Poem: How is it already the 24th

It is the smell of pine that reminds me to hope.

It is the taste of chocolate fudge that reminds me that life can be good.

It is the sight of wrapped secrets that bring back memories of being little.

It is the sound of Christmas music that makes me yearn for what was.

Merry Christmas, my loves. Believe in magic, today and always. Joy and peace to you all.

Poem: A Most Fitting Cliche

The final cut:

Like fresh shaven legs

Or the snip-snip of a “new do”

Or a new dye job

Or trashing an entire wardrobe

Like wanting everything to be different

Wanting nothing to recognize

And no memories to ache

Or photos to caress

No name badge to don

And no ducking behind walls

No working in silence because if I speak

I will scream

Because seeing their face is enough—

Enough to swallow an ocean

Enough to warm the entire globe

To melt the ice caps

To bring hell on earth

 

Only severing will do

Only axes will do

Only chain saws and hacking away at the future

And the broken promises

And the hope that brought me back

Again and again.

 

My eyes will not see

So the scabs will flake off

And the pink flesh beneath

will prove me a victor.

And I will make new promises

that I will keep.

 

The comfort I sought

But no longer need

No longer benefit

And maybe no longer healthy.

 

The saying goodbye to what was

And welcoming a new me

And promising myself

 

That it is mine.

This change

This year and

 

The finality of change

is the change I choose for myself.

 

I am the decision maker

And no longer the captive to time

No longer captive to being disappointed

By other people

By myself

But by deciding that I am worth more.

So much more.

 

It is the closed door I will not open.

But through the window I will climb. 

Poem: Last Week Sucked (Poem In Progress)

I tuck my hand between my pillow and face, and the Fitbit on my left wrist lights up the room.

1:53 AM.

It snuffs out and the room goes dark. I shut my eyes again, but the seconds tick by and I am still awake.

Fluorescent light slithers between the threads of the curtain, despite the second sheet strewn over the curtain’s rods, and my eyelids flutter open.

I can’t help but notice the glowing, throbbing electric strobe coming from the neighbor’s backyard porch light.

It’s arms open wide ready to greet me, welcoming me to a restless night, saluting my futile clinging mental fibers.

The humming fan fights a losing battle to the owl hooting outside my window–a new addition to the soundtrack of my insomnia, but

it seems to fall in pace with the cricket hiding in my closet.

I roll onto my left side for the sixteenth time and close my eyes.

Chimes blow up on my phone, and a half-growl/half-groan erupts from my throat. I flick my Fitbit to check the time.

It’s 7:30 AM. Time to get ready for work.

Poem: I hate this poem 

I was once a little girl
Spinning in circles, eyes cast down
Watching my dress bloom around me
from my waist, detaching at the knees
reaching out, around and
around until the galaxies kept in my brain
Exploded, and I fell to the ground in ecstasy,
while the earth reminded me that She is indeed
round. She makes me her center, and I am
the sun about which the living room rotates.
I cling to the brown carpet digging my short,
dirt marred fingernails into its fibers
And smile.

I was once a little girl
Who dreamt of the life I would have
And the woman I would be. And for
the little girl who slept with sadness
and knew much more of her own brain
than the interests and personalities
of fellow children, I dreamt of happiness.
The kind I must one day know as a woman.
And the companion who would know my brain
like I did. And I would know his like my own.

I was once a little girl
who–by no means of my family or an
ill-childhood to speak of–knew my soul
was deep as an ocean and the depths
with its unknown darkness was the place
I was most comfortable. I believed in the
universes contained in the brain, partitioned
chaos that made life have meaning–People
were good because there can’t be
so much expanse in one being without
the possibility of goodness.

How I wish to be that little girl 
and believe so much in everything.

Poem: Peace Before the Heartbreak

When a song has the power to transport you
to a moment–A moment that brought you
so much joy–even though now it breaks your heart.

But even in the breaking,
there is peace that it once happened.
That simple contentment.
That simple joy.
That simple thankfulness.

That a moment could have existed at all.

And for that small second, you get to go back
and relive it again as if nothing has changed

As if all were right with the world again.
As if he still loved you.
As if you could turn over in bed and hold his hand

Or press your head into his shoulder
and smell his deodorant–degree for men.
Or smell the dust in his hair.

As if you could snooze the alarm
and sleep next to him just “five more minutes”
until those five minutes turn into an hour and suddenly
you’re late for class.
But who cares
When the entire world is right beside you.

But the song ends, and you lie in the middle
of the bed in the dark of your apartment.

So you start it over.

As if the feeling will last just a little longer.
As if the memory will come back as strong and alive.

The plucking guitar seduces your memories,

and back you go to the old apartment,
to the right side of the bed,
and to the sigh of relief
When you turn over

And he’s there.

Poem: Untitled

I couldn’t save you yesterday.
I could not fix your wounded soul.
I was not your willing savior,
Or the answer to your prayers.

My to-do list is daunting
And the laundry’s piled up.
I have a quiz on Tuesday for a class I
haven’t managed to attend.
My cello’s corroding in the corner
And the fridge is getting low.
My painting’s gone unfinished and
And still, the dishes soak.

But “yes” spews from my mouth
Because I want to do it all.

But no amount of yoga can prepare me
To be shot out your cannonball.

Today, I cannot save you.
I cannot make you better.
I won’t add your secrets to the
Weight upon my back.

You cry in your fragility
But forget I have my own.

In your anger, you explode
And assume “im sorry”s make us whole.

Like your broken heart gives you permission
To break apart my own.

My head is reeling
from this year I didn’t plan for.
And my energy’s run thin.

My list of miracles is empty,
And my magic obsolete.

So I cannot save you today,
But perhaps try me next week.