Matchstick Boys

My love;
a matchstick
 drenched in tar.

 flickered for a time,
 I know my darling...
I saw

That sad, peculiar heart,

  You ghost of a flame. 

Now pained;
To watch from afar;

This precious, frail, matchstick boy

alone
Suffocating
fading in the dark.

- Mary Catherine, Cowardice queen

To My Daughter

Dear Devin Jade,

I know that You love this song.

I paid very close attention to you when I saw you last.

you are so precious. 
I studied you. 

My thoughts are many...
I know where to start. 

I love you.

A small sentence; yet flows with a wild power when spoken by someone that truly means it. 

It is one of the most important things one could say to those we feel that way towards. 

So Say it as often 
as you think it. 

But only if you truly mean it.

 Saying I love you is similar to an apology, both statements should not be used carelessly.

To love is to not only appreciate but to cherish.
 I believe that we, all people, should always try to love everyone equally. That is a different kind of love, called “Agape Love” *  That is a difficult attitude to obtain and maintain, some people spend a lifetime or more than one, depending on your beliefs, to love all people with equal benevolence. 

I believe it is something to always strive towards. After all, each of us is suffering. 

We are breathing in the same air;

 bleeding the same color. 

I paid very close attention to you when I saw you last.

you are so precious. 
I studied you.
 My thoughts are many...
 I don't even know where to start, 
 I'll try.

I see how sensitive you are, how aware.

I wish I could shield you; from anyone or anything that causes you discomfort. 

but, we know that is impossible.

When someone hurts you;

try to keep in mind that there is always more than what meets the eye, Always a backstory...

So Many frightened, disappointed and lost people.  Sometimes it is those who seem to have everything you wish you had but never did; 

A super mom and dad who give a limitless amount of love, affection and support? 

Or maybe a girl at school who seems so perfect. Perhaps she always has the right clothes, perfect smile, says the right things at the right time, makes everyone laughs, all the girls seem to want to be her and boys want to marry her. 

but... Could there is something behind that?

Perhaps inside she feels trapped like a puppet being tossed around having to perform for everyone. Suffering is not always visible, but it is a guarantee that each of us suffers in our own way. 

There are going to be times when life may seem unfathomably harsh and without logic or any justice. “Fair?”  I urge you to dismiss the word.

Real life is chaotic, unpredictable and will seem to lack any logic. So, the word “fair” is useless. 

Please know one thing my child, those that feel pain deeply, love passionately, live with ferocity; they see beauty where others see nothing at all.

 theirs are the hearts that fill with love and compassion.

A heart like yours.

Use your gifts.

express those things whenever you feel them. 

The sensitive, the intelligent and the highly creative are the most likely to sense these things; it is more of a gift in the end and not a curse, though it may not feel that way sometimes.

I want you to know that I think of you every day and I miss you terribly. 

Know that you have a mother in N.Y.C that loves you unconditionally. 

I hope you know that you can talk to me with any question or problem you have.

I am here for you.

I Love You Devin Jade & hope and pray to see you soon. 

Your Mother, Mary Catherine. 

~ Vocabulary ~

*Agape - (Ancient Greek: ἀγάπη, agápē) is "love: the highest form of love, charity; the love of God for man and of man for God." Not to be confused with "philēo" – brotherly love – agápē  - embraces a universal, unconditional love that transcends, that serves regardless of circumstances.

Dear Stranger

Although this is not my story to tell, you confided in me many things over our years together, I made observations. This is only my perspective and I want to share it.

What happened to you, sweet stranger? 

Kent, CT - 2011

I know the harshness of your mother and those spiked heels after she would come home a little drunk and very unhappy.

I know of the closets you cowered inside of when you heard her nearing. 

I know the beating you took, I understand the fear you had. 

I know that you witnessed that same woman, your mother, 

endure and accept the abuse by the hands of a man. 

The very same hands that once caressed her, with love, with kindness.

 I know that man, your father, the father you refuse to believe had ever accepted you as his son. 

Never really treated you as his blood. 

He couldn't even look you in the eye that day by Forty-Second Street when he came to give you that birth certificate (well at least that is what you told me it was) before  he sped away in a new SUV. 

You were propelled with his encouragement into exile.
 "No son of his!"  
He has sons more worthy (you believe) with another woman. 
Successful, loved, untainted by abuse and broken homes.

While you were shunned and disowned by the Alfa male of your family. 

