Mrs. Lincoln Slept Alone That Night

I want to begin with Yeats,

There's not a woman turns her face

Upon a broken tree,

And yet the beauties that I loved

Are in my memory;

The next line is profound;

The next line explains why I wanted to begin with Yeats.

40 years old; in 2 days, I will be 40 years old. 

And I can’t help but remember that 40

Is Was my suicide age. 

When I decided that I would drown myself in the ocean at age 40

I was only 27. 

At the time, it seemed like the right decision. 

Time.  

Most of life was lived, I figured. Would have been lived. 

Should have been loved. Hasn’t been lived. 

Suppressions creep out on my birthday;

The expectations and pressures and hopes that I never 

Let myself think about. They come to play on May 14. Every fucking year. 

All of the other days, my unadorned finger 

and childless womb 

are just fine;

I want to be alone most of the time anyway. 

But today, 
all I hear is the silence of the non-baby. 
And all I feel is the loneliness 

left by the man who never wanted to marry me. 

All of those men. 

All of those bars. All of those beds...

I accept nothing. 
I expect nothing. I am profoundly sad. Blue. 
A case of the gloomies. 
Eeyore. Charlie Brown--All the pathetic ones. But,
God don't make no junk, right?

And me. I’ll companionize with those pathetic ones. 

There:
I just turned companion into a causative verb. 

And through a crudely placed squiggle below my brilliant creation, 
spell-check says I’m wrong. 
Fuck you spell-check. This is all I have. 

Words.

I can create words--so forget the babies. I’ll make the words. 

They’ll keep me warm in my 2 score. 

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?