I’m not living for you

In January ‘20, I approached turning 50 with such joy and hope. 

Knee deep in my doctorate I had a plan. It was a good plan, but the world went sideways while I stood motionless then sprinted into the madness. The last two years I’ve worked, overworked, gave too much of myself to keep others sane, while my own sanity dwindled. They bawled and demanded, and sucked the joy out of my days until the rot spread to my nights. 

I’yet to mourn what could have been, that dream I dreamt for so long, my doctorate and what would come after

I’ll still struggle to find stillness for a while, walk through the days too fast, erring too often. In the coming year, though, I hope to slow my mind and approach each day with intentionality, approach each interaction with care.

I hope to return to that girl who drew and wrote and loved wildly. 

she

if a heart could break

vaingloriously

her decline would be the attempt

 

instead I will walkabout

doing the day

with precision and care

only weeping

in the white space; in the air between

moments and breaths 

in dark corners

soon she goes

in the quiet

there is a chill

an exhaustive pulsing

near indiscernible 

felt distinctly

 

my heart

my breath

 

and in the other room she lay

wasting

Chelsea didn't eat today...

She stands

back arched, back legs

shaking 

from the weight of years

refusing food she

walksabout

front room to kitchen 

and there and back again for

sips of water, constantly

looking, searching, constantly

milling about, until

She lurches into 

a laying

inelegant, deeply 

emphatic

a tiny frame thrown into loud thud

 

“I don’t wanna need your love” ~ Stronger by Sorry Girls

Iris

I grew up with them in the yard. No real garden, they were just always there. Got mowed over, bloomed, mowed, bloomed, all through my youth. When my older brother passed, we put purple iris on his baby blue casket. I remember the day, what I wore. The surreal distance engulfing a soon to be sixteen-year marriage. The minutest things. But I can’t recall his age, He was thirty— and I was thirty—. It’s been nineteen years and  twenty-one days.

Out the window I see purple iris in my yard, abundant.

These dreams that pass me by

The right side of my body feels swollen and on fire, ankle and jaw tingling. If I didn’t know better I’d think I been bit by ant, spider, or bee. They tend to hate me. But the skin ‘round the needle site is kin to fine grain sandpaper. I think I’m glad I said right arm though. If it were the left I’d have sworn it were my heart breaking. 

pricked to a bleed

Brother left 19 years, sister 6, mother 5, their stories gone to ether along with bones buried and dust interred or tossed to wind.  From youngest to only to eldest thrust. My own story of youth passing, ink bubbles to bursting, ready to be pricked to a bleed again...

well hail...

In Texas, we compare hail to sports balls instead of small change. Windows, windshields, roofs, home, schools, neighborhoods, the destruction is indiscriminate here. What snow is to Eskimos, storms are to us, myriad.  Thunder, lightning, hail, tornados, rain, electrical, dust. Even snow, pollen, crickets, and those damn 7-year cicada that emerge from the soil to swarm come sudden and oft leave just as quick. Maybe that’s why I learned young to speak of the weather and to feel deeply tethered to the sky as much as the land. 

walk away run away

and the Spice is ink yet no,

the white space 

manifest, bourn 

of words and lines

the negative twixt and ‘tween

lips parched she licks

looksabout 

in one emphatic sigh

then walks away

Thump thump thump thump

Can we cry now?

Can we breathe?

Can we finally admit to the bone~weary of exhaustion?

Anxiety?

The pressure to produce...

and produce

and produce...

Can we cry now?

“I do not want, I do not feel...” ~  A.O.S., History Repeats Itself

yeah about that

For years I thought it was our song

sixteen years

the epitome of my love for you

but it was just me in love

and everything manifest 

was of my doing

much-ly for you

and the song was really my song

my heart

and how she bleeds to be

"I'll stop the world and melt with you" ~ Modern English

thursday

 When you walk into the bathroom, open a cabinet and stare for a length of time, look over and your dog is watching, judging you from the doorway but backs away slowly when you holler, "I KNOW WHAT I AM LOOKING FOR!" But you don't, you don't know what you're looking for, not until more time passes.