Tag: love

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.

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.

protean

do you know
the myth of Proteus?
he was battling
some dude in ancient Greece –
maybe it was Zeus –
and they both shape shifted
constantly, each trying to overcome
the other’s defenses.
one became a snake,
the other became a hawk,
one became a wolf,
the other a bear,
one became water,
the other a bucket.
(or maybe that’s the Wonder Twins.
same same, no difference.)
also Taliesin with the salmon
and falcon and anyway
this is like us. you change
to get away from my
stranglehold and I change
to find a new one. this battle
could go on forever but eventually
I will win. I will find a shape
you can’t resist
if it takes the rest of my
lifetime. you might as well
give in now, because I
don’t know how
to quit.

empty nest

years ago I saw
this tiny birdhouse and bought
it, thinking I could get a bird
to come live there
and entertain
my cats.

by the time
I got around to putting
it up, I was told
it was for wrens, which
are very small indeed
and live in the low trees.
no wrens will come
to my high aerie
no matter how hard I try.
it’s not right for their
environment.

I put it up
anyway, a constant reminder
that you can have the nicest
home in the world, the most
lovingly constructed heart,
but you can’t
make the right one
move in.

Zelda 2.0

I’m out of poetry.
I’ve run dry. what’s the use?
poems are just lies
papering over the holes
in my bones where
sadness lives.

I’ve run out of ways
to make this slow death
sound pretty. when
my mind collapses
in on itself like a dying
star, all that’s left is cold,
hard science. there’s no
dress glittery enough
to hide my hideous heart, no
drink strong enough
to make me forget
to hate myself, no
fairy tale magical enough
to let me come out
a decent human being,
so why pretend?

Zelda (and eight other women
who are not remembered
at all) died
in a fire at the sanitarium
aka asylum aka loony bin
because she had been locked
in a room
waiting to get ECT
after Scott took everything
she had, her very words
published under his name,
her own novel trash-talked
to death.

I’m a new Jazz Age
glamour doll. where’s my Scott?
come plagiarize my diary,
savage my self-esteem and then
abandon me. I’ll do it all
again, if you’ll only
pretend to love me
long enough
for me to get some art
out of my veins and onto
the page.

for the birds

those crackers we scattered
the last time you were here
don’t seem to be attracting
any birds. I heard some singing
today but somehow they managed
to resist the allure of this
Italian herb spelt goodness.
or not so much, as all the humans
upon whom I tried to force them
have not been particularly interested
either. either the birds
have much better taste
than we anticipated, or
the word hasn’t gotten out yet
about the bonanza of free food
on my terrace. now it’s rained
and I’m left with a big soggy mess
to clean up.

oh, well. it was worth
a try. hopefully this experiment
between us won’t also
end up being unfit
even for the birds.

the wild kingdom

things are rough
out here on the savannah. lions lie
in wait and watch with lazy menace
as slender gazelles prance
or skip nimbly by, ankles buckling
with their own delicacy. beside them
stolid musk ox tramp
leaving their heavy hoofprints
in the mud, while cheetah and jaguar
climb trees and sleep in the shade
until their unsuspecting dinners
come to them, and giant snakes
can hardly wait to drop
out of branches to provide
a rude awakening to any
passing warthog.

but.
look.
I’m no springbok, I’ll admit,
but you, sir, are no King of the Jungle.
those gorgeous gazelles you’ve
got your eye on
will just use their long legs
to run away from you, and the sad-eyed
ibex will crane her tender neck
to look the other way. I may be
about as enticing as
a red-butted baboon compared
to those alien, elegant creatures,
but at least I know my place.

if you should ever need me
I’ll be with my kind,
wallowing in the mud
eating my vegetables
and biting tourists’ heads off
just for fun.

enough.

I’d do kick-boxing, but
there aren’t enough punching
bags in the world
to absorb my rage
when I think of him.

I’d do primal scream
therapy, but
there aren’t enough decibels
in the world to yell
my feelings loud enough
to make them go away.

I’d do hypnosis, but there’s
not enough trance
in the world to make
me feel calm after
the way he treated me,
along with every other girl
he’s ever met.

I’d straight-up punch
him in the face,
if I weren’t
such a pacifist.
he’s lucky
I have yet to learn
Krav Maga. one day
I might know how
to actually
hurt him – without
disabling or permanent
injury of course – I’m not
a monster.

still. whatever
I did,
it would not be
enough.