I know you see me, I KNOW you do. Who you see before you is not who you say I am. What must I do to get you to see this person instead of who you claim to see?
A moment’s glance–a few more seconds, and you will realize your error, this is what I think . . . but I’ve been proven wrong more times than I care to count. I am not a woman. I am not a woman. I AM NOT! See me. SEE ME!
When I open my mouth, you come to grips with your ignorance; a pronoun you selected for me isn’t applicable to me–where does this leave us? Out in a cold area without much probability of return as you consistently take us there every chance you get.
I am tired of explaining myself; exhausted from covering the subject. Here, see . . . this is my name–address me by name only.
Let it sink in. Let it build. Let it mold. Let it marinate.
A little compassion is what I seek–some understanding is welcome. I am so tired of a world that doesn’t care enough about a person to simply respect them.
We must change. We need to change. We have to change.
Thank you again to Matt Snyderfor allowing me to gift another poem to you. Writing this one felt as if it would touch many others. I hope it does.
To learn more about Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here.Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life
I tell myself, I am glad you did not live to see this world as it unravels right before our eyes. Destruction is at every turn; children bombed, mothers, sons, families scrambling to leave home . . . the home they have always known. We would have talked about this — voiced our disdain for the evil of this world, yet we would have mentioned our gratefulness too. There is this gaping hole in my heart I have been struggling to fill, and the only thing I can do is write — write about you; about your smile, about your love, about the way you never bit your tongue.
All I can do is just write, and pray this hole fills itself with something — someone — anything else soon.
a piece of my heart is buried in this cold world my cousin is gone
When someone does not believe in your vision, and cannot see what you see for yourself, know that they are not made for what you can do–only you are. Manifest your movement.
He hadn’t known she would leave first thing in the morning. The argument they had the night before tested the strength of their relationship. They had failed. They were failing - he was blind to it all before. The colder side of his bed lured him over and he turned to lie in the space she left. His heart pulsed and his hands twitched. His pillow was wet. Had he cried while he was asleep? Why couldn’t she have waited to say goodbye?
The bedroom was dark - no light had entered during the morning hours. He limped over to the window and pulled the curtains back - opened the blinds. He would make a fresh, hot pot of coffee. It was something she’d always done, but she was not there.
While the percolator purred, he checked their closets. All of her things were gone. The skis they purchased together the year before were too. She’d always said she’d take those if they split. She kept her word. He searched the bathrooms for reminders. A few strands of her auburn hair rested at the mouth of the sink - waiting to be washed down. He feathered them gently between his two fingers before releasing them.
The sound of the running water prompted tears to fall. He stood there - buck naked and unashamed - alone with his tears. He took two deep breaths and sat down on the toilet. This was a thing Ava hated - him spending far too much time in the bathroom - far too much time on the porcelain throne. Far too much time sheltered and shuttered away from her. He sighed. His world had been crumbling - cracking - and he would not pick the pieces up in time to move on.
***
He poured the piping hot coffee into his favorite mug. The quote on it said, “Go be great. Then, sleep.” Ava hated the mug. But he drank from it every day, anyway. The morning sun pressed itself on his stony face and found its home underneath his eyes. Tuning the radio, he selected his favorite channel to listen to some music. The last thing he needed was a blast from the past that led him to more thoughts of Ava. More tears. More momentary solitary seconds of surefire sadness. He wept . . . He wept . . . He fell into the pits of depression.
The day was beginning without him, and he knew he had to shake himself free from the tight grip of melancholy. He had a presentation at work in two days and, knowing his boss as he did, he knew he would need to make some last-minute changes. Ava would help him with his presentations by sitting and listening to him as he mock-presented his work. She would critique and applaud and give him the support he needed.
He set up the area, created the projection onto his living room wall, and talked to an invisible audience. Halfway through his concept, the tears crept in once again. He lowered his body to the floor and sunk into the plush carpet. He’d call in sick - surely he could not work today. As soon as he reached for his phone, a message appeared from Ava.
“Hey, I’ve forgotten a few things. I’ll be over before you head out to work. Shouldn’t take long.”
He read the message five times before settling back into the floor - his body curled into itself, alone with his thoughts of . . . her . . . and the reality of the end of them.
As I emerge from the Dark Ages, I share with you, my LinkedIn Profile.
This could be an adventure. It could be a total flop. But I know I want to increase my chances of having my writing come across the eyes of a publisher or a high-brow columnist with abundant connections.
No one ever said this would be easy, and I’m not complaining, I’m simply expressing what I feel . . . what burns deep within me. A single mom is the first person their child sees in the morning, and the last one to caress their shoulders at night.
She is the chaperone, the referee, the teacher, the creative arts director, the analyzer, and PTA attendee, the cook, the cleaner, and anything you can dream up, and more.
And when she’s tired, her day doesn’t shift to meet her needs, it simply fades into something between two things: less busy or a chaotic mess.
I can’t summon perfection at my whim but I will do everything in my power to provide what’s best for my children. They will know the meaning of truth and its importance, what a strong foundation is, and how to operate effectively in life.
They will lift their heads up, holding them high, unashamed of who they are and what they do. And I will Mama-Bear the first person who has anything outlandish to say about them– pummel them to a pulp.
My children are mine, and I will protect them from the world’s unrelenting wrath. And when I can’t, the pieces of my heart broken off and shared with them will sustain them accordingly, providing the strength they need to stand on their own.
I have done/am doing what I can to give this world decent human beings to further its existence. I am shaping the shifting Mini-Mes who are more fluid than water itself–breaking into the fold, ready to take on whatever comes their way.
When the day comes when I relieve them of the nest, I will stand back, admire their first flight, and watch them soar. Secretly, in hushed whispers to myself, I’ll say . . .
“I did that.”
Thank you to Melissa Ross for allowing me to gift a poem to you. I truly enjoyed birthing this poem. I hope it is what you want it to be.
To learn more about Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here.Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life
A Cornered Gurl 
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