While you were barefoot wandering the L.E.S looking for a fix,  these half brothers were receiving the love and acceptance he never bothered to give you. 

You once sat on the grass of your front yard, a boy who still believed in the good in people. 

Dear stranger, you waited for him. You waited long after the sitter told you to come inside. 

You were not even capable of thinking that someone, especially your father would break their word. 

He was supposed to love you.

Your mother never ceased to feel guilty about what happened to her child. 
No doubt she placed some of the blame upon herself. 
So she enabled you, listened to your pleas, your whims. 
In secret, she assisted you. 
Always pleading your case...  But you started making demands. You became aggressive as you aged, as you went further into the dark. You smashed her window when she tried to say no to you for once. 

Dear stranger, who are you? You did that to your own mother. The one that showed such love for you. 
These days, do you think she wishes you to vanish? 
After all, you did make an appearance into the world when she was trying to flee, you were not anticipated. 
You held her back then and you hold her still. 
Is that what you sometimes think stranger? I think she still loves you. I think she can't bear to think of you because it breaks her heart. 
This is the only part I am sure of because I am a mother too. 

Do you truly believe your father doesn't love you?  
That you're a complete failure, a total disappointment, dead already?
I doubt it, but no one knows.
What he thinks does not matter anyway. 
What do you think of you?

What happened to that little boy?
 What happened to that young man with talent and ambitions?
What happened to Frodo and Golem? Hockey? Dirt bikes? 
The boy who smiled and laughed with ease? 

when there was no heroin-
 no needles-
 Nor addiction as a disease; a need for escape that leaves you living on your knees.
Think.
Where did he go, stranger? 
Is he still there, beneath your grime and your lies?

 Have you forgotten about that little boy you once were, sitting on the  lawn?

Waiting. Waiting.




 Breaking. Breaking.

You remained there till the sun began to set, for the father that never came.

That innocent little boy needs you. 
Now he waits only for you. 
Do not leave him there alone.
Do not turn away, he may not be in the best shape, perhaps a bit jarring at first. 

He has been neglected for too long. 

Do you fear that childlike vulnerability that much?

It may not be my place to say this yet I will because, despite what you tell yourself, I still care for you- deeply.
You don't want to spend what is left of your life 
in avoidance.

It will never go away, not ever, not completely.

What really happened to you? 
What makes you think you are so so unique?
What made you a stranger even to yourself? 

Just remember, no one will ever care  for or love you
 more than you care for and love yourself. 
You are worth loving.

Please, Stranger you are not that strange.

Now, come inside where it's warm
. I've got some Hot Cocoa I could make for you. We'll get you cleaned up and I'll tell you a  story I know. 
It's about a lost little boy who met a lost little girl and how they each found their way home. 
Would you like that?

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

Forbidden, Nevermore. (Part Three)

We will have to fast forward about two and a half years later to nail her in for good.
 The Forbidden never more.

I'll start by saying 
there is nothing so fierce and binding as a mother's love for her first born son (think of Cersei when King Joffrey dies in the fourth season of Game of Thrones). My son is nearly three and my second child, a daughter is only six months old and was still breastfeeding. 

I told "Max" that I wanted to be their mother but not his wife, in so many words. 
I could not stand to live with him under the same roof any longer, I loathed him. 
I felt like a prisoner and a slave. 
I would look at him and feel genuine nausea
come over me. 

when I tell Mr. Statutory rape 
how I feel He says, "Okay, my sister, (Aunt Martyr) in Long island has no problem at all taking in me and both the children and her husband can help me find a job up there. Unless of course,
 you can figure something else out..." 

 What breed of homo-sapien would do this? So basically he is taking my blood!

 my children, that I carried in my womb and cared for 99.9 percent of the time from Florida to New York. 

Okay, keep in mind:
 he knew damn well that I had no one, nothing, 
no home 
(other than his), 
no job experience, no car, 
no drivers license, 
no college education. He new I was powerless to stop him. 





I digress, The point is, that my mother
was aware of the predicament I was in. 
Since it was her choices and arbitrary, foolish decisions that were the causation of most of them anyway.

Why my mother is already in her coffin as far as i am concerned.  It is April 2006, I gather up all the strength I can and phone this biological mother of mine and inform her of the situation. 
I had already racked my brain trying to think of anything else I could do and no ideas came. After the end of my futile lament and pleas, I end with one final attempt;
 "Mom, I don't think you understand, if you don't let me and the kids live there, or at the very least just the kids, if you don't want me around; he is going to take them 
all the way to New York!"

