I didn’t forget this place, I didn’t forget myself

I have been putting myself on pause while I fill my hands with everything else

sometimes it wells up in me, this voice

sometimes I let myself spill everywhere and then I catch myself

I am sheepish, I mop it up

and wait for when I can exist again, when everyone stops looking at me

when I no longer think of myself as a spill

after I do the work, once I’ve said the words everyone wants me to say




but I wonder

which words will convince them

that they can’t have my words?

I am mine. I am my own.

they shake their heads at me, and I lie about my weariness

i don’t have it in me to be angry

I only have a resigned knowing. I am only a sigh, I am not a roar.

I don’t want to be, anyway.

I pretend at anger and look around me for approval

I tell my secrets into the mud and pretend

that the reeds aren’t whispering them back


I’ve never been allowed to be my own

who would give me the permission?



the problem isn’t me

it isn’t in the way I love

it isn’t in my openness, my willingness to try, my readiness to abandon my protections

for a shot at something good

they tell me to lock my doors

i think

someone should have left their doors unlocked for me

and maybe then I wouldn’t have settled

into the first house that welcomed me

maybe I wouldn’t have been so ready to call it my home

I was so easily outwitted



I don’t love with my wits


I tell you: I love with my bones!

and you say I have to stop doing that





I am not going to stop doing that






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