Illusions

Sucker punched.
Used.
Hurt.
Want to break something,
smash it to smithereens.

My heart and brain war--
between wanting to lash out
and worry myself silly.
Part of me wants to think --
'That's what I get
for trying to be a friend, for
trying to help,'
because I should know better.
But for some stupid reason,
I cannot do that.

Someone said that you
can't help someone
who doesn't want the help.
Truth.
Was she drinking again?
Possibly. Happens.
Probably.
Maybe that is why she basically
ran away. But that makes no sense.
We'd have been there, so she could try again.

Her mother threw her out.
She's running to stay with mommy.
The mother who lied about her drinking.
The family who covered up last time she fell.
That is not love:
that is enabling.

When she was homeless
we gave her a home.
She left dust, two coffee mugs
and heartache behind, burning
bridges. Didn't even
say goodbye to the dog who whined
in the window, knowing something was wrong,
who didn't understand.

Didn't say goodbye, thank you
or anything. The last few days
when she said, 'I love you' were lies.
Piled on top of more deceit.
Flabbergasted.
My husband is bewildered.
My daughter will be livid.
Our friends, all of whom
who have been there for her, giving
unselfishly of themselves,
will be disappointed and sad.

Cleared out the DVR of her shows,
cleaned out the pantry,
the freezer and the fridge.
(Who needs
four jars
of bread and butter pickles?)

I have a guest room again,
an empty dresser and armoire.
Think I shall rearrange the furniture.
Company will, once again,
have a place to stay. Perhaps
they will fill the hole
in my heart.

No longer my monkey
and she will star in her
own three ring circus.
Think I will pass:
the sideshow never appealed.
The circus is gone
leaving an empty field of trampled flowers
and a forlorn dog
still staring out the front window.