The Red Couch

There are some scents
that have the potential to remain forever.
A sage ritual
backed up by a full bottle of Febreeze
sure ain’t a quick fix for this.

When I sit,
the memories engulf me,
hugs me tightly.
Sadness strikes me,
like the right fist
landing from a drunken hand.

The lingering aroma still nestles
under the portal of my nose.
It makes my eyes water,
revealing emotional toxins still remain.
It’s a confusing solvent of shame and pain.

Uncatchable tear drops fall
and blend into the Red fabric,
already soiled by the tang of defeat.

The Couch in my living room
now resembles a chest of unappetizing awareness.
Even when I think its gone,
That Smell..
Of Mr. Daniels’ escape through his pores
mixed with remnants of nightmarish cold sweats and
tears of self hate,
after witnessing the role he plays.
His life is a rerun seen behind his closed lids.

That Smell..
It creeps in like a plague
and makes the inside of my head bang.
This must be what his hangovers feel like.

That Smell..
It just wouldn’t go away.

I use to curse him
for bringing that essence back into my home.
That was not the childhood flashback
I wanted my Boy Kings to know.

That aura overpowered so many things
home cooked meals,
baked cookies for desert,
evidence of fresh laundry
and perfumed lotion.
A home with a newborn baby,
should never posses the stench of death.

I’ve scrubbed this Red Couch
an endless amount of times.
When I ask my guests,
I’m told they don’t smell it.
I’m tripping.
It’s just me.

My oldest son,
he knew when that hateful fragrance was in the air.
That was his innate clue,
there was tension brewing.

Folded sheets and stacked pillows,
with cases displaying that a nose
dripped coke laced blood on it,
held a crooked structure at the base of the Red Couch.
Or, the end of his temporary,
turned permanent bed.

Occupancy never beginning before the hours of 3 AM,
his Budweiser perfume followed him
from the car and up the stairs.
It dwelled in the hallway,
where he left his shoes.

It bewildered me,
how someone could be okay,
walking in shit daily?
I wondered,
why didn’t he choose,
to take a tour on a different path?
I continued to,
love him,
hoping to revive his senses.

He ignored how his actions
left me lastingly carrying disgust,
instead of the his last name.

That Smell..
It just wouldn’t go away.

Even after I got rid of the man,
tossed out his Liquor fumed sheets
and countless meditations of release-
It wasn’t enough.
To free me.
Of his energy.

The perceived funk,
the semblance my baby remembered his daddy by,
the nasty spice he left on my Red Couch,
was that subconscious switch
that made me so angry.

That Smell..
It just wouldn’t go away.

I had to do the very thing,
I vowed I would never do for him again.

That Smell..
Now on my Red Couch..
much like my hope for an abundant and joy-full future,
Is Just Like New.

© 2015 Tenisha M. Jones