and I am beholden to her, bathed in a glossy light of her intentions. could she just be flirtatious — plotting on playing, picking sides, and pursuing nothing?
I am cautious in her presence, boldly, she creeps. she creeps. and when she does, I stand aside and mimic a child looking for her lost toy. I must find it. it needs me.
I can’t figure her out. I keep telling myself, “Tread lightly. Watch yourself. Be careful.” there could be danger ahead. I want this danger. I don’t want this danger. this danger is linked to her — I want her.
But I want to be safe too.
I hear an older church mother in the back of my mind shouting, “Pick your poison, baby. Can’t have your cake and eat it too!” And I understand her words of concern. I know the memory of her will play on — she knew what she was talking about.
Age and wisdom and experience.
I ask the dog, “Why me? Why has she chosen me to beat around the bush with when I need consistency and clarity and comfort? women know what they’re doing with their ways. they do. keepers of lust and desire,
I will not pressure her.
I will remain in a lane of my own making — happy to gallivant effortlessly in a world of her design. I see what she cannot. I hear what she cannot.
I do not want to damage the goods she flaunts in my direction. boldly, she creeps. she creeps. and when she does, I stand aside and mimic a child looking for her lost toy. I must find it. it needs me.
An extremely detailed article on “medical menopause” from Janice Reid at Navigating the Change.
As a child, I had always dreaded the start of my menstruation. I had seen my mother go through it and then my sister a few years before me. By 1980, I had seen and heard enough to know I wanted no part of it. But because Mother Nature knows best, at twelve years old […]
This is me . . . Right? I know me. I love me. Everything about me is different from anyone else. My curves. My voice. The softer and jigglier space that is my middle. My hair. My eyes. I know me. I love me.
It’s what I keep telling myself. I have to do this. I have to remind myself of the goodness of me. But I flit–fall into the echos of my younger self, lassoed by a time when I was smaller, more headstrong, and confident.
I try to push myself through the present–try to shift my mind to this here and now, yet . . . the past is a mistress. She keeps calling me, you see. I am weak for her. She knows.
I look at NOW me–I have doubts. I long to embrace the woman who smiles back at me in the mirror–to make peace with her. I have to. I should.
If I don’t, what will happen to me?
This is me . . . Right? I know me. I love me. I’ll keep telling myself who I am . . . who we are . . . And one day, the mistress of a PAST me will grow silent.
Thank you toKathy Garland for allowing me to gift a poem to you. Writing this spoke to me in many ways.
To learn more about the Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here.Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life.
A friend of mine sent a text message on New Year’s Eve stating Betty White had died. Suddenly, it felt as though a galaxy found its way into my body and exploded. I was not prepared for something as heavy as Betty’s death to sit on my chest and pierce its way into me. Granted, I hadn’t been feeling my best — having had a booster shot pumped into my bloodstream earlier that day. No one tells you the autoimmune or invisible illness with which you’ve been saddled will shape your life in a way you never planned. They don’t tell you that an overgrown virus once thought to be efficiently combated by two doses of the vaccine of your choice is now one they could not have predicted and instead of just one booster to further ensure your health — you will also need another.
Now, with the news of four different mass-produced pharmaceutical marketed vaccine visits lumped together on my vaccination card, I can’t breathe. What an odd day to die, I thought . . . And at ninety-nine, too. When I am given information I find hard to dissect, I start reading about it — I start researching from where did it originate? You cannot pinpoint a person’s death before it occurs. And why do I think I should be able to do it?
There is the possibility that knowing a friend of mine who recently pulled up a seat to the table of my heart contracting the Coronavirus, COVID-19, is pressing me harder than I thought it would. The next day — found out her toddler and mother are both positive as well. The same week — a cousin, then another, then another, and I just . . . am so fucking tired of it all. I want to scream, but no one will hear me. I want to lash out, but at whom?
I promised myself 2022 would be different.
