Genesis

I try to remember just when it was I felt the need to let my feelings out through words. When it was that I became a writer.

Maybe I was still so young thinking hadn’t yet felt like writing.

The words back then were always in the background, always around long enough

to feel like the normal.  Sometimes they would come like a series of beautiful melodies streaming through the leaves of tall trees, stirring just enough magic and beauty to catch my attention.  And once they did, they would hold me hostage.

You see, to experience the connection between creativity and inspiration is a divine experience. To feel that the words come to you and that you’re in charge of bringing them into being is miraculous conception. And once you begin to experience that, writing  changes from a hobby to a need. From recreational use to full-fledged addiction.

Whenever I put pen to paper I taught myself to experience sadness as if I were a narrator, floating over it and over my body, over the story, like the first time I smoked pot in college and could no longer sense reality.  With each stroke of the pen I detached from my pain a little more until it all just turned into words on paper. Some fragile thing to crumble up and toss away. So different than the monster I had first sat down with.

Writing has helped me realize the things we often consider so serious are temporary. And it also taught me that just because a feeling is interim, it doesn’t mean you should ignore it. It doesn’t mean it isn’t worth slowing down and paying attention to. Sometimes you just need to take time to lick your wounds. Sometimes you just need to look at the hurt and say “I see you.” Sometimes that’s the only way to heal.

And writing has healed me so many times I’ve lost count.

 

fragments of a moment

cross legged on the floor writing

as he reads a hardcover I brought him

music fills the space between us and

the scent of citrus permeates the air

today we have no schedule

if we wanted to we could take a nap

in the middle of the afternoon

and wake up without an alarm clock

shaking our dreams so callously

back to reality

if we wanted to we could build a fort and have popcorn and wine for dinner

and watch Netflix until our eyes overcame with sleep

but instead we are

here.

in the sweet comfort and mutual understanding and

respect for our needs.

I’ve been so exhausted I haven’t had energy

to pay lady inspiration a visit lately

and he knows this.

so he lays with a book in hand and I sprawl

all my pens and journals on the living room carpet

and kindly ask creativity

to join me for a writing date.

And up above I can almost see love smiling down on us proudly

vaguely remembering the days

we swore off

commitment

for good.

 

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. 

waiting game

there is a rush of words

and then peace and quiet

none at all

just silence &

fulfillment

But they’re still here, hiding beneath my tongue

just waiting for my heart to

pump them up and out

onto the page.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

$13.95 is the price to pay for my heart

I threw away

the chocolates

you sent me-

$13.95 for my love

and happiness

You

are as delusional and dry

as you’ve ever been.

And I?

Well, you know-

I’m still the trunk of that

old tree.

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.

 

 

period.

I’m done

gifting my words away

they will now belong

either to me

alone

or the entire world

but never

just him

again.

Thirst

undress me with urgent hands

and kill the thirst

of your body for my skin

touch me until music is all you hear

and my lips

have forgotten how to speak.

 

pour

it takes time for me to become intimate with the pages of a new journal. they always look so clean. so proper. I feel unsure about exactly how to pour myself over them.