My Women

I hold the hard bind book in my hand, flip the pages through
Words get bigger and bigger, shade my mind and hurt my eyes
Swiveling my fingers through brown sheets, my hair cover the sides
Blinded and lost in the graphics of so many worlds.

She would long for a sleep, and she would stab her kids to death.
Shutting the room with tape and towels, she would suffocate herself to death.
Depressed and burdened, burdened with the weight of her genius
Lonely and unhappy, her blood will then flow through veins of generations.

I see her walking to the river, done with a letter to her husband
And ready for content, she seems to be walking slow.
Long before she said "Death makes you heavy", and now
She fills her pocket with stones and drown.

Little, timid and mesmerizing, her beauty shone through ages
Through hearts and times. She was grabbed and rushed away.
Cornered and mutilated, fought for and abandoned.
Numb with sedatives, and deaf with childhood howls, she made history.

I heard you put on her favorite coat and thought of another confession
The garage didn't shut down on its own. She took a leap
And flew to a corner, sat and waited for relief
Not bright as others, not sane like many. The last breath was soothing.

The words echo now. They tell a tale of my women.
Hollow and unreal, it broke them down and made them surrendered
An oblivion, promising the calm they long sought.
I promise to follow you there one day, until this hard bind book holds me.