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Posts Tagged ‘hope’

I feel vulnerable and my body aches

with uncertainty.

I become anxiety

when my plans tank.

But I still want to hear about

your day.

What happened in class—

the notes you write her,

the next drawing you make.

 

My eyes are always inside screens,

my mind on what I need to do,

my hands on something

I believe is more important.

But it isn’t.

Nothing is more important.

I need to turn and face you.

Time is not running out—

It is right here.

And so are you.

 

I am not young enough

to walk next to you in the halls,

and not old enough to

pass off as your mom.

I am in-between friend and parent,

wanting to have more power,

to give you what you need,

What you want.

I care too much

about your fingers, your music eyes,

your swollen heart.

You are not my child, but you are

worth all my time.

 

You are not the reason

I worry about money,

about where I will end up.

I feel your gratitude

even when you are distracted—

We all get distracted.

I feel like I always am.

 

My uncertain life would be hollow

without your stories, music,

and yearning to be heard.

 

Yes, I am scared.

But if you ever left—

There is nothing that scares me

more.

 

 

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Little White Blimps

Pills, 13 a day.
Dry swallow.
Feeling them hike down
my throat,
all their gear in their
capsules, packed tight
just in case they get lost,
and need to stop for
a break along the way.
Regroup.
They find a place inside me.
I can’t imagine where
they are.
No creative metaphor or
pretty images of castles
in the dark spaces
of my body.
Just waiting for a
much needed rescue.
Breaking free
from a shell that dissolves
in me,
becoming me,
becoming a part of my
routine, and learning
how I feel about my body
and the way I live and write.
Sometimes I swallow with water,
imagining that the current
will move them
to a place outside my
skin, to a day when
I can feel my body
as a body
without little, white blimps
reminding me that something
is wrong.

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Love Me

I walked across town
to give him a muffin
when he was out sick
from school.
Just one day of not
seeing him
at his locker
made my stomach tighten
in triple knots.
Didn’t eat lunch,
forgot how.

One night we stood close,
my hat on backwards,
jacket zipped high.
He told me I looked like
a boy.
If I was
he would have kissed me.
If I was a chameleon
I would have gotten my wish.

It isn’t something that passes.
It’s something you have to
write down,
but can’t.
When you search songs
you will always find it,
buried, and it hits you
like a bumper car
from every side.
You would rather
be covered in bruises than know
that they will never
be in tune
with you.

We listened to My Chemical Romance
and Mayday Parade
as he wrapped his arms
around my body–
an artificial need
to be close to me.
I fed on the sincerity of his
warmth, and told myself
I would never forget
his smell or what the
date was, or
the color of the couch,
the movie we watched after.

I feel the carvings,
the raw indentations
I left years ago.
Tally marks of how many days
I spent knowing
my best friend would never–

I found that time
is not what heals. It is not
what made me move again,
love again,
smile, feel, re-learn
simple words
actions.
Chew, swallow
breathe,
untie knots.

Something new.
Something new.
Breaks patterns.
Breaks you
out of
being
broken.

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Photo credit: barbsackel.com

Photo credit: barbsackel.com

The time I first

imagined you

running across

the yard

the hose was

sprinkling on

the cement

and splashing

my feet.

I was standing

between

patches of

sunshine

and pockets of

shade

as I squeaked

my flip-flops

and bent my

sunburned

knees

readying myself

to embrace you.

But you were

only wind

and it was only

summer–

not a dream

and not

reality.

I could only

hope

for next time.

 

 

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Hope Chest

Two kids were trapped

in a hope chest

and they

suffocated to death.

I can’t even

breathe

thinking about that.

Two kids playing

around,

looking for a

place to hide in.

Like a secret cave.

My cats do that.

They like hiding

in dark, warm,

tucked away places.

Kids like places

like that.

They were locked

from the inside.

Screaming from

the inside.

No one heard

the hope chest.

It’s so horrible

that there is irony

in the death

of two children

dying in a

hope

chest.

 

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