My unripe self-love is overcome by the flaws I find, I search for.
I long to soothe, to sing myself to sleep, but 1AM stretches out
Longer than a day.
The greenness of the relationship I have with myself
Is ever so slightly warming up.
A colour of yellow or orange or maybe even a tint of red.
I try to hold all the pieces together until they are ready;
Until the glue between the cracks is just a little bit harder,
Just a little bit stronger.
You take out my hair-dryer from the bottom drawer
And offer to help harden the glue;
Ripen my self-love.
I am by a big window
Staring at the sky.
I see light but no sun,
I feel light but no warmth.
I hear a hum.
I feel the rough carpet beneath me
Threatening to burn my skin if I move too fast.
I stay still,
A sun. Any will do.
The universe is vast and uncaring.
I could be elsewhere,
I could be here.
I am forever somewhere,
Or nowhere at all.
I look at you and notice
The cells we’ve made
That contain us
Alone. I look at my hands
And wonder if they’re strong enough
To break my cell
And everyone else’s too.
A hand that prides itself on softness.
When I close my eyes,
The cell remains.
When I breathe for myself,
The cell dissolves.
Let me catch my breath for a moment.
Let me feel that I am temporary.
If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves.
– Pablo Neruda
We might be found, relievingly, in the silent moments between running thoughts. I am learning to notice those moments.
He looked a little dead inside
With his eyes glazed, forward
For himself. I found
Myself tilting my head as I looked
At him looking
At the air between us.
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
You see two friends reunite at a stoplight
With their windows down
Having forgotten to remember
I am here,
I reunite myself.
Have I fallen apart?
I wonder alone, out loud
When I see a reflection
Like a hero,
Like overcooked meat.)
Too much heat
Too many thoughts
Too many people
(I haven’t checked in
I am a squatter
In my own life
Remaining without rent
Me but hardly me
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.
Like carrying a preventative umbrella on a sunny day
I tell you my flaws before you kiss me
Because you never know
If they’ll want to know you
are they flaws?
are they flawed?)