I’m Not a Duck

It’s been a few days but
can you let me rest a bit?
I’ve been trying to be a well of joy,
but the rest aren’t diving into it.

I’m trying not be bitter,
trying to make the days shorter,
trying to understand
why I’m here amidst the thick
of these people
who haven’t got their lives
figured out yet—

and yes,
maybe I took a rain-check.
Maybe I let God be the ringmaster
so I wouldn’t have to take credit
for going nowhere.
For being stuck a week
before my 22nd and
knowing no one but
my family will help me celebrate
it.

And that’s really what it comes down to,
isn’t it?
That you’re trying to be friendly,
and end up being called
“fake”.
You’re trying to fill in your free time
with a plans that no one wants to make.
You have some kid
who tells you
you need to get guys
but yet he says
you can’t get guys
because, he says,
you’re not flirty
and you want to laugh,
but wait—
the smile covers up the pain.
You hide you’re face,
dig back into your job and
ask

can I rest now,
for just a little bit?
Can I take a break?

 

I’m sorry it’s been so long

I’m sitting on my new couch, about to watch Glee,

maybe nap, who knows,

and I am at peace and I’m comfortable and my feet aren’t cold.

I know God’s got my life under control.

I’m blessed to understand that being alone is an okay thing,

that this time I am alone,

and I’m still happy.

I’m blessed to be able to realize this is what it feels like to actually be happy.

7/5

Today,
I miss you a little extra
and I let it get the best of me.

I try writing out
these messages,
but they come off as poetry.
I unblock you from all social media
and your number from my phone.
I don’t let my fear of getting yelled at
conquer me.

I preference everything I say about you with
“He is really is a good person”
because you really could be,
you really are.

I don’t hate you,
instead I miss my best friend,
and I’m seeing now that for a while
those are not the same person.
Just like I’m not.

I know sometimes people change
or everything remains the same
and you grow to the point where nothing
really stays,
and you blame your mistakes
your mourning
on something else instead of
simple facts like:

I miss you.
But that’s not enough.

Shadow Self

This time hurts more
than the first.
You can celebrate that small
victory.

I miss ______
more now than I did then.

I miss my confidence,
and my laughter.
I missed the faces I’d make without
second question.

I miss feel worthwhile
or interesting
or even like somebody
other people want to talk to:
not vent to or hook-up
with.

I miss being a person
rather than a body;
I’m tired of dressing a certain way
to make myself feel
pretty.

I don’t think I am
pretty.

That’s a shot at my ego
that shouldn’t matter as much,
but—

Today a crush
asked about some girl
who’s your typical
definition of American’s
sweetheart mixed with
perfection….

and you knew,
for sure this time,
you’d never be the one.
By “you”, I mean “I”,
I’m still trying not to be sad
about it,
but sometimes

this weather cloys the air
until all I want to do is
sleep
and wake up and you,
yes you,
be there and apologize
that I’m having a bad dream.

Like that would fix everything.
Like you’d try this time to fix
anything.

Most of all,
I miss my sense of self,
my pep talks,
the security in my being
knowing who I was,
who I am
is good and
enough.

I made some people
laugh today.

That is the only thing
I am capable of
that makes me feel like
me.

“Matter-Ing”

It always begins in amber,
the candles in the windows,
the streetlight near your exit off the highway
the way the light dances in your draft.

The thought of us:
subtle,
but glowing like a porch light.

I find myself writing love letters to your hands,
flowery apologies tripping over perfumed saturated stationary
words smearing like “I’m sor—
Your –nds never got to kn– me”

I close my eyes
and dream of your fingers
making pirouettes on my skin.
The moonlight hits your nails
in the valleys of my hips and we are
fireflied bodies:
flickering,
glowing.

You were the poem I had to walk away from;
if I looked at you too long
I began to want the taste of marble in my mouth.
I thought of us tangled together in so many ways, gargoyles would blush.

In one scenario you’d actually spell my name
right.
In another, you’d come to my house, sober,
and stay the night.

And I keep writing you these
drawn out pieces,
keep calling them poetry,
because some nights, our eyes would lock and I was hoping
you took the time to memorize my face.
I was hoping you realize what a damn fool you were,
all those times you broke your gaze.
I was hoping I’m not just another flavor, a particular taste;
another passenger in your car,
listening to “Cigarettes and Saints.”

And if I only matter in bored daydreams,
if I’m worthy to pop up, years later, in your psyche:
I hope you’ll search for my words to hold close, when you can’t find me.
This ink is the Amber, babe,
and I am nothing more than fossil of your past,
a glowing, fervid memory.

Messed Up Fantasies

This is
knowing that I can’t make you into
the man I want you to be,
knowing I can’t be the girl you created
in all your daydreams.

This is bleakly believing
our mouths might meet in reality.
This is accepting actuality
we’re each other’s messed up fantasies.

This is me begging:
“Break me.”
This is you wondering.
“How does she have the power to put me on my knees?”

This is me texting you
talking about if other’s died by their own volition
why are we the ones left feeling guilty?

This is alchemated misery
This is guessing game where,
if you are a cat, I am a mouse,
and I want you to catch me.

This is tethered trust,
constantly reminding myself,
I’m good enough,
not another backseat love.
But still picturing you as the one
with arms open,
ready and willing to hold me.

This is want of gentle kisses
and fingers playing with hair.
You texting me.

This is
fragile security.