i know you know –

i know you know –
the inability to understand
peace when the sun yanks
you from the cheap IKEA
coffin you built by hand –
alive but struggling to
breathe from last nights
dealings with death.
you were so sure
she’d find you un-moving
under the duvet –
heart stopped-
lungs restless-
pants full of shit.
but here you are
almost wishing it was real –
swallowing slow dissolving
sorrows – bitter. life saving.
i know you –
you’re getting tired.

 

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

Mommy Medicated

every time i die i ask god to
take the years stolen. grant
them to the growing babe
sleeping under the t.v. glare.

take the years they stole. grant
me another restless night of sleep
while I await my millionth demise.
it contorts into a welcome calm-

another restless night of sleep-
where i am ripped open before life
exposed to all my waking fears-
creating every new tomorrow.

i am ripped open before life-
undressed before the doctors
with their magic medication.
eager to mend my mind.

undressed before the doctors-
that as a mother i may be unfit
to take a babe and mold
a healthy man.

as a mother i may be unfit
every time i die. i ask god to
grant me the years i’ve lost.
another chance to make it right.

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

 

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. Mainly for my classes. I’ve been having some major health problems, caring for my kiddo, trying to finish my BA and write my senior thesis. I’m exhausted. I have to thank my love, who has seriously been my rock and cared for me and my son even when I’m a sicky, moody beastie >.< thank you, amor. Hopefully, I’ll be posting more often again and working to create more structured and metered poetry.

I seek forgiveness…

I seek forgiveness not 
with God but with them.
The ones with Eyes 
sewn into the backs of their heads
        - who gesticulate their shame
while I discard my heart through
painted fingernails trying to drink
air through garbled recordings
of a Voice I do not recognize.

        - I am the shit show -
the Garbage silhouette 
        - out of breath -
dancing on the glass they 
drop along with eggshells
I use to pay the dues owed 
for my bloody feet.

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

The Diseased Ones

they spin like dizzy children on a school day
but without the reassuring chime
that ushers them into four solid, safe walls.
instead, tired, little things,
keep spinning
         spinning
              spinning...

until they wake up out of bounds, beyond
the Gate and behind the waist high
brick planters filled with the colors
of a burnt-brown rainbow.

I am there too.

reaching for their sweaty hands and
picking at their pockets for the chalky
white tablets that help to medicate our
              flow of Time.

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

Get Over It

Just breathe.

How can I? My own oxygen
is grated shrapnel over
temples amassed
across my veins

like someone who never says
when for the parmesan cheese
except your lungs are minced spaghetti –

I can make this funny
while simultaneously
wishing I could yank open
every door to the legion of
deaths discovered on WebMD.
They harden inside my belly
like a kingdom built to house
only doomsdays –
the priests in those
tiny temples say their pity
prayers and wait to be
set on fire.

You’re ok. 

Did you know that’s
slang for ‘orl correct’?
Everything about this city
was made to crumble.

 

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018