Tag Archives: free form

Poems from My Month (5/4)

i’m still not writing properly. i’ll figure it out tomorrow.

Ok I think I’m ready.
To give you some of me.
I think I’m strong enough again.
Thanks Bruce Springsteen.
and matching socks.
Take what you see here.
It’s me,
Unglorified, shamed, and flawless, and perfect me in its me-ness.

I met a woman,
She’s showing what could be me. She’s Midwestern. She was here for a short trip. She stayed. She got pregnant. She got married. She lives in one of the row of houses next to the totem pole.
One of the ones next to the ones with old, beat-up boats and cars in front.
The tiles in her floor are worn through.
She married a fisherman missing teeth. She keeps getting mastitis. The only new things in the house are for the baby.
She’s not working anymore.
She doesn’t know how to accept the kindness of people giving. It’s not out of their hearts. They can, so they do.
She looks a lot like a mirror right now, of me three years ago, and vulnerable.

She said she likes the idea of being able to start over, start fresh. Because she believes it’s true.
I think we have not lived the same lives.

I want to take a hike a photograph, I have that need, inside me.
That need to write and read, and be better, and sit and stare outside,
And tell you what it means to be me right now.
Without shame.
Please, let me be without shame for just a minute more.
I want to take detailed photos of pointless bodies, and wrinkles, I want to have the courage to ask You to drive me to take photos of the sunsets. But you’re going to see your friends without me. And I can’t afford my own car, so I’m being punished.

My sister’s husband is taking a job in Switzerland.
How interesting.
Why do I feel like it’s a one up?
Oh, she tells me, I forget you’ve never lived anywhere but Indiana.
This makes me resort to the stunted, slightly abused 13 year old girl I really am,
“Well, and you’re a jerk.”

I hate being the subject of sermons again.
So I stop telling people things.
Then I think, I should share, I should depend. I have no support system.
Then they tell their whole church something private.
I feel exposed.
So I clam up.
Then I get called out for being depressed.
So I share how I’m feeling.
Then I get a call from my sister, saying mom’s worried about you.
Then I say I’m fine.
And I stop sharing.
I want to confide in a person who keeps it to themselves.
I want a magical, mystical friend, who’s a good friend, and doesn’t tell me I need a bit of work here and there.

I’m failing. I’m here. And I’m failing. I’m not properly trained, I don’t know what I’m doing, and instead of costing people money, I can hurt real people.
I’ve lost track of my wider perspective, it all gets so bogged down in a small town.
I think if I did it my way, I think if I moved to a town I wanted, and could live how I wanted, I could pull off this small town thing. Here? Not so much.


If I Wrote It Down

All the fears
Noted, logged, cataloged
At the end of my book
Under the back-cover flap
I’ve tallied them up.
Two years, twenty seven days
Spent worrying about meals.
Three thousand four hundred and two
Thoughts on car wrecks.
Eight hundred minutes
Clutching at the fear of heights.
I wrote them all down.
I can see how I spent my whole life.
Accounted for in little terrors.