R: “It’s gonna be ok.”

I don’t usually click the “create new post” button on here and write what’s on my mind, I have done so occasionally, but it is much more common for me to flip thru the pages of one of my journals and pick a poem or other short written piece that I know I haven’t published yet and throw it up on here. But once in a while I need the feeling of my thumb flying across the screen of my smart phone, trying to tell as much as I can of whatever story literally just happened to me. Tonight there is one of those stories, but the words are getting stuck somewhere, maybe in my biceps, and aren’t making it to my thumbs. In the past 3 hours I’ve cried 4 times. I felt like a burden on the people who were being so generous and giving me a ride, I felt like a nuisance as I stated my opinion and my experience while surrounded by a group of women who are more mature than me both in physical years and in faith, I had an outburst when the topic of discussion hit close to home, I wanted to tell a story but there wasn’t time, and by defending my crazy I only made myself appear more crazy. I’m sure whatever I said tonight was incoherent and I can’t explain it away. And yesterday in an effort to just enjoy a conversation with a friend, I gave her all sorts of details that it seems she is collecting in order to pass judgement on my life choices and recommend all sorts of ways to fix my life. Well, the truth is lady, i just wanted to have another adult to talk to, I didn’t need for you to tell me that I need to be on meds for my mental illness and for you to claim youve seen my behavioral extremes, when really you’ve only ever seen me depressed, some days I just don’t let the depression crush my whole day and I am able to laugh and I don’t lock myself inside my house for weeks at a time, just because I put on clean clothes and earrings does not mean my depression is gone and just because I talk about something I am excited about does not mean I am having a manic episode. But this post is just more incoherent crazy person babble, reinforcing that I am in fact having some sort of episode related to my mental illness. Eff it, Im too tired to fix me right now, tomorrow has a chance and so do i.

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Reflecting on My Metaphor

i am a typewriter and someone else is pressing the keys

i am a match that won’t light

i am yarn, frayed and unraveling

i am glue that never dries

i am words written backwards

i am a stone that can’t skip

i am lukewarm coffee

i am a pen out of ink

i am an empty spool of thread

i am a threadbare sweater

i am a left sock without a right

i am a flower, always wilting

i am written in an unspoken language

i am all consonants and no vowels

i am a broken vase, not yet mended with gold

i am a butterfly with broken wings

i am an owl without voice

i am loaded scales with no counter weights

Stepping Stones, part 2

i am twenty years old. the year is two thousand and nine. i am wearing a white dress that i designed and sewed myself. i am not happy with the dress. i don’t like how it fits and i don’t like the way i look in it. i am frustrated and angry that one person is not at my wedding. instead of being glad about all the people who are here to celebrate my special day, i fixate on just one person. i should have had my eyes fixed on my groom. i do not notice the way he looks at me. for him i am the only person that exists today. later i will see it in photographs- the way he looked at me on that day. by the time i see it we are both beginning to believe it is too late.

 

i am twenty four years old. the year is two thousand and fourteen. i can’t breathe. i didn’t see this coming. i did not believe this would happen. R is breaking up with me. he has fallen in love with someone else. this can’t be real. this isn’t happening. i can’t breathe. please don’t leave me.

 

i am twenty four years old. the year is two thousand and fourteen. i am single for the first time in my adult life. i am trying to put the pieces of my life back together and move forward. i want to be someone who my sons can be proud of. i have decided that i want to be a teacher. i have enrolled in college classes for the first time in over three years. i believe i can do this. i will not fail this time, this is what i tell myself.

 

i am twenty seven years old. the year is two thousand and sixteen. R is single and has an extra bedroom. he has asked me if i would like to move in, as his roommate. we’ve started having sex again; we are friends with benefits. it sounds like a good plan.

 

i am twenty eight years old. the year is two thousand and seventeen. i have just gotten my first paying job of my adult life. it is at a yarn store. i am excited about the possibilities of this. it is a step in the right direction. a stepping stone.

Daily Prompt: Wonder/030918

Do you ever wonder what would have happened

if we could have made it work?

If we really had tried everything?

We gave up too soon, I know that.

And I still wonder if it will be me and you

again.

I have hope.

And I’ll always carry that hope,

in my backpack full of bricks,

that I’ll save because they’re ours

to build on.

I’m strong enough to carry more,

more than these bricks and more than my hope;

tell me everything and I’ll carry your tears

next to your joy.

I hope you wonder about me,

I hope you carry hope.

 

In reponse to

Wonder

Untitled/021917

Tell me about him.
He was sixteen once,
but then again, maybe he’s only ever been
sixteen.
He loves motorcycles.
And women,
three women.
One me.
Ink under skin, all over.
Vaguely remember owls,
screech owls.
Cigarettes,
the taste of tobacco on his lips.
The scent of bourbon
as he exhales into my hair.
Rough hands rest gently
on me.
A motorcycle accident,
I lived it a thousand times
before it ever happened.
“You hungry?” and “How are you?”
Whispers in the middle of the night
between arms
that keep holding on.
Promises to our children
that we’ll do the best we can
and then try to do better,
and those same promises
are for me too.
He’s twenty-five, a good man.

Blind Following Blind Off a Cliff

You don’t sing in church anymore,
that makes me a little sad.
And I wish you could hear me sing
in the kitchen at midnight
when you’re not home.
You say a soft, “Hi,”
and I wonder why
your arms haven’t been around
me
more often.
My rib cage and soft belly
ache for your arms.
Your alarm goes off,
your alarm goes off,
your alarm goes off,
and I just wanna let you sleep.
The world can wait for you,
they won’t move on without you,
maybe the universe
stands still when you’re not there.
And maybe we all hold our breath
until you come back around.
The center,
something to revolve around,
but it shouldn’t be like that.
Where you lead
I might follow,
even into danger
and heartache.
Snap back to reality
knock you down a peg or two,
to keep myself alive
and safely down from the ledge.

Cigarettes: How to Keep Your Guard Up Around Non-Smokers/122416

You promised me the world,
when the world wasn’t yours to give away.
You promised me everything,
when you had next to nothing.
A broken boy whose love
always had conditions,
I just forgot to see them,
until your love was no longer mine.
I’ve always thought
I could win you back,
that if I love you hard enough
you’ll forget not to love me.
You said you were gonna buy me a book;
you never ask me to leave
as I crawl into your bed some time before dawn.
Sometimes you hold me
so damn tight, I can’t move.
Or when you trace every inch
of my body with your fingertips,
interlace you fingers with mine,
make me feel alive,
perfect,
safe,
beautiful.
If that isn’t love,
then I don’t know what the fuck is.
A broken boy, trying so damn hard
to be a man.
I wonder if my love
will show you how to grow up.
Or will it keep you
broken?

Duck, Duck, Goose, and We Go Around Merrily/120416

People don’t build relationships.
Relationships build themselves,
often accidentally.
That’s the beauty of it.
And last night
I saw the Christmas lights
on your bedroom curtains.
It reminded me of a dream
I once had about us.
It was the one with the stars,
billions of them and the distance
between us that didn’t exist.
The distance does not exist,
except when you create it.
This distance you fabricate
to keep yourself safe.
But I could keep you
safe,
or at least try my damnedest
to.
On the nights no one’s looking
we look like we fit,
as you curl your body
around me
and I’ve stopped wearing socks to bed
just to feel your cold feet.
Sometimes you call me baby
or interlace your fingers with mine,
those are the moments
you forget what we are
and get lost
in what we could be.
You can keep calling a duck
a goose,
but she knows what she is.