Erin Passons's Blog, page 8

High School is Forever

I’m thirty-five and fucking the student body president.

He went to law school and took tests while

I dropped acid and danced

To blinking lights in foreign lands where glass cut

The dance floor before the bar flared up in balls of flames.


We were dead to each for twenty years until

We hit the hometown together,

Wasting time judging the dashboard flexing figurines

Of friends who stayed behind to live

The complacent lives we ran

From in opposite directions.

Time and time we reminded ourselves,

We’re only tourists here, just visiting.

Our drivers’ licenses bared different zip codes

Than our birth certificates. We were winning.

He was living on an island under Guam,

Squashed in an office with two secretaries, his home

The government sanctioned blessing for

Unfruitful bachelors looking to move their lonely lives abroad.

I was bleeding Austin sweat and multiple texts from

Uninteresting men and marriages with part-time custody

Of the only two decisions I'll never regret.


Now we live together in a house

With worn rugs stained yellow in places,

Housewarming presents from an elderly cat that has

Taken a liking to the man who made a more honest

Woman out of her owner.

I stay domesticated, and his trivia winning—

Not always the kissing finish. But

The picture of similarity, no. He plays computer

Games while cancer and I have another meeting--outside,

Even when it’s freezing.

My drinking to him is heavy, I ask for tips on

Spelling, we come and go at a pace he finds

Unsafe but I find endearing

Victim Sends Her Regards

AfterWe broke up,I wentTo the placeWhere you usedTo take me,The park byThe lakeWhere we kissedForThe third time,WhereYour sweatyBreath held myAttention,Our handsYoung clawsScratchingInnocence,Sprouting bloodWith each thrustOf our tongues.
For a yearYou cheatedOn meWith a girlOne gradeOlderThan me.Her name wasKaren.She livedAcrossThe roadFrom my street. I sawYour carAt her houseMany timesBeforeconfrontingYouAbout it. 
The nightYou leftMy houseIn a rushWas theFinal straw.I tookYour gifts,Flung themOn your car. The littleShepherd dress,The AdamSandlerCD, The badlySprawledPoetry,Your plaid shirtWithThe missingButton. 
You gotRevengeBy breakingIntoMy houseAnd stealingMyDiary. You shared itWith KarenAndTogetherYou madeCopies atSome late nightOffice place. 
The next dayYou passed themOut at school. My motherAnd ICalledThe police,KarenWasSuspended.To this dayI’veNever knownSo much hate.
At the parkI satAfter hoursUntilThe darknessRang. Part of meWanted youTo find me,To retraceWhereWe had been,ToRememberThat kiss. I was emptyInAll places,EvenThe wrong ones.A partOf meMissed you.
It’s been yearsAnd I thinkAbout myKisses since.All thoseSecondGuessings.SometimesI pictureYouAtThe copyMachine,You and yourAccompliceBride, ShiftingOne pageFrom the flashTo perchAnother,IntentOn myDestruction.IImagineYour small lives,And wonderIf you’ve feltEnough painTo knowThe sickness
Of your ink.

Mercedes

Mercedes, that day working the cafe when you stepped on the floor with your apron flung over your arms and Paul was talking nonsense and Luke was at the machine and I was sucking down espresso as fast as my addiction would allow, that day when the Chai guy came in and you were like, "Look Erin, another American," and Lucy the Chef was in the back tossing tomatoes into salad bowls and Claire was polishing lipstick off silverware, and I'm like, "Mercedes, you know that place where you wake up and your life seems bigger?" and you said, "A dream?" but it's not a dream really when it stays in the pit of your gut like stains to a coffee cup and you know this land is only a boat to send you back home when that last shift comes and it's the two of us lying under a tree, staring at a sky of milky stars and a moon with a bright white face outside your apartment and the plane comes the next morning but the mistakes you've made, the places you've been, the people you love, you carry them with you, you leave them but you carry them with you and just like now on this rainy continent a million miles away it's still the cafe it's always the cafe.