The week before all this insanity, I toyed with the idea of emailing a friend, not friend — a love, not love, to begin the process of us. This sounds like a business transaction — a potentially lucrative investment, doesn’t it? I’d been sitting on what I would say for years now and instead of every word being lodged deep in my throat, they were slowly creeping upward — daily; I feel nauseated. If I love this person as much as I feel I do, why is this so hard? I’ve made mistakes before — thought what I was feeling was validated, confirmed, but it was not. I have spent many years trying to understand emotions — feelings — the intensity of it all. And I am better at it than I was before, but I still worry about loss.
And loss keeps me from moving forward. However, I will be the bearer of awkward news. I own it. I won’t ever deny it. I have played paragraphs in my head, formed them without blinking, and now, all I have to do is push them from the inside out — all I have to do is load them up, review them, and send them off. And as sorted as this all may sound, there are things that can go wrong during the process. It is not a carefully constructed assembly line. There is no one to test the structure or its faults before I engage in putting my heart on the line . . . I’ll just be out there bare-assed, waiting . . . waiting for a response.
I can take it, I tell myself.
Whatever happens after I do this, I can take it, is what I am telling myself. I have been tested — I’m tried. I’m true. But I am not battery-operated, so I will feel the magnitude of this — whatever the outcome. It will be a part of me for years to come. Once you have lent your true feelings to the ether, there is no going back — no 360 turns you can take to lasso what you sent back to its birthplace. It will be. It is. And you will have to deal with it in whatever shape or form it takes.
The moment came, and I typed my feelings onto the screen. He’s aware. He knows. Just as I am aware of his — I know. One of us has to be less scared — less threatened by what could be and just jump into what might be. I pick up the weight — secure it to my shoulders — settle it evenly on my back, and type as fast as I have been taught to. I don’t miss a beat. I am mindful of the verbiage used — it’s carefully selected. I breathe. I pace myself.
You’re doing it, I say. Holy shit, you’re doing it! And as I see myself taking these steps — diving into the deep end, I notice the dog is stirring. She will need a walk soon, and I won’t be able to overlook this. It builds anxiety within me. I’m anxious to be done, but I also still want to be careful — cautious of what I say. Once I am done composing and I send it, there is no turning back.
And as I watch my words carry themselves into the depths of an ancient email account — obtained during Gmail’s beta period, I breathe a sigh of relief. I did it. I shared a burden — unpacked the heaviest pieces of my baggage, and tossed them into the waste bin of life.
I know not to call you anymore. I know not to text. I let the thoughts of you wander in and caress my shoulders, but I do not engage. The holidays are here with their incessant come-hither vibes, and I am weary. I flit between loneliness and happiness and unsureness effortlessly.
I ache in several places. Many I can disclose. Others, I cannot. You would know if you saw a certain look windmill past my eyes. You would catch it quicker than a hare racing a tortoise. Always eager. Always waiting . . . passionately. At least, you knew what I needed most and when I needed it.
I have not had my needs met in a number of months that exceed this God-forsaken virus’ inception, and I miss you. I miss what used to be us sneaking in quickies before the children rose from their beds. And there’s no one I can tell. There’s no one who would listen. So, I talk to the air. It can keep a secret.
Being with you was my imagination’s way of reminding me I can go overboard and well . . . I need a lifeboat now. I can say it without feeling ashamed. I am speaking to the shadows of your past self, and they tell me in faint whispers, “You must move on. You must break free.” Get me there, I say to myself — just get me there . . . wherever there is. But . . .
I am stuck. Still planted in the same spot you left me, and try as I might, I can’t lift myself to freedom.
I have smiling faces around me — cluttered in love, googly-eyeing one another, and I am envious. I don’t want to be. No one wants to hear about a person wallowing in their loneliness — spreading self-pity. It’s contagious, and there are no vaccines against it. So, I spend time alone. It seems fitting. No one questions it.
The dog paws at the tears that fall from my eyes. She’s used to this habit of sulking — these seasonal blues. And really, I wish she wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t.
You’re probably wrapped in love’s cure-all right now — shit-talking your husband playfully — preparing to chant positively for another new year. I hope you’re at peace. You always were. I guess, you always will be . . .
A Cornered Gurl 
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