Category: FB legacy

the thinner line

I was leaving. I was doing it but
I had to stop and say
“are you mad? don’t be mad”
and you said no, there was just
a long line to get into the bank
this morning, and now it was after
2am.

“okay.” I said flatly. “just checking.”
and I slammed the door
with a little more force
than perhaps was strictly
necessary. later I wondered
at the bitter tone of my own
voice, and the unexpected strength
of my own, door-slamming
arm.

was I mad
that you claimed you
weren’t mad? why
would I want you to be mad
at me? or perhaps I myself was mad
about the petty fights
you seemed to keep picking
that night, at least
with me.

if you are mad, why
can’t you just say so? I refuse
to beg for the answer
to a question I’m not even allowed
to ask. but then I could say
the same of myself
about being up front
with my negative emotions.
the answer – at least in this case,
and at least for me –
seems to be
that I don’t know it, I can’t
allow myself to be conscious of it
at the time. there’s a line, thin as a hair,
between anger
and fear. standing up
for yourself when
you are long used to being
bullied into compliance
feels like walking a tightrope
above a lion’s den. when
you’re on that sky-high razor’s
edge, you can’t afford
to look down. it could kill you
to be truly aware
of how you’re feeling
in that moment. so you bury it
deep and don’t let it out
until you’re away from the person
at whom you are in fact
justifiably angry.

so I guess what I really meant
by “just checking.” was
“Well, then
you can go to hell!

I’m mad.”

big bee

there’s a solitary bee
who likes to visit me
sometimes. a big fat buzzy
bumble of a bee who looks
like he shouldn’t be
alone, he looks like he’s lost
his hive and his friends and
I wonder where he lives, where
he goes and what he does
when he’s not stopping by
to check out my terrace
and drive my cats
crazy with his slow drone
and deliberate hovering.

I also can’t help but wonder
why he even comes here
to my high aerie.
I have no flowers for him to pollinate,
no plant life beyond
my perennial herbs that I
sometimes use
for cooking. so what’s
in it for him
up here? is he just
fond of me?
is he saying “what’s
up lady, how
have you been?” is he
telling the good ol’ drones
back at the hive about these
little trips –
are they all laughing
at how I don’t wake up
until noon if I can help it –
or could he perhaps
love me in his clumsy,
bumbling way?

maybe one day I’ll learn
the true rationale
behind his visits.
until then I
merely smile and say,
“hello big bee,
how nice to see you
again.”

to the bitten

you’ve got some nerve, accusing me
of biting your words
and putting them in a poem
(and thus stealing from your
intended poem, the one
you didn’t get around to writing
before I wrote mine),
when you know full well
that all’s fair in war
and poetry. writers
are magpies, prone to stealing
whatever shiny turn
of phrase catches
their eye. you’ve bitten me
plenty, and I did not complain,
but merely wrote a different poem
around the same concept,
minting new words to replace the ones
you stole. anyway I
went back and checked
and you didn’t even use the word
umbilical. sorry I read your mind?
not sorry. or was the whole thing
just an excuse
for you to start a fight?

if you’re so bitter
about being bitten, better be
quicker on the draw next time.

300

look. don’t try to pretend
you don’t like me. we’re way too deep
for those kinds of games.
I’m not asking for the moon, you idiot,
or anything you are not willing
to give. haven’t I proved
my patience by now?

you’d be lucky
to have me. I’m fucking
awesome and I think
my resume has proved
that I am a great girlfriend.
fuck you if you think
I’m not good enough
for you.

I can go on a well-known website
where one can post free personals
and easily amass a veritable
army of dudes
begging me to grace them
with my presence. I can recreate
the movie 300
with men who would love to be
my paramour.

don’t make me sic them
on your ass.

the sticking point

I’m screwing up
my courage. my therapist says
that no one ever feels brave
enough to do something they’re
afraid to do, that the act
comes first. you have to do
something brave, and then you become
the person that was brave enough
to do the thing
that you were so afraid to do. if you wait
until you feel brave enough to try it,
it will never happen. so the sticking point
doesn’t really exist. put a pin
in me like a butterfly,
I’m done with waiting. wishing
and hoping is killing me, so I guess
it’s time to try throwing myself
on this grenade. wish me
luck! I’ll need it.