Melting

Tea cups best like this,

Five or six and snowing.

Mornings hold, afternoons sneak the sun past the nurses.

By the time dark gorges the pavement steam, a nestle of cars can't keep melting away.


Always, this dream—

A bedroom at the end of my last life.

Brown-walled, wallpapered ceilings.

Two hungry mouths, one loaded mind. Fists making adequate use of time.

A phone hidden in a coat hidden in the sickness of a season splintered.

Dawn rooftops hit the windows, yellow rolls into rooms where I sit, the five-years-ago me.

She's a lurching bird misery-wrapped, all bones,

The flavor of forever--surrendered.

All four thousand square-feet of her nest squashed in the limits

Of pain that never goes away fast enough

Before the melting.


I know I had to go,

But in my dreams the tears are never too salty and I never leave. It's not bad enough. I can stay.

The laughter down the hallway makes the medicine.

An arm flings over the wall. Mother, mother.

Snow falls in Texas but never stays but I could have

Had my dreams never melted away.

I Miss My Daughter As a Child

To those of you with small children:Cherish the playground days. Even the playgrounds with the swings where you have to push and push your little human halfway to the trees and back until it feels like your arms are falling off.Because one day your preteen child will accompany your younger child to the swing set, and she will not know what to do. She will ignore her brother's pleas to play with him. She will stand by the slide and look down, blind to all of its possibilities. The real world has her now. It found her on Instagram, broke bread with her in the cafeteria, taught her how to use mascara, betrayed her to bullies. She can no longer imagine herself as a princess and the playset is a castle and the bridge is a moat and the sand is her kingdom. After a moment she will give up and slink over to a bench nearby and sit down wearing a sullen, bored expression, hands itching for her absent iPhone, and she'll ask, "Mommy, can we please go?"...then the last, lingering hope that your child was in some ways still a child will suddenly be zapped out of you like moisture on a hot, dry July afternoon.So parents, enjoy your children, while they're still children.

Things I Lost In the Burglary

I.My suitcase for going homeA curling iron, a hair dryerA tool kit assortment of mismatched toolsLeft by men who left brokenPieces of pieces too foregoneTo conclude by a stick of glue(The pieces were not stolen)
The TV. Thirty-inch somethingI think said the man whenI went to buy (but menAlways lie about size)Blue-ray, pictures (memories),Markers, but no booksOr poetry (I guess he was notConcerned about literacy)Underwear I never wear Nail polish red burnt orangePurplish pink (and yellow I think)Kitchen gadgets never used anyway,and my security,My sense of safety, myUnencumbered sleep (butLeft the terrors and bad dreams)
My suitcase no wait a repeat
II.
He left the fridge openThe ice cream fell outMelting on the floor for daysWiped away by a price I almost couldn't afford to pay
III.
The laundromat. I goTo clean clothes and escapeFootball. But the TVsScream sports in everySection. Crowds cheerAnd the washer clears.
The thumbs of menPlant prints on my skin no matterWhich places I wear.
IV.
I know the man who robbed meHe gave me a ride home thenHe gave my home awayTo the first pawn shop sold.
V.
When the chime breaks I'll know--fluff and fold,Play, tackle, pass,Press "start" for permanent, 
Pass my suitcase, it's Always packed. My missing artifact.I'll stack the pieces packedAnd ring wet where stainsHave set. Wire hang what ballThat kicker can't fitInside his money clip. Days.Months. Tireless, tired. Oh.I'm only angry now, time to hitThe path. Cause that road homeMay be long, but the roadTo no home is the longest.

How will the Trump Administration Kill You?

#BlackoutFriday

#BlackoutFriday is Jan 20.


Change your social media pictures to black.

Skip work if you can. If you have to go to work, wear black.

Drape a black sheet over your door.

Pretend you've disappeared like the HBO show, The Leftovers.