Pronounced dead. 

All she did was list insignificant and selfish problems as they came to her mind.
 trying to find a reason that would justify the "No" 
Anything she could think of; Her relationship with her fourth husband, her old age. 
All horse shit.

It is now nearly September of 2015. 
She has been dead to me for quite some time. 
I've cried over the loss of a mother already, I'm dried up. 

So, No Mother, I will not cry
when your body ceases to function.

What difference does a heart beat make? 

You did the best you could. The best you were capable of, only the best of intentions, I hear you; 
But right now I am not a wise old crone. All I can say to you in order to remain true to myself and stay honest is that when I was told my biological father died, all I did was shrug my shoulders-
take a drag of my cigarette-
contemplate him a for moment-
toss my cigarette 
and say,

"I hope he suffered".

 So, for your sake, go on and pray to your God that you are forgiven for being the mother you were and that I will have more feeling for you then I did for daddy. 

"Mommie Dearest".

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

Forbidden Acts? (Part Two)

Another memory that bolts your coffin. 

Another memory that bolts your coffin. 
 To this day thinking of it brings me 

a pang of resentment and confusion. 

I was eleven years old; mother says, I 'm disobedient, disrespectful and talk back too much.
 In other words, my character and my opinions
must have inconvenienced and clashed with her idea of what a daughter ought to be. 
She sent me away to a behavior modification program. 
I had to leave my baby brother my neighborhood, 
my friends all that was familiar to me. 
It was called Sheridan House run by Christian fanatics
we were to address only as Ma and Pa. 
a strange and secretive elderly couple
there to guide us back to our lord and savior. 
A very strict schedule regime and rules and still more strict consequences if you slipped up.
 Running timed laps for hours, pulling weeds for hours,
 all in the hot Florida sun.
I was gone one year.

When I return Mother is remarried 
to husband number three
and his daughter lives in my bedroom.

No biggie Right. 
Adapt, adjust; I could have done that.
fade into the background, be erased?
Really bitch, me?
Not so much.

Less than a year back I foolishly confide to my mother that I smoked weed for the first time. 
What does my mother do? 
She gets rid of me at the first opportunity.
She sends me to a juvie rehab called The Starting Place. 
Yeah, starting place alright.
 not exactly what you had in mind right mum? I ran away from the facility with a crack smoking 16-year-old prostitute about two weeks in.

Yet another reason I WILL NOT CRY UPON YOUR DEATH.

 I show up unwelcome and shunned on her doorstep.
 tattered mentally and physically, I had been learning the sex trade.
apparently, it's not uncommon at all for a sexually traumatized child to become extremely promiscuous during their youth. I was sexually abused from approx age six to twelve. also, disassociation during sexual acts in the future is common as well.
 of course, I did not know that was what I was doing then at 15 years old, I just knew my body was doing one thing while my mind and soul were on a vacation. 
I learned all this much later. 
The book "The Courage To Heal" - 
I highly suggest you do not read,
not if you do not have the tools and support.
 Trust me 

Speaking of vacations I had been staying underneath the Deerfield Beach pier and 'The Hansel and Gretel Motel' up the road from the beach.

Alright, Ma- don't get all worked up now.
 we are at the second to last nail now.

 After having me incarcerated under false allegations of domestic violence, and having been "Baker Acted" 13 times in one year. Yes, you did mom; I fucking counted once. 

 Munchausen by proxy in the psych department much? 

When my release date comes and my mother refuses to come and get me.
 by default gives me to the state. 
She managed to dodge abandonment charges by convincing a judge that I was too unruly and she felt it was in my best interest if I was in the states care. 
That's right.

 Either she didn't do the research or she didn't care. 
Either way, she got what she wanted at long last. 
To be rid of this impostor of a daughter.
This Foul
creature.
this Wicked girl, 
A devil.
Me.

I remember sitting by that one-way telephone,  
that cold dorm,  a red foamy chair, 
waiting for a phone call that never came. 
I imagined her in the courtroom, doing her victim thing,
 those forced tears, and contrived sobs. 

Off I go multiple group homes (A.K.A. an orphanage ).
One of which was a locked down mental health facility, thanks to the gigantic amount
of crazy on my juvenile record. 

That was where I spent my oh-so-sweet sixteenth birthday. 

A couple of foster homes later  I am impregnated. 
We will call him Max. 

