Do you feel what everybody feels?
Or are you alone, your soul wandering,
A mended body
Something inside, like a heart
(Or a fist)
Signalling a life
(Or a suffering)
Yet you step forward each moment
Into the forgiving future
That allows you to be whole
If you wish
If you try
If you dare
I have filled myself with others’ stories.
Stories to avoid my own.
Stories to carry,
to listen to on repeat in my own head late at night,
when I am forgetting to be writing my own.
Stories of pain
and difficulty and happiness and
memories, felt or lost or forgotten
until they are told out loud.
I have been overflowing with other selves
I absorbed, mistakenly
trying to fit them into my own concave interior,
a container to be filled and shipped
somewhere far. I yearn to lock
and steal these stories inside of me,
take them to a new place where I might bury them,
and as I dig their grave, in the soil I find
myself, waiting to be lifted out and taken home.
What is it that you despise within?
Privately in your solitude
You look for comfort in the ancient pages
Of the books made from the tree of life.
Found on your shelf
Of all shelves,
To help you
Of all selves.
We were in love
we just didn’t know
what to do about it.
You made me feel
inadequate and unworthy,
more broken than I really am.
I am now fusing
and becoming myself.
I published a book of poems and short stories which can be purchased on Amazon.
I am including the preface below:
The words in your hands are excerpts from my journal.
These words are, more than anything, a documentation of who I have been while becoming who I am. I’m not done doing that, yet.
These words are my thoughts from ages 17 to 19.
These words are shared with you as an act of acceptance.
Each piece of writing included in this book has a timestamp. I have come to value time as an essential definition of my present state. I find comfort in making note of the precise minute in which words come to me, as if that knowledge will somehow allow me to relive the words more authentically.
I am reminded of the precision of timestamps on birth and death certificates, and I have come to think of these words as birth and death certificates of past and future selves, tumultuously ever-changing. Writing the timestamp is my way of feeling in control during the fluid and rapid process of change that has become my definition of aliveness.