pass

On those days you can't bring yourself to speak. To push words out of your mouth would be betraying your own being. Breaking your own silence would be letting a part of you out. escape. You need every little bit of you just to keep yourself together.

When the thought of getting up out of your seat is frightening. When you would rather sit for an hour than wonder hopelessly about the house with a heavy feeling of lost in your stomach. That feeling of not wanting to be anywhere, knowing that is impossible, and waiting for it to pass. 


You will process the grief from the lost sunshine when you can find room for it in your lap. There are no tears, just a body weighed down by every primary emotion mixed in to make brown.

On those days, I will arch my back and speak up, not out.  So that my words rain back down to earth and settle on you.  Soak into your skin.  Words of love and hope and truth.

Then wait.  I can wait.

rubber stamp

The danger is in believing this is all there is.  Projecting a ‘copy, paste, repeat’ view of the future.  Giving into the darkness.  Losing sight of the day.

tide

I write with a mechanical pencil, like so many things in this world.  But I want to kneel with shells pressing into my legs as I scribble with my hand in the damp sand where the water has been, but the tide has called away to explore distant lands.  That someday I hope to follow.

thin

Life is moving so fast that all I can do is throw words down behind me as I run and hope they leave a trail that can be followed.   I hold my thoughts awkwardly in one arm, trying to select the right ones with the other.  The path splits and folks off til I’m spread so thin I feel like I’m playing twister with the ones I love.  No one gets more than a limb.  Those touched be a hand do better than ones about to get the boot.

seesaw not seen

cold stones stacked tall. dark. empty.  we grew up, they moved away.  now i pass by everyday and sigh.  fleeting in and out of lives, now only i remain.  summer nights spent in mustard yellow and blue; on couches in the dark willing time to stop.  first loves lost.

the ball court where no ball could be played for the cracks in the heat and the puddles in the cold.  we talked for hours until we were caught by parents, who had been looking for us for those same hours while we should have been at home.  a simpler time, before phones on the hip of every seven-year-old, though much harder for a mother searching for a child.  but our parents should have learnt to come first to the place where Tora once stood.  sitting on a tree stump big enough to fit five. 

now the seesaw has not been seen in years, the playground fort but lost.

but the stones don’t hold our memories.  this time before rent and responsibilities lives on in the spark in our eyes when we meet again, and talk about the way the floors creaked as you tried to sneak and how we thought we knew it all. 

ugly sounds

I am a perfectionist. I always have been.  I stopped learning guitar because I don’t like making ugly sounds.  The fact that you are witnessing this is testament to the fact that I am ok with being ok. Ok so I am learning. I may one day look back at these musings and cringe.  At the forced rhymes and off timing.  But maybe time will tell of my journey.  Of the young girl I was who thought I had no right to aspire to inspire anyone if I could not achieve in all.  That girl would not be so disheartened if she new what was to come.  That her daddy would be proud to call her ‘daughter,’ that her daughter call her ‘friend,’ her friend call her ‘lover.’  I hope she gets to the stage she accepts who she is before she is much older than I am now.  It is an exhausting existence hiding talents under baskets, no matter how small the baskets need to be.

I have learnt one thing, though I have a way to go.

I used to think my handwriting was too left-handed.  Too squished and smudged and slanted to be the sort of script someone would want to see in a love letter. But those slanted sentences are the pouring out of my soul.  They are proof that I am. That I think and feel and breath.   Though my letters may not look perfect they sure have character.

poetic

There is something poetic about going to a poetry night with a failing voice.   Sore and raw.  Where it is a struggle to speak.  Then leaving so tired yet so inspired that it hurts to swallow your words.  I can speak with my hands so this shouldn’t be a problem.  I can express my inner most thoughts, secrets and confessions and lay them out in space.  Leave them there as an offering of myself.  But when no one understands, they hang, like a morning fog between us that just won’t clear.

So I have sat in silence for five days.  My brain all a haze.  These thoughts wafting through my head like smoke, slipping through my fingers.  These thoughts that won’t behave, won’t sit quietly on a page.  These thoughts that are not ready to be heard. 

I need to be patient with these thoughts.