64 Colors

“It’s pink, and purple, and it turns brown”

My son says sitting on the edge of his bed

In oversized pajamas he borrowed from his brother

Clutching his Advengers blanket

As he leans into my face to check my acknowledgement

Of his nightmare

Of his hurt and pain and blantant confidence

That he knows his fathers penis changes these colors

I choke, thinking of crayons in a box

I stop breathing, when he repeats it again upon request

He screams at me, as I scream at myself

His scream echoes until I am numb

My scream doesn’t stop

Eleven months now, I’ve been screaming with him

Eleven months, Solomon the court has stood

In Royal robes, two parents claiming rights

As the King demands to cut the child in half

And I am screaming, screaming

“No, no, take him, take him” in horror

That I will hold just half of him

The half that is left

I beg, I plead

“His eyes are blue, and green, and they turn grey”

They are my eyes, my Irish eyes

My son is beautiful, he is my heart, my sunshine

I say on my knees, hands clasped for prayer

My God, my God–I think, I shake, I howl

In fear and disbelief that no one else can see

The truth; I remain clutching photos of bruises

Photos of a black eye, split lips, hand prints on his legs,

Records of therapy, police reports, hospital visits

As I choke, as I fail to breathe

Through this nightmare

Trying to keep my son whole

I am forced to breathe again with a knowing

Knowing my sons eyes will remain grey

Knowing the rain and lightening will linger there

Knowing I will take the half that is left

Knowing that I must show him that the world

Has 61 more colors to offer

So we can see the stars

Beyond the tormented sky




I’ll admit the last few weeks have been hard. Hell, the last few months have been a hard blur. In between small bouts of sleep, I semi-consciously realize I have an identity…. But for the most part, I am Mommy. Mommy is not an easy responsibility nor is it an easy role to fill. As I helped my eldest son send his first love letter to his first crush, I recognized the innocence and hope in his eyes towards the topic of love. I didn’t have the heart to tell him love isn’t so simple… I did find the fortitude to place a stamp on his scrowled out note and help him send it to it’s intended owner– whom is the cutest girl of my sons class. This is my son’s second girlfriend. His first, Abby, he met camping. Their relationship of a mere 48 hours still has left footprints on his budding heart. He tells me this girl at school is just a friend because he really loves Abby. I have to laugh. I am 30 now… And my mission in life is to raise men. Raise them through pain. Raise them through disappointment. A blended family is exhausting… It’s heartbreaking when you have to scoop your son up from his father’s porch and look him in his fresh black eye his Dad calls his first shiner and tell him he has to visit again next weekend through his screams and pleas of no and I don’t want to. You deal with the kicks. You wipe away the tears. You rock him to sleep. You rock yourself to sleep. You wake up at 630 to feed your 6 month old. You pray Dad helps the oldest on the bus, you pray he remembers to give the pep talk on bullying before the yellow submarine takes him under. You work 3 jobs. You ignore your body breaking down, the stress, the anxiety. You remind yourself that it’s okay to cry. You wait for the post partum depression to ease up, for the laughter to come back. You can admit it’s hard. You must pretend it’s easy.


Dear Love,

I made a mistake.

See. When you came to me, as people do, and unfolded your being before me… I picked the parts I wanted to love and ignored the rest… Hoping our demons would dance well together, for I am flawed as you are flawed… yet… Those pieces were significant. I saw them. You hid them quickly. But. I saw them.

I saw that you didn’t respect me. I saw you liked to play around. I saw that your blinders were never on around me. I noticed… You never stopped looking.

I apologise for thinking I could change you.

I made a mistake…

Yet, I won’t bother asking for forgiveness.

You put on a pretty show. You did.

You said the right things. So sweetly.

I applaud you. I do.

That’s one hell of a mask you made for yourself.

And you know what?…

That’s one hell of a mask you made me.

IV: Love You To Death

Dear Death,

Hello. Its been a while– so I thought I would write you. Not to update my shit list, that’s all still the same, but to ask you a question…

Which little death broke my soul?

Okay. That moment. There.

Did you laugh when my soul popped and crackled blue white topaz lightening streaks into the spiritual sky and out of existence… and left a zombie husk in it’s stead?

Why haven’t you taken her body?

Why haven’t you taken her?

Why haven’t you?




Forgiving myself…

I just realized that sometimes a person just breaks you. They steal your energy and your happiness. Nothing is ever enough. They say and do things that are unforgivable. What you may ask is unforgivable? Anything you can’t shake off. I am a very sensitive person when it comes to who I am and what I look I like. Much like glass, things people say and do just break me. That is why I am very careful with other peoples body image and confidence… Once it’s gone, like trust, it’s almost impossible to gain back. If you do gain it back it is never the same. So I find myself, a human woman mother teacher, at a crossroad: I can’t find it in my heart soul body to forgive. To forgive the disappointment, the lack of investment, the harsh judgement of my pregnant body, the crossing of my sexual boundaries, the complete disregard of my boundaries in general… I get I am depressed, but I don’t think it is my depression talking here… I am hurt beyond repair. I am going to pay 500$ I don’t have for a fat busting boot camp.. and even if I lose 40, 60, 80, 100 pounds… I will still be Jeanette. I will still be me. I will still be salty, and angry, and bitter. I do not want my life to be like this… I want to be happy and I want to be with someone who respects me, invests in me and our family, and acknowledges the role of being my husband requires a man who does not need me to undergo plastic surgery or partake in sexual fantasies that require breaking our marriage vows. Some people are stronger than I am. Some can trust more. Some have the heart and soul of a true gypsy spirit. It doesn’t matter. I know myself. I am weak and I am content with the one person for life mentality. I need someone who gets how stressed I am and wants to help me. I don’t need a permission slip. I just need to shake off the feeling I have of never being good enough. It’s been over a year since I looked into a mirror and said I love you. I told myself I loved that girl looking back at me and I realized if I loved myself I wouldn’t have 3 jobs, I wouldn’t be financially managing a household with 3 kids by myself, and I sure as fuck wouldn’t stay with someone who wants other people sexually. Nope. I was hating myself and suffering. Maybe because I thought I deserved it. Maybe I thought it was real. Well. If this is real, I need a trip down the rabbit hole. There has to be a monogamous family man out there who can work his ass off like I do and who wants me as I am. There has to be a man who wouldn’t treat me like the best he can get or an option. There has to be one person. I only need one person. Maybe one day I can forgive myself for the pain I’ve lived through in the last eight years. Stupid decisions aren’t karma or chaotic change… They are stupid decisions. Time to make a smart decision. Time to forgive myself…