DADT

I would ask you something,
but that would be asking.
any answer you gave
would forever be tainted by the fact
that it wasn’t volunteered
of your own accord.
but you don’t seem to want to
tell, so I guess I’ll have
to ask.

I would tell you something –
a true secret my heart hides
and guards with all its might –
but that would be far too
telling. lord, save me from this hell
that is living under your edict:
don’t ask, don’t tell.

KMN

nearly every day
I ask you anew
to kill me now, and you say
no. I ask you
what I would never ask him
in a million years
because I am pretty sure
he’s a sociopath
and he just might
actually do it.

please don’t kill me now
no matter how much I may beg,
though you may regret
not killing me
if I do this thing that I must do
though I dread it greatly. we’ll
see.

be flattered, though,
that I can trust you
not to kill me now
no matter how much
I may deserve it.

the only one

you’re
not the only one who
feels unworthy
to live or to be loved. you’re not
the only one
who feels you haven’t earned that yet.
you’re not the
only one who
feels lonely when you’re alone, and lost
in a crowd, who longs to make contact
but bitterly fears rejection,
who wants to try sometimes –
despite being wholly inadequate
to the task at hand –
but loses hope and courage
in the face of overwhelming
doubt and despair, who drowns in
memories of loss and longing.

you’re not the only
one who
has a great question
burning its way like an inextinguishable ember
through your soul and heart and mind,
a question that you never dare to ask
for fear the answer in your mind – as provided by
a part of you that has been proven so painfully right
so many times before that
its conclusions are written in lines of fire
on your very bones – would destroy you,
and that knowledge
is unsupportable, it cannot be borne and so you
cannot act.

you’re not the only one
who feels like anyone who thinks
they could want you must
have a screw loose, or not be
in possession of all the facts,
or has very poor taste and judgement
because you’re convinced
that you’re flawed down
to the core and ill-made
to boot, and you fuck up
constantly and let yourself and others
down on a daily basis and
don’t even want to try half the time,
you’re not the only one who
gives up and lets the solitary embrace
of unconsciousness win, or seeks fleeting joy
in the toxic love of the cigarette, the joint, the candy, the booze. you’re not the only one who wonders who
could love a person like you.

you’re not the only one who thinks
that they’re the worst person
in the world. you’re
not the only one who
feels like Hitler or Pinocchio or Rain Man
when you make a mistake
fail to perform perfectly
hurt someone’s feelings
misunderstand
act out
say the wrong word, the mean word, the dumb word
when you know the right way to be,
when what you actually did
fell so very short
of the high and far away mark
of what you meant to do.

if
it could somehow be possible
that you are not the worst
human in existence, that in fact you are every bit
as flawed and as perfect
as everyone else,
does it not then follow
that you too deserve
a portion of the abundant reserves
of empathy, mercy, love
and understanding
that you give to others
all the time, a gift freely granted
and not entirely commensurate
with their physical perfection
career accomplishments
bank account
noble surname
feats of strength
acts of valor
or any other mundane
qualities?

could it be that these so-called flaws
are some of the things that make you
uniquely you?
is there any way that
your being broken
is the very thing
that can make you hole-y and holy and wholly
beneficent in zenlike compassion
for others and self
once you fully grok that

you
are
not
the only one
who
suffers
this
pain.

strange bedfellows

excuse me, sir, but
for the umpteenth time,
could you please move over?

every single time
I get out of bed – which I do
with truly ridiculous frequency –
you immediately rush
to occupy my side. it’s
nice, I guess, that you’re keeping
my spot warm for me, but
you’re always reluctant to leave it
when I return in five minutes –
having done something
probably unnecessary like
smoke a cigarette while
tweeting a bunch of nonsense
or messaging someone –
and I’m getting pretty tired
of asking you
to move. and then
half the time
you insist on cuddling.

it was cute at first, but
you seem to feel compelled
to scratch me
multiple times
before positioning yourself,
and then you start biting
whatever part of my flesh
is in front of your face.

if I’ve told you once,
I’ve told you a hundred times:
no biting! or your cuddling
privileges will be revoked.
also you’re overdue for a
claw clipping. these deficiencies
must be corrected
before any further intimacy
will be awarded. finally,
your breath reeks
of cat food.