle,
prepared to take on
the world.

I keep the picture
in my pocket
so I'll always
remember
the way she was
before she was caged
by a baby
she never wanted.

This is How it Is

Dad says,
"Come and see Mom."
So I do.

Mom,
tucked tight in the bed,
empty minded.
No longer herself,
or anyone else.

Wires force life into a body
left hanging
like a marionette
with no one to pull
the strings.

Dad leans close to her,
and whispers,
"You'll come home soon, dear.
Everything will be better."

I know he really
wants that
to be true
but the thought of her
coming back
into our lives
makes my insides
flip.

Please Understand

Mom's mood swings
always coincided
with whatever
Dad and I did.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Pulling our strings,
like big yoyos.
And even now,
when she can't move
or talk,
she's still pulling
those strings.

Honestly

I don't want her to die.
I just want
it all to
STOP.
Does that make me
so terrible?

Roses

Mom loved
her roses.

They grew into
prize winners,
nurtured by her long hours
and tender hands.
They brought her
a sense of fulfillment.

I just let her
Down.

All Good Things Gone

I wait outside
on the step for Jack.
Vines tangle
around Mom's roses
like bad times.

I yank at the weeds,
and chuck them far
from the garden,
yelling 'Get Out!'

The nosey neighbor,
Mrs.Wingert peeks between her curtains.
She glares at me,
like she thinks
I've gone over the edge.
Maybe
I have.

I throw a handful of dirt
in her direction and scream,
"Mind your own damn business."

She drops her curtain closed,
but I can still feel her eyes
on the back of my head.

By the time Jack arrives
weeds are scattered over the yard,
my hands are caked with mud,
and I have a headache
from clenching my teeth together
so tight.

If the Shoe Fits

Jack pulls into a
parking-space near the lake.
He taps my chest and points to
a scrawny kid sprawled
across a bench reading.

"Want to have some fun?" he whispers.

"Oh yeah," I go.

He struts over to the kid
and kicks his foot.
"Nice shoes.
Your mom buy them for you?"

The kid jumps to his feet,
and glances around,
but the rest of the park
is deserted.

"I asked, did your
mom pay for them?"
Jack barks.

"I-I guess so."
The kid clutches his book
to his chest.

Jack shoves him down.
"I want them shoes."

"I d-don't have another pair."

"You hear that?" Jack says.
"He d-don't have another pair."
My laughter mixes with Jack's,
and he plows the kid in the face.

The kid covers his nose
as his blood gushes
through his fingers.

Jack turns to leave,
but that kid is staring at me,
over his bloody fingers,
and I stand frozen.

I wish that kid would
Stop.
But he doesn't.
He stares
like he knows
what my mother did.
He stares
like he knows
why she did it.

He stares,
like he's expecting me to be nice.

He just keeps staring.
I shift my feet,
and look away.
But I can feel him
Staring
with eyes the color of
Mom's.
Staring.

"Stop gawking
you freak!" I say.

But he doesn't.

"Stop looking at me!"
I shove him hard against the bench.

The kid's head snaps back,
like someone pulled an elastic
attached to it.

Jack turns around.
He pounds the kid
across the chin.
The kid falls onto the grass,
bawling
and gripping the sides of his face.

Things slow down in my head.
A movie paused
scene by scene,
as Jack stands over him,
kicking at his ribs,
without giving in.
All because I didn't like the kid
staring.

The look in Jack's eyes
scares me
because I know
the kid has had enough,
and no matter what I do,
Jack won't stop.

"Loser!" Jack rips off the kid's shoes.
He leaves him lying on the ground bleeding.
He trots to his car,
carrying the shoes
over his head like a trophy.

I see the kid stagger to his
sock feet.
He wipes the blood
from under his nose.

That kid has to go home
and tell his mother
two guys beat him up
and stole his shoes.
And I want to puke.

In the Car

Jack says, "What a riot."

I stare out the window,
not answering.

"You want the shoes?" he asks.

"No."

"You should take them.
Your shoes suck.
They keep falling off," he says.

"Mom bought me these shoes."
I look straight at him,
daring him to say something.

But he doesn't.
He just shrugs
and throws the shoes
on the back seat.

At Home

I curl up on my bed,
clutching my pillow.
Trickles of sweat
drip down the sides of my face.
I shiver.

My chest is locked
like an iron cage.
I gasp for air,
but the cage just
tightens.

Every time
I close my eyes
I see blood gushing from that kid's nose
spilling onto his shoes,
and me laughing,
like some kind of an animal.

I grip the pillow tighter.
The cage grips me
hard enough to make
my heart pop.

I sob
wishing my mother
was home
to open
the iron bars.
But she chose
not to be.

Another Kid's Shoes

That kid's shoes
are still in the back of Jack's car
untouched.

Down Town

There's a mural
painted on the side of Mulier's Grocery.
An eagle.
Flying free.

Jack and I shake cans of paint
and spray lines through the eagle.
I step back, and it looks like a cage.

At home,
I stare at the ceiling,
thinking about Mom's photo.
The word 'caged'
echoes through
my mind.

I race downtown,
with soap and paint thinner.
Instead of freeing the eagle
I smudge it into
Nothing.

Visiting Mom

The beeping
from her machines
shriek.

A reminder,
her soul is tethered to the ground,
a captive falcon,
circling in confusion,
longing for someone
to set it
free.

I remember the Mulier's eagle
smudging away,
and I think maybe sometimes,
non-existence
is better than being
caged.