Half-Breed

When I met you it was like a caterpillar
turning into a butterfly, because I felt
the stirring of something more powerful,
of wings.
But when I was in the chrysalis,
something went wrong and I
came out all messed up.
Like I was part butterfly but still
part caterpillar. And I couldn't
figure out whether to crawl or fly,
but at least I knew what it felt like
to crawl. So I was crawling around,
and you didn't want to squish me,
but you were already flying, and
you couldn't carry me with you.
Of course not. Off you went and now
I don't have you to compare myself to
anymore, so maybe I have to keep being
this strange half-breed, too many legs
for my wings to work. You know that
half-breeds are sterile, like the donkey,
or the baby born of fairy and human.
You know they never understand
the futility of their lives. You know
they don't know that anything's wrong
with them, because all they ever know
is being half and half. You do know,
because you are half and half yourself
and I loved that about you and I thought
it made us perfect, understanding each
other. And then I lost myself
when I lost you.

~November 29, 2010

Photograph of a Lily

A flower bloomed in my heart
and I thought you could see
what it looked like, but you only
looked at the pale pink fluffy lilies,
like frosting on frosting on a cake
of lace. They're so feminine, you said.
Like you, you meant. So I knew how
to be feminine. Only, the lily I tried
to grow into didn't look anything
like what you liked. And the more
I tried the worse it got, because I
could feel the petals getting scrunched
and you could see my heart wilting.
And then I wasn't a flower and you
were there not to tend me
but to weed me out.

~November 15, 2010

Chance

I'm trying to stay on this side
of the line, where I'm ok. Where my
world is carried out in 3-D, not
the flatness of fear that allows in
only shadows so I know when to
run in my mind. This side with its
purpose, and warmth, and where
God might actually want me to
be happy, or confident. Where I
have a chance. I'm reaching from
just this side of that line, reaching
to hold on to that chance.

~November 10, 2010

Recycle

I want to put it all in a package

every slippery slope of a memory

that I slide down into another

aching depression.

My family is mine but I do not want them.

My life is mine but I do not want it.

My choices are mine but I do not take them.

My past is mine but I wanted to share it

with you.

Not this way, though.

I wanted to see it through you -

safer, warmer, making more sense.

Having more purpose.

I wanted our pasts to bring us together

in a glorious present

to us both, to our future,

to our future children.

I wanted every ache to be soothed

in your love

I wanted every mistake to be rectified

in your understanding

I wanted to find myself through you.

Now I talk to my best friend so much

and I worry that it's too much

I worry that she'll think I'm replacing you

with her, trying to replace you,

trying to fill a need she isn't meant to fill.

And never was. Why is it so easy to

talk to her, and is that a bad thing?

My words pour out and

always seem to be meaningful -

at least to me. I think a dozen times

a hundred times a month

does she resent me for talking so

much? Does she wait for her turn

and never get it? Does she think,

a dozen times, that I am a bore

and will clearly never find someone

who wants to listen to me?

And I eat. Sweets and breads. And I am

like dough but I am not sweet.

And I sleep. And when I am in bed, I wake up

and when I'm up I want to sleep. And when

I feel happy, a song comes on the radio

or a thought is a parasite in my mind

and suddenly I cry because of your old

dorm room, or because my best friend

might not want me to say good

morning to her every morning,

or because I am alone in the toy store

and we aren't selling any toys and this

whole wide world is full of isolation.

And I am an introverted, angst-

ridden adolescent, because I stopped talking

and my growth found its stuntedness in

not just my vegetarian diet but in the

diet of depression. I cannot tell what is

good for me, and what is immature, and

what I should or shouldn't do. Will I ever

know? Does God want me to know what to

do, and feel confident doing it? So many things

were not an issue in the past (the past

before me), like confidence, a billion life

choices, whether or not you spent time

outside. I see your past in my mind and I

want it. I want to BE you. Why?

This package will cost too much to send.

I'll let it sit in a corner or in my car

until maybe I forget what's in it

and can just toss it in the recycling bin

and recycle my memories into something

more useful. That can be my saving grace.

Thank goodness our landlady

put the blue bins in our yard.

~November 10, 2010

Heart I

You are a smudge across my heart -
burst blood vessels, charcoal burn,
the melting cocoa of your skin
left a mark I can't erase.
I know it takes time, but
will my body reabsorb wasted blood
regenerate burnt skin and
reclaim the pale heartbeat
that is the color of my own love?

~November 1, 2010

Heart II

There is a snake in your heart
born of what sins waged against you?
Ask your parents, who formed you
not just from their genes,
their personality quirks, but also
from the pressure of black on
white on black. They may know better
than you what plagues your broken
spirit. And those people you have
broken, who have felt the bite
of your poisoned, poisoning heart -
they know better, too.

~November 1, 2010