To live within a paradox, a superpower on its knees.

Only when the mute king says so, will the money grow on trees.

The price of peace is bloodshed from the ones amidst violence,

And when the flag is folded, hear the screaming of the silence.

The swiftness of bureaucracy, when your money’s what they spend.

The complex and simple budget of a war that doesn’t end.

Homes of excess luxury still claim to be oppressed.

While those who dawn their work boots, can not afford to rest.

A peaceful protest march can leave businesses in flames.

The mastermind’s a simpleton, that likes to fog our brains.

I sat on the edge of the fountain, surreptitiously glancing left and right, awaiting the moment he'd come into view with his kind eyes and shy smile. The minutes passed, an hour came and went but I did not leave. There are those who might say a higher power was at work. For he did arrive, running, sweat dripping, shocked to see I was waiting still, smiling, perchance, already loving.

And we lived happily ever after - as all the difficult times entwined with a multitude of shared joyful moments, each woven tightly into the fabric of our life together.

Arriving home late that evening, I storm past my family’s greetings, through the kitchen, and straight into my home office. Ten, nine, eight… Deep breath… Seven, six…Holy fuck, keep it together you useless sack of shit. 17 years wasted, only to lose the promotion to a filthy toddler. Memory is a tricky mistress, filling you up and absorbing all you have left until you’re ready to explode.

Brayden’s god damned Brazilian Tarantula stares back at me with its bulbous abdomen propping himself and mocking me. Eight hundred dollars for me to come home every night to an escaped monster filing my paperwork. I wasn’t even consulted. I’m never fucking consulted. Not by Linda, certainly not by my boss.

If I'm trapped, you’re trapped. This cage of a whisky glass should prove nicer than the suburban hellhole I’ve dug for myself.  I slam the glass upside down atop the venomous spider, and make my way around the large mahogany desk. I pretend to understand, but twelve thousand dollars on a dress she hasn’t worn!?

“For fuck sakes!” I shout and slam my fists into the table. The temporary jail shimmies towards the edge.

“Two hundred grand on a car she doesn’t drive!” SLAM. The glass wobbles closer.

The spider watches as the large man destroys his office, every object personally offending him. All the while paying no attention to the danger creeping along the edge of his desk.

I'm all but dead, as my panic begins to ease and reality comes into view. I slump my dead weight into my overpriced chair, and the impact vibrates the glass to freedom. Just as the little monster takes his chance, I place my sweaty hand on top and regain control.

We glare at each other. She does make me laugh. The kids are set for life. I’m only forty-five. We both let out a sigh of relief, and I get myself a new whisky glass.

I didn't see the thorns.

It's true, I didn't see them.

I thought it was the intricacies of love,

but it was nothing but a thorn in my side.

I didn't feel the thorns.

Its true, how could I feel them?

When its a story pointed towards romanticizing,

I grow numb to the sharp sting.

I didn't notice the red flag.

It's true, I didn't notice it.

Maybe because the red flag was crumpled up into a beautiful rose,

and nobody had ever given me a rose before.

On my fourteenth birthday, my father took me to a prostitute. When we left, he slapped me on the back and said, now, my son, you are a man. He didn’t ask any questions. So, I didn’t tell him how the woman failed in her attempts to excite me. How she got frustrated then angry then contemptuous. I didn’t tell him how she called me all the same things the boys at school did – the reason he brought me there in the first place, I suspect. I didn’t tell him how I begged her to stop. How I covered my ears as tears threatened to fall. How my hurt and sadness turned to anger when she went to open the door so she could go tell everyone, my father, about my…difficulty. How I jumped from the bed, grabbed her and covered her mouth with my hand to make her stop. How she bit me, so I threw her to the floor, and she hit her head. How I pounced on her, my hands around her neck, while she struggled to free herself. How, as I saw her terror, her weakness to my strength, I was able to do exactly as she'd wanted. He'd wanted. No, I didn’t tell him any of that. I just thanked him for his gift.