Tag Archives: growing up

Poems from My Day (1-21)

i’ve been so cold this week

1:
I’ve started saying phrases I don’t believe in,
Copied from other people
Who have their guard awake constantly
And have perfect eyebrows.
Things like, I would greatly appreciate it if,
And have a wonderful weekend, or
I’m so glad to hear you say that.
I’m developing a constant refrain of saying,
The old me never would have said …
Would never let herself,
Would have stood up to this before now.

2:
I read a boy I knew in high school’s post
On an off-chance and a whim,
About how he tried to commit suicide because of his weight
How he’s a beautiful person inside and out now,
And it sounded pre-written, scripted,
So I’m worried about him as a person, now,
Instead of dying of heat disease.

3:
I’ve needed the help of my mother.
She’s been there.
She’s helped me do big girl things this week,
Like open a 401k, tell me I only need 10k in life insurance,
Write my first two-weeks notice, and tell me it’ll be ok.
I had this terrible thought,
My kids, if I have them, won’t know the mom I knew,
They won’t know her without wrinkles, skinny.
They won’t see all the cuts and bandages she’s put on me.
And soon I’ll be the only one who knows about those too.

4:
You’ll never understand me,
Even if you want to, try to,
And I’m okay with that.
But, then again, I’m hard to upset.
As long as we don’t start sharing our souls,
I’m fine with you on nodding along.

5:
I say hi to the cleaning people.
I’m not sure if I do it out of pity,
Or goodness,
Or trying to do right.
Or to prove I’m righteous and good.
I might say hi to them, because they’re the only people lower on the totem pole than me, and they have to be nice to me, which is a change.

6:
Exit only signs.
I let my brain work out why they say exit only instead of no re-entry,
When I’m about to lose my lane on the highway.
I have to have a stupid problem for my brain to work out while I’m driving
Otherwise, I’d start to feel mundane.

7:
I think I’m developing a stutter.
I make myself so nervous.
I try to get everything out perfectly.
I have to double check everything I say,
So it’s perfect.
So I can’t be at fault.
I’m even stuttering in my mind.

8:
She said, I literally just turned this on, this second.
I told her I believed her.
She’s nervous. She thinks I think all she does is watch tv.
I don’t mind, or judge. I’ve been there.
I try so hard to be a non-passer of judgment.
Especially as it relates to people I like.

9:
I budgeted this month correctly.
I can buy sunflower seeds and saline nose spray.
I put the 10% in savings, and the 250 in retirement.
Tomorrow I’ll remember to put deodorant on,
Reply to all those emails,
And do all my dishes.
Then, as my mother says,
I’ll start to see the warning signs.
When all my socks are matched, and put in drawers,
My desktop is organized, and my pens all work,
It means there’s something wrong,
When it’s all too clean.

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First Time Feeling Adult

I remember the first time I felt like an adult. I was reading Call of the Wild. I didn’t have to look up the big words, I already knew what they meant. I read most of the book standing up near the tall bookshelves in the back, in study hall, in eighth grade. Now that I think of it, that was the last time I took a study hall. I felt like resting would be a discredit to my father who put himself in debt to put me through good, private schools. But, in part because of those schools, I could understand the sentences as a whole, that included words like imperious and intolerable and imperative. That feeling of understanding makes me feel like I belong.

I was so happy I belonged. I started using those words in my speech, my everyday speech. I was told I sounded like I was trying to be smart. Now I’m ashamed; ashamed when I make other people feel inferior. I don’t want to seem like I’m trying to be smarter. Because I don’t think I’m smarter. It had the effect of telling someone they have a strange smile. You won’t ever see their laughter again. Unless they’re stronger than I am. And have that magical ability to not care.

Thoughts of Mine Today (Part 2)

I thought I’d share more of what I can’t get out of my head.

I dropped a hair tie on my sleeping dog.

I won’t ever be good enough for myself. And that will forever be my fault. Fault fault fault.

I read a story of someone who’s had a worse life. I want to say his pain ached just as much as mine, but I feel like his was worse, and mine nothing. But I don’t want to discount another’s pain in any way, even if it’s my own.

My raised, watered and planted religion only grows to make me feel guilty for what I have.

We lived off their charity. Once a week, I met them. There are very clear should and shouldn’ts I came to understand quickly. I get angry at people who do what I couldn’t and feel no remorse. They should have to feel what I felt. They paid for our house and our food. But they saw it as duty, those generous farmers. The generous farmers who listened to sermons. I find, I cannot explain this to my half-brother who’s never had to fall asleep cold – what it is to be dependent and indebted and guilty somehow too, for thinking what you shouldn’t.

She told me she couldn’t ask for help from Mom because she was the successful one. You leave me in the hall, sister, when you mistake me for someone else. That one hurt me so much, I wanted to cut her right back. Tell me how stable you were when you couldn’t function without a man who thought you the best he’d ever know. Ask me how many calls me and Mom traded about getting you help.

I ripped a hole in my favorite pair of jeans. I buy men’s jeans, more room in the thighs less room in the back, and my hips never fit in anywhere.

We measured ourselves for statistics class. I fell in the middle of the ringing bell. I was so scared I’d be there forever. Brown hair, brown car, brown walls, uneducated woman who had children and become more census data influx.

My body mourns my passing age with new sad surprises everyday.

I remember the way I felt, more than what happened. I remember the story you told me. The mcrib event sequence about shamrock shakes and cheap local pork. I remember I hated sitting alone, but I wasn’t in the right head space to sit next to a stranger.

I get asked for directions. But not really ever bothered. I’m pretty enough to look cared for, but not beautiful enough to be noticed. I’m ok with this.

I made up an excuse to talk to you.

I’m terrified, petrified, you only like me because you have to. I asked someone to walk me home, and no one would look up from their computer. I asked where they all went, and they said, “oh weren’t you there?” They all leave me. Or is that the child of divorced parents aged 1-3 during the split, talking?