little girl, get up.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171365

“what do you think?”
and i could outline ninety days of
questioning and answering and
requestioning:
well, i thought this, but then
that caused me to think – this,
and then i thought maybe my premise wrong,
so i reevaluated, then got fed up and sat and
prayed, and then i put it in a box and didn’t think for awhile,
and then i
thought again, and then,
and then,
and then,
and now i know what i’ve thought,
but i have no idea what i think,
and let’s go around again shall we?

rustling through old papers,
opening and shutting drawers:
where is it?
that poem that will gather you into
a few moments of agonizing beauty,
a few choice words that when read
will make the world feel like i do
when i look in your eyes.
what words could connote that
sweet love-twinge of safety and pain?

i’ll find it one day -
i have years.

I was running and it hurt.
My chest hurt: those stitches under my ribs;
and then my lungs too;
my calves.
Everything relentless and stubbornly saying:
stop.

So I stopped and I gasped,
filling fully with air,
like my whole self was Moses’s mouth
into which flowed water from rocks.

I bowed,
some strange homage to road and race,
head dangling as I stared at the ground,
watching sweat drip like raindrops into the dust.

It’s getting to be midafternoon;
the sun is glaring palely at me.
All the elements are pissed with me:
the ground is hard,
everything’s dry and crackling,
and it’s hot like southern summers,
with no verandas or peach tea in sight.

(How I long for the verandas and peach tea of you,
a place to sit and be at rest and drink
neverending sweaty pitchers of icy refreshing you.)

I squint at the horizon as though I’m an expert at measuring distance by sight.
I pretend lyingly that I can make out your silhouette at the end of the road.
There: and I go.

Sometimes I feel like intelligence is my only asset. Wouldn’t it be nice if I were motivated/talented enough to … like, bake? Or something?

i like who i’ve become.

I will sing to the Lord, for he is lofty and uplifted;
the horse and the rider has he hurled into the sea!
The Lord is my strength and my refuge;
the Lord has become my savior.
This is my God, and I will praise him,
the God of my people and I will exalt him.
The Lord is a mighty warrior;
YHWH is his name.
The chariots of Pharaoh and his army has he hurled into the sea;
the finest of those who bear armor have been drowned in the Red Sea.
The fathomless deep has overwhelmed them;
they sank into the depths like a stone.
Your right hand, O Lord, is glorious in might;
your right hand, O Lord, has overthrown the enemy.
Who can be compared with you, O Lord, among the gods?
Who is like you, glorious in holiness,
awesome in renown, and worker of wonders?
You stretched forth your right hand;
the earth swallowed them up.
With your constant love you led the people you redeemed;
with your might you brought them in safety to your holy dwelling.
You will bring them in and plant them
on the mount of your possession,
The resting-place you have made for yourself, O Lord,
the sanctuary, O Lord, that your hand has established.
The Lord shall reign for ever and for ever!

((moses wrote this…i didn’t…haha))

I want to be surrounded by people who love me again, and I want the world to be set to rights, and I want little kids to have happy homes, and I want the CPS to be obsolete, and I want relationships to be right, and I want truth, beauty, justice, God.

Some day.

I miss SU terribly. I dreamed about it the other night, and I talked to Randi last night, and I just miss it. I miss everyone.

Love is weird. Love isn’t the only thing you need. You need boldness and bravery mixed in with that love. My family needs to be brave enough not to be ashamed; I need to be brave enough to love who I love. But it’s not just about that; it’s about depression and health and “just when things were getting better.” It’s about having to make choices when I thought I’d just have to watch things unfold.

I think that’s the hard part. I thought my choice was made and I’d just watch the consequences; I thought that would be horrible and tragic and painful but I could do it. But there are more choices to make; more consequences to evaluate. This is more horrible and tragic and painful because I have agency. It is not good. I am paralyzed, terrified of making the wrong choice. But I guess in times like this you pick a door and keep going and say, “I did the best I could.” That is encouraging. But I still have to pick a door, which is the hard, painful part anyway.

I don’t know why all this is going to be publicly posted, but it will be.

All quiet.

I want to write a poem.

because shame is a choice and so is love