Clint Dooley is a poet who lives in Mississippi and enjoys writing very, very much.
A Prose Poem
By Clint Dooley
“Baby, we can go for miles on this one tank of gas,” he says to me.
I keep my legs crossed, but in a few hours, I know he’ll want them to be free.
I feel the ringing noise in my ear as he presses down on the gas;
I see a flower bloom in the distant afternoon.
It’s another motel; drap and unkept.
I wonder how many people have slept in this bed.
I shower quickly and unpack my things. I want to throw away
This cheap, dime store ring.
He stands naked in the bathroom doorway, as he walks to me.
He rips my clothes at his forceful hand and pushes me on the bed.
The ringing noise is throbbing.
I stare directly at him, his pleasurable eyes and drooling mouth.
He pants as he lowers his head on my chest.
The clock says 5:02 in the dreary fall.
Time seems frozen as he exits the bed, leaving the pain and effects of this room.
I want to escape because I know he’ll never change.
So I took the keys and drove away.
In his arms, no more.
Under his sheets, not anymore.
I would rid of him as past generations would unfold, his father’s
Wounds and doubts as a child, and the spiral downfall of adulthood,
To which his son desperately followed. No more.
The drugs. The nights. The sex. No more.
No more riding in the back seats of cars, while he
Promises we’ll be in the front soon, driving into our future.
I quit this life; I give him up.
Sweet talks on the phone, begging me to come back home.
Where will my home be tomorrow?
Ever since trusting him, an alley, a motel, a Vegas suite.
I never know where to place my feet.
He tracks me down, the abusive bastard.
He tells me he wants me back,
But I know all too well what he wants, between my thighs.
I want to leave him for good, not wanting him to find me.
But when I try, it’s always dead and fails before it
Hits the atmosphere from a gunshot to the eye.
His hands lead me through another darkness,
A shadow of death that I’m forced to follow, and I find myself
Wishing and praying that I had listened to my mother
“No good, no good for you.” But instead, I spit in her face, told her
To go to hell, never wanting to see her again.
I could be pure again, reborn again, live again.
I just need to get down off my cloud of height and
Actually see yellow daylight.
Instead of synthetic colors and liquid smells,
Let me live a life where I can confidently show and tell.
God, I want to kill him, to get him out of my mind.
I considered dying on his poison pills.
Why am I so special to him?
He could find another girl, but no one quite like me.
I ended this game millions of times before, only to find
His presence hadn’t folded the playing board.
And we played, laughed, and rolled the dice.
Now, I’m forced to roll, move six times, land on property, and pay a price.
Go to school, get a degree, become what I always wanted myself to be.
Maybe I could, but he won’t go.
The path of addiction is long and bumpy,
With no forgiveness, much less mercy.
I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow, or if I’ll even be.
I guess nature will decide that for me, but now that I think of it,
Someone always decided the course of my life,
Why can’t I have a turn and try?
I know my life is unstable, so is my mind,
But why can’t I have a look at my own life,
And find out how to make myself a better person,
Live a better life, with all the things I wanted to be.
Find positive ways to pass the time.
Away from the negative of life, and thinking to myself
Paradise wasn’t that far away after all.