He was twenty-seven years old when I was Sixteen, It was winter of 2002. I was about to close up shop 
about three months after meeting him 
at an A.A meeting on a Sunday night, 
 down the street from my second foster home.

I maxed out his credit cards, he tutored me back to my straight A's and he started to complain about the pack of Marlboro reds I smoked.
 that of course, he would buy for me. 
then he started using the word love and I was like;  I'm Out. 

Next thing I know my foster sister Jay
 (Javiera, amazing girl) 
is holding my hair back while I retch, gag 
and vomit uncontrollably.
the same hands that had stitched up my wrist a few months back, the same hands that tossed me a vibrator when I confessed I had never used one before. 
I loved that girl. 
I think I asked her, in total disbelief,
What the hell am I going to do?
Dumbfounded.
 See, know we know, What kind of God would give me a kid?

I know the answer to that now. 
The only God that there is;  God that didn't  choose to use protection at a very fertile age. 
Yours truly. 
Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen 

(Part Three)

What Forbidden Act? (Part One of Three)

I was asked several years ago to write a few things I had never done or allowed myself to do.  
after some contemplation I came up with a very short list.
 "Forbidden acts" is what the instructions were titled.  Telling my mother the following was one of them.

Dear Mother,

I do not think your death would cause me any anguish. I do not think I will even cry. I will not even visit your ailing body upon your death bed, or the morgue if your already dead. Unless I had to by law to identify your body. I would glance down at you nod my head to the mortician and walk away with the same cold apathy you showed me throughout my life. I think you will appear the just as cold and uncaring on that slab as you have always looked to me, since before i can remember.

Almost never being held, kissed hugged or praised. I suppose the first memory that arises is when I was a child (perhaps eight or nine, not sure). I had two first place writing awards in the only two you let me involve myself with.I remember we were driving in that blue mini van,with the sliding side doors. The one that GrandMary almost fell out of while the van was in motion and the door slid open. 

I remember much fear I overcame It and Asked you with a much courage as I could muster, "Mom"

"Yes, What?" She didn't even glance at me i the rear view mirror.

"I was just wondering...ahh, What could I write that hasn't been written?"

a pause, then "I don't know..."

"Well with all the books in the world and all those people that wrote them and all this time, what could I say that no one else hasn't said already, (embarrassed, I finish the thought a little more quietly) and said it better 'prolly'."

Silence, then- "Alright! Buckles off! Tim, Mary we're here."

That was the end of the conversation a conversation I desperately needed and wanted to have-To her it was merely an audible passing whim of a child that has no thoughts of her own.

Later that night I remember (strange how certain things you can remember so clearly and others are pitch black like your life ceases to exist for a time) writing in my Journal this mad scribble "What could I write that hasn't been written? I'm only a girl once smitten, twice bitten."

Another memory comes. Mother did not read to me at night, or during the day for that matter, certain not often if at all. She purchased (with money she was always complaining she didn't have) audio book's instead. So, it was "good night" push button, walk out the door leaving my night light on.  (What were you doing Mom? What was so important?)

My mother didn't keep an exceptionally clean house a slightly tidy pack rat, disorganized random thindgs covering seventy five percent of counter and table tops, at this time she was a divorcee and she was no cook either. In fact I think she might have been an employed microwave promoter

 ("So fast! So much easier! So convenient! Idiot.)

Which brings me to another point, another memory, another cheap convenience for her. "The McDonald's" almost every fucking birthday was at the play yard of a fucking Mcdonald's. This went long after I noticed the odd taste and texture of the "Mcnugget". that and the odd brown discs carelessly flopped between puffy bleached flour called a hamburger. They had long lost their novelty and disgusted me. 
Frugal and lazy? 
Could that be it? Yet still we went. 
I was demanded to eat all my food, told I was ungrateful if i didn't want to or just couldnt. 
between that, the microwave obsession and the McDonald's, It is astonishing I wasn't a chubby child. 
Then again,  the fact that you had me on speed since five (or was it six?)  years old might have helped.
You never asked me where I would like to go for my birthday, or what I wanted or who I was for that matter. 
Did not once stop and think that I had a mind of my own, that couldn't be more different then the one you tried to enforce upon me?
Why can't you be like cousin one or more like cousin two?  How about this Mom, maybe if you were a decent and sane parent like uncle this or aunt that.
 that may make a slight difference.

What were you so afraid I would become Mother?! 

proceed


Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen