Wife of Aries

I wasn’t told that your kids
make you wanna throw yourself in a river with cinderblocks roped to your feet
but somehow are your lifejacket.

They just don’t let you drown.
For better or worse.

The ability to quit evades me
as much as sleep.

I’ve cracked my eggs
fried my bacon.
I’ve been toasted and buttered.
To have it end up on the floor,
where 2 - 4 hours later,
my one and two year old -
who have no morals -
finally eat it.

I’ve thrown dishes in the trash,
the filth was one item destroyed.

The fact that it got like that in the first place
somehow doesn’t make me
worthy.

The shower that hasn’t seen me in days
is bone dry.

Like the meeting of my thighs after an endless day with two toddlers when my husband lays down with me.

I eat leftovers off others’ plates to keep up.

The energy I seek is deep,
communication shallow.

I wait, and I give.
I take, and I burn.

If I had a million dollars,
I’d buy a billboard that says
“Mom needs alone time”.
I’m better at showing than speaking.

I pour from a bone dry cup,
the miracle of gallons.

I harmonize his ideas to reality,
and keep everyone on key.

The flower in my lungs,
in my blood,
brains,
exhale my conscious,
imprisons my
subconscious.

Until daddy gets home.

My toddlers are asleep.

Mom - 1.
Kids - 7.

And “I need you”
waters my thighs.

My bone dry soul
blossoms cannabis and camomile.

His brown skin melts into me.