Why?

They feed off our outrage, our disdain. But what if we don't give in to their weapon of hate? How victorious would a conquering army be if there were no army to conquer?

Paul Ryan Is an Abortion of Mankind

It’s not like we didn’t see this coming with the change of the administration, Planned Parenthood threatening to be defunded. It has been a fear for decades but got real with this election. Defunding threatens the health and safety for millions of women and men.

What are we as Americans, as women, who want to keep these rights and have access to these services going to do about it? We, the people, the mothers, daughters, sons and fathers who use, need and want for others the affordable services Planned Parenthood provides, what action are we taking?

The Nasty Women Book Project was birthed by mother, author and all around superwoman, Erin Passons. The book project is dedicated to the voices of women, American history, filled with genuine stories, tales and experiences of pain, empowerment, solace and resistance. There are stories of discord, unity, division and bridges. A collection of powerful words and experiences from mothers, attorneys, professors, journalists, artists, grandmothers, students from all walks of life. Women of vast diversity with powerful voices and a cause. A project that won’t stop at one because they refuse to give up on or stop for Planned Parenthood.

When asked why she spearheaded this project, in Erin’s words “Because when Hillary Clinton was nominated as the Democratic candidate for the President of the United States women found their voices. When Trump won, there was fear. I didn’t want women to lose their voices again. Additionally, Planned Parenthood needs us, and we need them.”

ALL of the proceeds go to support the 270,000 pap tests and 360,000 breast exams performed by Planned Parenthood annually. The 4.2 million tests and treatments for sexually transmitted infections including 650,000 HIV tests. The prevention of about 579,000 unwanted pregnancies per year. Nearly 2.5 million women, men and adolescents are served by Planned Parenthood in a single year in the United States with safe health care, services and education. Less than 3% of their services are safe termination of pregnancies. Planned Parenthood is way more than the haters want to shine the light upon.

Private people making private contributions in part supports these services. Since the election more than 200,000 donations have been made to Planned Parenthood with more than 50,000 of those donations being made in the name of VPE Pence. An excellent start but there is not a finish line on this one until we know that there will always be enough money to keep these health care clinics open and available to all who need them.

The Nasty Women Book Project is committed to being a powerful voice for women and a continuous support to Planned Parenthood. This is about the future and how we can change history by coming together collectively making a difference. As a nation soon to be led by a man who does nothing to instill security or reason in our minds we must mobilize and find solutions to overcome that which we fear. Whether it be fear of confines, loss of rights or pride as American citizens. We cannot sit back and allow the cards to fall where they may. Do not accept what is, if what is does not align with your values and the future you wish to see. We must stand up and be heard. We must support the causes that we care about. We must do something because we can’t do nothing!

Nasty Women Book Project is not a project to shed the limelight or give the glory to any one person. It is to chronicle and be a reminder of where we have been, where we will go, what we are capable of doing and what we will do, as women, mothers, daughters, sisters, friends. As Michelle Obama said “When they go low, we go high”. Erin Passons and her posse of amazing women see no ceiling.

Having had the privilege to read some of the stories as well as be a contributor, moving is an understatement. You can read some of the powerful stories before the book is released this March 2017, here.

In the meantime you can make a direct donation to Planned Parenthood here; be sure to make it in the name of Mike Pence or Paul Ryan.

originally posted on Huffington Post Blog by Chris Kelly

Message to Book Contributors

Normally, the editing process goes like this:

You submit your work to an editor. The editor reviews it, marks it for changes, then sends it back to you. You make the changes and submit it. Repeat. Repeat.

The editing process will be different for our book. To save time, the grammar gurus and I will make the edits as we go. We will only ask you to make revisions if you are missing major elements from your story.

If you prefer to make the corrections yourself, please let me know.

You will be able to see the final version of your story before we send it to press, and you will need to sign a release form, which lawyer boyfriend is currently writing up.

Let me know if you have any questions.