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There is a saying that goes
‘Fool me once, shame on you, fool me
twice, shame on me.’
yet the saying the BIBLE says
‘Not seven times, but seventy times seven’
On that term how can I judge
how many chances I’ll give
before I stop forgiving someone if that’s
what the BIBLE says I should do?
Sometimes I’m really in the mood
for human touch, human
intimacy that arises in me,
like a toddler
having enough & is taking it
upon themselves to voice it, but
once that inner
‘I want what I want & I want it now’
begins to be explored & acknowledged by
the other sprints away faster than the wilder
beast fleeing from a hyena.
Leaving me with the ‘EW DON’T TOUCH ME!’
this is a cycle I go through as a woman out
side of my period, but in a similar orbit to it
all the same, waiting held then left the fuck alone
it’s a battle between heart & flesh.
And on the seventh day, He rested. I wonder if on that day He looked over the notes He had on the blueprints of all His next creations.
I wonder if the blueprints He had for me looked more like annotated notes in a textbook than instructions or a recipe,
He knew me when I was still in the womb,
I wonder if since He knew everything I was ever going to go through & how little sleep Iwouldl be able to get during some of it He kept me in the womb those extra two weeks to give me the rest before I needed it so I’d burn out a little slower later on.
It’s not every day that you hear
from one of us little people
before we descend onwards.
So, this is for my little people.
I have not forgotten you &
For those of which I just met
I will not forget you either.
I haven’t forgotten her
The small meek little girl
I used to be.
She’s still very much.
With me to this day
As are all of you.
Yes, you see her sitting at the end of the hallway weirdly overdressed (but only you do not know what event she attended beforehand), but never the less seated & writing, Her hair falls around her face, her bangs dangle just above her right eye – so from this angle with her head titled down & preoccupied by whatever she’s scribbling on the page, you can’t make at her face & the bits you can see could only be identifiable to you – red lips, curly (dry) hair, glasses that only further from her eyes & face blocking who she is to you like some conventional superhero attempt to hide her identity. You all know all too well that staring would become creepy but approaching & attempting to ask her for her name could be preserved all the same & could scare her off.
Shh.
She’s in her natural habitat.
I don’t believe in luck.
I don’t believe in it as much
as I used to, but
believing in magic like luck
waters down with maturity.
I believe in fate, but
even that is not the same.
I could be fated to an
asshole & that – that
wouldn’t be counted as lucky.
And I guess that’s why
I’m okay with falling in love
with different you(s),
different documents –
same author,
different article of clothing –
same brand name or lack thereof.
I’m okay returning to you,
because at least
I have something to fall back on &
I consider this lucky.
Sniffle.
Sniffle.
(She wipes her eyes. Bright red & puffy. Mascara; thick, pigmented stained river down both cheeks, eyelashes clumped together, framing her eyes.)
Sniffle.
Sniffle.
(She drags herself to a mirror to assess the damage. Herselff almost bursts out in tears again, but midaction laughs instead, she pulls out her weapon; a pouch of makeup removing towelettes that’ll clean the evidence from the crime scene. Before reapplying her alibi for…)
I cannot cry,
I’m not weaker
I’d rather murder my feelings instead of becoming a victim.
(face of makeup fully reapplied)
I’m feeling better now.
Sometimes, I wonder what’s the difference between a human heart and ice cream.
They both melt under the correct specific/certain circumstances and (they) can equally solidify. (both turn into a tough
solid all the same.) Tell me what’s the difference? Is it that one (beats and) pumps blood
while the other numb (is only really used to nullify) the pain? (Is it that I) Could I live without one and not the other? Or (is it that) if I run out of the other (I) could I get/replace a pint (of it) from the store?
What’s the difference? The poet and girl in me don’t know.
If you listened
I probably wouldn’t
have felt like
I needed to scream.
If you thought before you spoke
you wouldn’t have made promises
that you weren’t able to keep.
If you listened,
I probably wouldn’t have become
a poet because these lines in the
pages are good listeners.
She lost her sense of humor
in the world of bah humbug.
She’d laugh & get up the stairs,
she’d cry & get yelled at.
She lost her sense of innocence
with the development of her body;
learned to ignore the male gaze
with algebra & learned what cat-calling
was right around the time of her first dance.
She lost her definition of love by the time
of her first relationship when she realized
how off from reality Disney princess movies are.
She lost more than she ever felt like she’d gained
more in life.
I wanted to say goodbye to you &
Has it been the last time I’d have to say it?
I wanted to say goodnight & mean it.
I wanted to be happy & be happy.
I wanted to be & do just that without being bothered.
Is it weird to officially ask you if I was – I don’t know-
a book shelf or a Cabinet of sorts what would you have in my house?
I mean we’re all worried about what Hogwarts house we’d fit in,
but get deeper -like- if I was a notebook what would you write in me;
notes, poetry, mundane things- shopping lists, to lists;
What? Or if I were a journal or diary what would my cover be like?
Stop trying to say that I’m not enough of a writer because of this, that & the third.
Stop telling me that I’m not good enough at something that I’ve carved out my whole life around.
If I had to be okay with you, making me feel like a failure, please choose anything else for me to fail at.
I think it’s funny when my parents tell me
that there was something that they wanted
me to do, but just hadn’t put it into words so
that I knew. It always turns into a conversation
about how I should have known & how I’m left
feeling like ‘Well you should have said that
We often seldom see eye to eye on things.
They acknowledge they’re no mind reader yet
try to convince me that I should be one.
I finish my grad school
program in a little under
16 weeks,
16weeks-
for me to finish this manuscript
15 weeks-
for me to prepare to embrace what comes next.
14 weeks-
to write & rewrite
13 weeks-
to figure out how figured out my thoughts are
12 weeks-
jugging espresso like Sebrena Carpenter’s being replayed on every radio station.
11 weeks-
for me to win the fight against this imposter syndrome
10 weeks-
of me making memories
9 weeks-
of drowning in words
8 weeks-
of revision
7 weeks-
of musical playlist replays
6 weeks-
of IT visits
5 weeks-
of power naps nothing more nothing less
4 weeks-
of ghost stories
3 weeks-
of ghost stories when you’re the ghost
2 weeks-
of picking out what to wear for graduation
1 week-
of not wanting to say goodbye
CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH SHUT!
(for goodness sake)
No! There’s no such thing as food
worth smacking lips over.
(Yes, regarding my dad’s ox tails-
I’d normally beg the differ, but not
the paint)
I don’t care at home, restaurants,
movie theaters- I’m indifferent really,
so I can eat quietly.
Wounded throat
forces the birth
of a vocal-less songbird,
a silenced tweet;
a drowned-out sniffle,
a puncture harmony,
a bleeding sonnet.
A writer writes
with an inkless pen,
words failed to be
seen or heard & the
world’s grown dark & silent
Keep your chin up &
keep your eyes off
the ground.
They’ll say this & that, but
know this- there’s only one
God & He’s never left your side.
Keep your head on a swivel,
keep your heart safe &
keep your words safer—
there’s a reason for the lines
on the page, it’s the same reason
you have a roof over your head.
It’s a misconception that
a place has to be physical,
has to be brick and martyr -
Rather than having a heartbeat,
being a person.
I think of my exes as hotels;
somewhere I can rest and find
refuge at, but can’t afford / to
stay long term.
Instead of money -- time with them
is the funds that appear to run out.
Instead of a bill at the end of my stay
( one that I often end up over-extending) --
I receive (something more like) a prescription
for (time and healing,
recommended) extensive physical (fighting with
my) self--loathing and/before inevitably moving on.
