Shadow or Dream?
He said I tasted of peaches.
That is what he will remember the most.
He told me, "I will take you anyway I can get you."
I think he thought it was romantic.
And maybe it is,
maybe I am so broken I cannot recognize love,
even if it is a desperate kind.
I told him,
"I think I can only give you a shadow of what you deserve.
There is nothing whole in this hollow cavity.
Can you love a ghost?"
"Yes, I will take you anyway I can get you." He repeats.
And all the while
I'm reminded of when we first met,
that I smell of peaches.
The small of my back tingles
from a brush of his fingers,
now a ghost on my spine.
And I am left wondering just how much of a ghost I am.
Have I done this to myself or am I more dream than shadow ?
A Different Kind of Asylum.
He left me in a puddle there-
he said, "This is the one safe place for you.
Come, you will not be forsaken."
But lies can live anywhere one plants them.
He planted many
and they flowered into beautiful promises
that will never be.
So that asylum he spoke of,
that safe place for me to land and live.
was a garden of gorgeous colors that wilt
under the slightest built of scrutiny.
I wish to go back to then.
Let me find asylum,
in something more than just empty eyes and hollow words.
Anyone, someone, please- take me home.
Burnt Hands
And how do you wish to be seen?
In gray wrapped in understanding.
And does that translate to loving?
Only if the person can hold their hands open and try to catch all the hurts of the world even when they burn.
Are you looking for brokenness?
No one is exempt from brokenness, that’s the beauty of humanity.
I do plan to love one- broken and all.
And what do you want of Love?
To be someone’s beloved.
To be called by name.
To be known.
That would be enough.
One Fine Day
...has already arrived.
That is what it means to heal.
Rub sugar in my wounds.
It burns me raw, but at least I smell of sweetness this time.
Not rare meat- where a blood hound used to sniff all my despair to the surface.
And what is a surface without an "underneath"?
And I have so much underneath.
I don't need to be extraordinary to be important.
I can just be an ordinary woman.
Deep, blue eyes, a smile with crinkled eyes-
like tissue paper, a prelude to the present underneath.
A mind, wanting ordinary things.
Yes, I don't have to be amazing to be a part of this world.
I can just be be a woman,
with small gifts,
and a brave smile.
I can just be.
″...-- are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?” - a page from my Alter Ego
Tell the mourners there is no time left for weeping.
The time for sadness has passed.
At least that's what I feel like telling the world. I'm not much for weeping. Some say its cathartic, I say it slows you down.
From what you might ask?
From life.
We don't need to know the promises the world has in store for us, because, and this might shock you, but the world hasn't promised you shit.
We are all mourners of our own lives- especially if we don't live them.
So I amend my original statement.
Do not weep unless you haven't lived, haven't known failure as intimately as a lover, haven't lost yourself only to find yourself again, haven't loved loudly with no words.
That is the real reason to cry. Then I give you permission to wail.
Because what is the point of having a life if you never lived in the first place?
The Ghost in the Attic
Sometime ago I met a ghost.
He had your eyes, of course, your lips.
Even your dimple on the right side of your once warm mouth.
It is not warm to me anymore, not because you are no longer here...
I should clarify to my readers that you are very much alive. I may not know where, but to be honest I never want to know a thing about you again.
I've lamented you for so long it seems. You were warm only for a time, until the man staring at me was the shedding of skin.
Now, it only comes out when it rains. Your ghost, I mean.
It rattles my windows and thunders down the hall, waking up every room of my mind. Rooms I wanted to keep hidden, behind that attic door of memories too painful to air out during sunny days.
And you are still somewhere far from here, thank God, but when it rains....
When it rains my nightmare comes to life and I am in a puddle by the front door.
Trying to run from any trace of you.
Patchwork Heart
If I am made from of all people I've loved, this quilt was here before I ever was born.
I was but a speck on God’s horizon and the frame of my quilt already here.
If we are to talk of love we must talk from all the beginnings. And there is never just one.
I used to think that I loved too loudly. Now, I know it was only a small yawn in comparison to the love I have received in return.
Late night phone calls, whispers of comfort, showing up in the middle of the night, in the middle of their day to help me, when I was a puddle of melancholy on the floor. Celebrating my little victories and the very, very big ones too. What is this if not love sewn together making my patchwork heart beat.
I think the rest of my life will be loving them back in return, will be making their quilt so colorful, so bold, so full, they will feel this warmth for the rest of their days.