Self: Brain, why are you broken?
Brain: i was born this way.
Self: could you have been helped long ago?
Brain: perhaps, but no one believed there was anything wrong with me.
Self: i did.
Brain: but even you doubted.
Self: what can i do now?
Brain: the only way is to work against me. fight me.
Self: why can’t you just let me win?
Brain: that’s not how i work.
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.
i am fourteen years old. the year is two thousand and four. my mom is away visiting my grandpa. he has cancer. he will not live much longer. i am feeling so alone. i miss my mom. i have already decided not to return to public school this year. it is August. i am sitting alone on the porch. there are no walls; it has not become my bedroom yet. i see a small piece of broken plastic in the dirt. it is sharp. i am sharp; if anyone gets close to me my anger and sadness will cut them. i pick the plastic up. i press it into my flesh, near my knee. i drag it against my skin again and again. i am bleeding. i lie when asked what happened. scraped myself on something. it was an accident.
i am seventeen years old. the year is two thousand and seven. my parents drove me to Burbank. we carried my things up to my third floor dormitory. at some point my dad cries. he does not want me to leave home. he has held on too tightly and i’ve been afraid to leave because i don’t want to break his heart. but at the same time i am angry at him because i want to be allowed to spread my wings and fly. i want to stop being his emotional crutch.
i am eighteen years old. the year is two thousand and eight. i meet a boy. he is really sweet. i tell myself i do not want a boyfriend. i want to be just friends with this boy. in a week’s time he will be my boyfriend.
I hate your leaving footprints in the snow.
*I think I may have expanded this into a longer poem at some point, but I don’t know for sure. If I come across it, I will post and link hopefully.
Hi! It’s been a while. In case you didn’t know, my name is Bree, but previously I have kept that mostly hidden on here. I started this blog in 2013 and published two posts that year, neither of which exist anymore. Then I didn’t post again until I don’t remember when exactly, but that post doesn’t exist anymore either. But in January 2016, blogging here became kind of a regular thing and I published something between a hundred and a billion posts over the span of thirteen-ish months, only to drop off the radar again in February of 2017. I definitely didn’t stop writing, I just stopped sharing. I’m not gonna fill you in on my life, at least not right now, but I am gonna post my favorite poems from the blog hiatus. And I use the word poems lightly here, almost none of them have forms and some of them are so far out in left field I doubt anyone will catch them, but imma share anyways. So, hold on, this ride might get a bit crazy.
i could never write
’cause it would only be
my only real depth
is in the short lines
of my poems
always about you
even when they’re not
you’re an expert at everything
amazing at every job since 17
you can pick up anything
just like it’s a penny
off the sidewalk
but there is a thing that
you are no good at
and it’s knowing you’re being used
i know because you never saw
what i was doing to you
but bring it back around
and you’ll see i’m an expert too
at thinking i know everything
and assuming things about people
a skill more trouble
than it’s worth
In response to Expert.