Category: poetry

During a therapeutic exercise
I detailed the

(t)raumas and
(T)raumas of my life in
Chronological order

After
90 minutes
I
only got to
1980

It doesn’t matter
Lately
Where in my
Bed
I fall asleep

I wake up on
Your side

Actively
Seeking you
In my
Unconscious

Like I
Resist
In my
Waking

It’s not even mine
Anymore

Once a possessively held
Haven
It’s now your bed

I borrow it
Furtively and
Apologetically

And move away
From it
Stealing a sidelong glance
Of where you
Remain
Missing

I’ve been
Thinking of
You

And the
Thinking of
You
Makes me
Fragile

I’m afraid to
Move too
Quickly
Turn too
Suddenly
For

Fear of
Dashing myself
Against
Anything

I’m a glass
Silhouette of
Myself
And

I’m afraid
Everyone can
See right
Into
Me

For just the
Things I still
Feel for
You

Even if it’s been delivered a
Mortal blow

Sometimes a relationship
Has to
Bleed
To Death

Returned your set of
Keys
To my
Mailbox

You had to walk past my parked
Car to reach it

Did you pause?
Did you reach to unlock my gate?
Knowing I was
Inside
Curled up
Sleeping

You know how I
Looked
Hands cradling
Each other and my cheek
Face relaxed
Breath soft
Dark Locks
Spilling across my pillow

Were you tempted
In the least
To
Let yourself in
Enter my bedroom and
Tuck in behind my
Warm
Body?

Or did you just drop the
Keys
Nod or
Exhale

And merely
Go
On
Your
Way?

• Between your
• Black and your
• White
• Between your right and
• Wrong your
• Yes and your
• No

• Lies
• Grey
• Compassion
• Maybe
• People

In the
Grey
Lies
“I hear you.
“I hear your worries and fears.
“I see your scars and your tears.
“I see you.”
In the
Grey is
Love, is
“I believe you.” Is
Acceptance, is
Possibility, is
Imagination, and
Beauty and attempt and failure and
In grey is
Poetry

There are two things in the world I cannot do.

I am highly accomplished. I am tenacious and confident. I have walked on five continents.

I cannot throw a Frisbee.

I can dance. I can sing a little. I can pick out a song on the piano. I can bowl. I can play volleyball, basketball, soccer. I can throw darts, I can play pool. I ran Track in high school. I can even throw a discus.

I cannot throw a Frisbee.

I love heights. I’ve been skydiving. I am afraid of the water, but I am an accomplished SCUBA diver. I love to hike, to camp, to play on the beach. I like to run and to swim, though I’m not very good at either of them.

I cannot throw a Frisbee.

I can draw, I can write, I can lead, I can follow. I can solve puzzles, untangle necklaces, beat you at card games. I can care for children, I can settle disputes. I can say no. I can say yes. I make an equally good martini as strawberry-rhubarb pie. I almost always know which utensil to use.

I can make speeches. I can give toasts. I can bring the best out in people.

I am a good friend. A good sister. A good aunt. I volunteer. I tithe.

And yet, there are two things I cannot do: I cannot throw a Frisbee.

And I cannot fall in love with The Right Man.

Yes, I come from a broken home. Many times over. Yes, I grew up without my father. Yes, my mother was neglectful and/or abusive.

I can do almost anything. Well. I’ve even been in therapy so I could do everything better. I cannot be denied the things I truly want to do. And still:

I cannot fall in love with The Right Man.

I have dated accomplished musicians, painters, athletes, computer whizzes. Combinations of all of the above. Almost all of them have spoken multiple languages. They have all been well educated, well read. Smart, funny, handsome, charming. Passionate. They’ve all been inherently wrong for me. I’ve loved them all ruthlessly.

I will never be able to throw a Frisbee. I just can’t do it. I can’t make my hand do what it needs to do. I clutch at it clumsily. It whips hard and then slams into the ground. And then it bounces and, ultimately, rolls far away. Sometimes I just watch it go. Sometimes I chase after it, embarrassed.  And then I walk away apologetically after gently refusing a lesson. Thank you, really, but it won’t help. Trust me.

Let’s play a different game, shall we?

• My childhood was
• Pocked
• By
• Loneliness

• At five
• I quickly learned I was
• Alone

• Soon thereafter I learned
• Loneliness

• Not long after that I learned
• Sacrifice

I learned that to
Belong
Required
Sacrifice

Sometimes of my body
Almost always of my peace and
My honesty

I am among the
Survivalist Chameleons

I can blend, meld, conform
I can change
My speech, my stance, my sense of humor
Who do you want me to be?
I’ll be her
Just don’t leave me to the wolves

And I learned that sometimes
Loneliness
Was
Preferable

To the
Only choices of
Companionship

Sometimes the sacrifice was too great
Too injurious

Sometimes the
Desolate landscape of
Loneliness
Could also be construed as

Safety

And, so, loneliness and safety
Marry to create a cocoon of
Reassurance

Perhaps it is how
Heroin addicts correlate the
Pain of the
Needle breaking the skin with the
Warm
Relief to follow

I’m a liar
Because I won’t tell you how I really feel
I’m a coward
Because I won’t look you in the eyes
I’m a bitch
Because I withhold myself
Even though you asked nicely
And I’m mean
Because I bait you and then escape
And I’m cruel
Because I want to punish you
For loving me
But I’m lost
Because I’m cruelest to myself
And I walk into the glass wall of
Us
And I knock myself out