What type of warrior are you?

Another dagger in the heart

You’d think by now that 

I’d have learned how 

to use my shield,

how to wield my sword…

Guess I’m just not

the type of warrior 

who fights off love. 

Advertisements

of me and men

maybe the problem is that I’m too whole.

men-

they like to feel useful;

to fix broken things.

and for a while there, I was

shattered and bare

the perfect fix-it project for a man with raw hands.

but these days I don’t need to find

some missing part

of me.

I am complete.

no longer just a puzzle piece

but the whole goddamn picture

and yet. they still

can’t see

it.

see me.

 

 

shedding

I have cried on the wooden floor

beside my dresser

my hands caressing the imperfect object with love

I have cried on the sofa,

head buried in pillows as my mouth

gasped for air

and silence

I have cried on my bed

and on pages scribbled in black ink

my tears distorting my words

turning them into strange shapes-

this one, a boot

and that other one, a star

I have cried at my work desk, right in front

of the computer

and on the massage table so many times

now I’ve lost count

I have cried while riding my bike-

I can’t help it

this mountain town used to be yours alone

but now it’s become mine.

 

Only mine.

 

I have cried on runs around the lake, while

chopping vegetables, and a handful of times

on first dates

I have cried in the public bus,

most often behind dark sunglasses but

in front of strangers who’ll never

know my name-

which to me seems strange.

we have shared so many of my tears

together.

I have cried as I stood held in long embraces

by those who I can sense feel bad

for not having the right words to say-

they still haven’t learned that

there are none.

I have cried as my face seemed to freeze

distorted with pain

and as my voice escaped from me in the shape

of a scream

the only sound I can make when nothing

makes any sense

and not always, but sometimes

I try to muffle it so the neighbors don’t think I’m insane

I think that’s ok-

the screams are not like the tears.

I have cried over both

death and life

and all the words I can no longer write

without hearing his name

I have cried in planes and

in cities far, far away-

enough to know that my tears will always

tag right along with me

the saddest carry-on.

I have cried in the arms of my mother

a few times but last time

was on top of a carpet covered with crumbs

which gave me a kind of sad comfort-

to know I wasn’t the only thing broken

lying there.

I have cried until lashes fell out

enough of them for the entire world to make wishes with-

because the lashes

(it seems funny to say it now)

wanted nothing to do with my tears

and I can still remember the first time I cried

in front of him

my hands on my face and then, his

I hid in shame because back then

I didn’t yet understand

that tears

are just feelings I haven’t learned how

to write down

yet.

 

But I do know how to cry now.

 

and someday  I’ll learn to write the tears away

but even then I’ll know

it will only be because

I

have

cried.

 

 

Notes to My Pen Pal

I’m sorry I’ve been gone, I’ve had good reason-

I’ve been feeling all the extremes and writing about it, hoping somehow this grief gives life to a book.

there is life amidst death

I’ve read somewhere…

Surely you understand the vortex I’ve been in.
You’re a troubled writer, too.
Tell me, where are you these days? still traveling the world?
What have you written lately?
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.