Posts

older, but not quite

wiser, perhaps

fuller?

more deeply rounded in

all directions

ironic as time seems

to only flow in

one direction–

but we both know

it doesn’t.

I often feel

stuck in place but I

think I’m giving

myself excuses

as to why I haven’t

broken free

a wild horse convinced

a twine halter

is too strong to be

snapped

somehow holding back

all that power and

muscle–what it means

to be free.

5/11

I wonder when it started

the need to feel strong.

I wonder when the way

I feel pulling myself up

walls and running through

the woods became equated

with holding everything in

not letting the pain show.

I wonder when weakness

became my body size and

whether or not I’d had

a panic attack that day

the pace of my breaths

the pudge of my stomach

how memories came

haunting, knocking at my door.

I wonder when I started

counting, adding up people’s

perceptions to find out where

I measured on the success

scale, or at least

the acceptable one.

I wonder when I stopped

being the girl who watched

the eagle fly and the

horses run and lost her breath

at the first sight

of the mountains

who loved the fact the world

entered her every pore

and there was nothing

she could do to stop it

who measured a good

day, a good life, by how

open and true she felt

to who she really was

a girl who embraced–

I wonder when she left.

4/21

a lot is changing

but I still feel

stuck

stuck in lines I

walk

phrases I say

the need to

wait

wait

wait

when I want

to run

sprint to the

mountains and the

road and the

nowhere until I’m

so in the middle of it

I can’t even

imagine

where I came from

can’t see another soul

to tell me this isn’t

what I want

or what I should want.

I want to find

where I fit

to go home and have

home go with me–

and yet also

there are things

we need

and I don’t know if I’m

just too timid

or doing the right thing.

I hear

the latter but from those

whose feet have

forgotten how to

leap.

In the dark I learned

how to be still

still to survive

still to conserve the energy

for breath

to make myself

small

and still smaller–

but now I want to shuck

the dark off, slough

it away like snakeskin

and just be LOUD

and for once hope, believe

see it dawn true and pink

before my eyes–

what if it all works out?

I wonder what you’ll think of it.

Or if you’ll even read it.

When I wrote my story I didn’t

expect it to be read by thousands

didn’t expect it to end up in

bookstores and in the hands of

people who may know me.

I’m sorry.

I wrote it a long

time ago, and in other ways

only days ago–but these things

take time.

Of course it’s fiction.

It also isn’t.

Both truths equally true as

anyone who knows me

or you

will know.

But at the same time, no one

will fully grasp the truth of it

no one but you and I

and perhaps not even that.

I wanted to use a pseudonym.

Wanted to hide behind the

truth of me like it was

something to be ashamed of

when in reality I was just

afraid

that everyone wouldn’t understand

as they often tend to do.

But here’s the truth.

When someone picks up my book.

They won’t see me.

They won’t see you.

They’ll see the swirling magic of

story as it hits something, an echo

resonating deep inside–

they’ll see themselves

their own fierce loves and desperate

losses.

They won’t be alone

as I was.

And as you and I fade into their

background

just know–

I wrote it for myself.

But I’ll always remember you.

as dreams

t r i p

over consciousness

so does my mind

trip over you

and in waking I

can hardly

remember

anything but the lingering

fade of

your soul

sitting with me

as if

r e a c h i n g

back through

the years,

the same and yet

not the same

bittersweet friend

once so

much more

and I can’t

help it–

I miss you.

I’m shy sometimes

but you’re not when it comes to me.

my gift to you, poems

about us

vulnerability and the way

your body feels against mine–

I felt bold writing them

and small when I handed them to you.

but when you read them, you are

crying, the good kind of cry

and just wanted to hold me

as you read

the last few words

and then

I didn’t feel so shy after all.

– 2/14

the hawk rides the line

between love and death

air life and fire talons

a knife, a winged

daydream, nightmare

memory and red hope

warmth and burning. it kills

the small fragile things

you want to hold onto

but can’t forget and yet

it is freedom gift

wing-lift, singing

in the pines–

and you can’t help

but be savagely grateful.

– 2/6

the purpose of me continues

to shapeshift and I’m still finding my

footing in this weird dance, after he

spun me around so

severely, toes tripping

over themselves, bruised.

my purpose once was leaning into him

walking beside, cheering,

loving as he

struggled

home to himself

but when he pushed me away I

found I’d lost

myself too.

my purpose then became keeping

air in my lungs, not losing

the will to keep on

keep on

keep on drawing the breath in

even as it scraped my throat raw

blood protesting.

and then, there were soft

paws and eyes looking up

adoringly, believing I would

stay as an undeniable reality and my

universe revolved around wet nose and

kisses when I came home and

a wild heart which wouldn’t understand if

one day I just didn’t show–

and a little purpose returned like a

kite reeled in by string

back to the unsteady hands of a child–

to protect her.

and then, you came along.

green eyes and gentle palms and

not forbidden lips I could kiss and you never

drew back, pressing closer

closer, closer

until I could feel my own heartbeat again

pressed against you.

and a little more of the

purpose of me returned

like sand trickling into an hourglass–

to love you.

and now, ring on my finger

pup at my side

I wonder where this purpose

will lead me next, what part of me

will be returned

or uncovered,

perhaps next I will learn

to have a purpose

just

and only

for me.

– 2/18

flower to

bees to

honey

gold to

gold to

gold

meeting to

hand-holding to

ring on finger

gold

to

gold

to

gold

sunset fire to

moon gleam to

dawn blush

gold

to

gold

to

gold

your skin under

sunbeam to

kiss on

tongue dance

gold

to

gold

to

GOLD

– 2/6

what would it mean

to breathe a life

of imagination?

colors would bleed

from my fingers,

unfurling wildflowers

would burst

from where my bare feet

have stepped.

and inside? –inside me

there would be a forest

no voice could penetrate

which I did not let in

which was not welcome.

the solemn green lushness

of it would

cocoon me

lifting me to fly on

whisper soft wings

dark and sunshaft woven

into the fabric of me.

a song made ephemerally

solid, spearing gently

through the trees.

– 2/6