one-hundred-sixty-two.

if we talked about anxiety then,
the way we do now,
in our separate lives,
in different cities;
with our separate pals,
in different threads,
would our worlds have continued
to collide,
instead of disrupting over
‘uncanvassed’ trauma?

Advertisements

one-hundred-sixty-one.

wise:
not for the letters at the end of your name,
but for the self-reflection and questions:
“why does this experience cause me _____?”

blame. shame. pain. gain.

one-hundred-sixty.

a long drive
way into the trees,
so high the sky
is barely visible
until the break in between.
the stream trickling
under the paved bridge
to an open body of aqua,
turquoise-green,
fresh, rocky water.
a quick glimpse of the scene
before you speed by
and the forest looks like a blurry photo,
again.
not enough time to check if the
river was running dry,
but enough to recognize
it was flowing fine.
at first glance.
at first probe.
at first inquisition.

the passenger’s seat.

one-hundred-fifty-eight.

that sound is either
the wind gushing between glass panelling,
or a truck whizzing on the highway.
each possible when leaving 10 floors
up in the sky.

though, when that one robin grips
onto the balcony,
tweeting without limit,
and the spiderwebs bloom
from unit to unit,
it’s impossible to misinterpret
that the season is changing.

the sun will stay a little longer and,
the afternoons in the warm living room,
with the walls tinted yellow,
will become evenings.
mid-mornings by the window,
will be become wake up calls.

i don’t know what i’d do without
seasonal reminders
that something better –
as comforting as houseplants kissing
sunny floor corners –
is never that far away.

one-hundred-fifty-six.

hands clasped in prayer,
right at the heart.
innocence and religious,
hoping something greater is listening,
somewhere above us,
hidden in the pink-grey clouds
at golden hour.

holding an opal crystal,
tracing a bracelet,
repeating an affirmation,
talking to the one you lost too soon.

whether organized or personalized,
hope is defined by the hopeful,
dreams by the dreamer
and wishes by the wishful.

alive, dead or in-between.

one-hundred-fifty-one.

untouched and stale,
crusty and undesirable.
hard pink icing
bulking,
on chalky chocolate-chips.

cream cheese filling, once gooey,
a bold, cold contrast,
now smushed like the
moody clementine peel
renting the space
at the bottom of your bag.

this is what you sound and feel like,
when you don’t invest in
connection, representation.
an unwanted, deserted cake.
a slab of dry, choking dough.
a wall of rotting egg yolks.

you had the potential to empower,
until you let it slip:
you prefer titles and looks,
like sprinkles and candles,
over impact.

you prefer the sound of your voice,
like a singing, cringing hallmark card,
over growth and working smart.

still, even though you’re deep,
in the shallow cardboard box,
opened by colleagues just curious
enough to see what you are,
you’re a mockery of a treat,
and yet the system says
you’ll forever make more than me.

gender pay gap.

one-hundred-fifty.

dear:

in time, you will not fear the shape of your face,
or the hair on your arms,
or the bump and crook of your nose.
soon, you will not wait for his approval,
because you will learn the only acceptance you need is your own.
in a few years, you will get better at laughing at yourself,
ignoring when others laugh at you.
you will build barriers around things you know will hurt.
i know you will learn to say no, or yes,
and not feel guilty.
the world doesn’t end for you,
you’ll want to create for it, with it, in it.