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 by me;

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?