(identity crisis)

I don’t know how to be this person

I have so clearly become.

I don’t know when it happened,

but somewhere between the other broken dreams,

new ones crept through the cracks and I can’t tell if they’re flowers

or weeds,

But they’re here, and they will not be ignored—

their fragrance is strong, and I’ll admit,

they seem lovely.

           

I don’t know how to reconcile

this apparent part of me

with the parts I understand,

the parts that make sense,

the parts I... love.

Because I have spent my lifetime

(so far)

enjoying independence

and powerfully protecting the sweet solitude

that defined me and my future.

So, imagine my surprise

when I pause to fantasize about twin coffee cups,

and a bed turned down on both sides.

And nevermind that there are times that my life let that happen;

those were different:

I was blindsided, caught of guard,

by Very Specific Someones

(and often annoyed by their interruption)

Where now, I am compelled by an acute awareness of a specific silence in my life.

I don’t know how to be this person

and I don’t know if I want to learn,

but it seems I have to, because for better or worse,

I am this person.

I just can’t get control of my crazybrain

because I can’t find the words to explain

to myself 
how, or why, or when

I came to want…something

I can’t even say.

(I don’t know how to be someone

who needs something

so dependent

on someone

else)

(...I don't even like poker, anyway)

I wear my heart on my sleeve

because that is the only place it fits.

In my chest, it fills so fast that I think I might burst;

and I’ve learned

(the hard way)

that ticking time bomb is a nasty force to be reckoned with.

I know I’m supposed to play close to the chest,

so the world can’t see the hand I hold

but I?

I don’t have a poker face.

Sunglasses wouldn’t help

and a hat can’t hide hurt 
or hope                                           

when they’re in my eyes.

Because when I love, I don’t have to shout from rooftops

because the sound of my smile is a Jericho trumpet,

crumbling any walls that try to hold in my heart,

And my eyes rain a sea of surprise

because I can never believe its possible

to love so much.

And when I’m happy?

when

I.

am.

happy.

everything I touch turns electric!

and I grow wings that carry me far above this world

to a place where no one can touch me,

and so I sit on clouds and bask in the warmth of perfect joy.

But please believe,

that when I’m angry

you can see the vitriol course through my veins

and feel the heat from my skin as my blood boils

and I shake

and rake

the subject of my hate

over the coals of my mind

without regret

or second thought...

It has been brought to my attention

that I should be less emotional,

but that would require me to be less

and I’ve been down that road and I didn’t care for the scenery:

the trees had no leaves

and the flowers were dead.

So thank you kindly for your opinion

But if you don’t like my words, you don’t have to read them.

(i keep calling it a "do-over," but i'm pretty sure the technical term is "Grace.")

We need to talk

Like… really talk.

Which feels weird to say because

rumor has it,

You already know what I’m going to say before I say it

or think it

or even feel it

(that’s super creepy, by the way

and I’m not sure I like it much)

But I’ve been trying to shake this feeling, and I can’t

so...

we need to talk:

I’m not trying to pick a fight, but seriously,

what the fuck is Your problem.

Wait. Let me start over

Can I start over?

thank You.

for the do-over here and now

but also, for the other stuff, too;

that stuff i’ve been fighting

since i was the little girl who cried in the corner,

not because the world was scary

but because her 5-year-old brain couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

thank You for a heart so big

it can hold a lot of hate

and thank you for the dark days

that emptied it of every thing

every thought

every feeling

so it could be refilled with love;

i can finally see the difference in me

when i let what i once considered my biggest flaw

become my superpower.

thank You for giving me a heart

that can love a place

a song

a memory

with enough passion that i barely feel a void

when people leave or let me down;

a heart that has found a way to turn friends into family,

make sisters and brothers of strangers,

and parents of people that will never be “kin.”

thank You for breaking my heart

and building it back stronger, yet softer,

the way only scar tissue can be;

looking back, i can see                                 

the shell around it would have never dissolved on its own

and though it breaks easily,

thank You for letting it break for the things that break Yours

and allowing compassion

to fill the cracks that might never go away.

thank you

for changing my heart,

for filling it with gratitude;

it dilutes the fear and uncertainty

and makes them less bitter

and has allowed me to taste

how sweet it is to have something i’m afraid to lose.

thank You

for a heart so big it can feel You hold my hand

in the moments where i open my heart 

to You.

i’ve never been brave

so please, grant me the courage

to continue to be grateful

(though my mistakes may never feel less shameful).

so,

i guess what i needed to say all along

was thank you for the do-over

and all the second chances You’ve given my heart.

(this would have been over 20 minutes ago if I'd just had the good sense to lie.)

It’s not that I’m not listening;

I am!

But inside my mind, I’m writing

And the words up there are louder than your voice

You look at me

as I try to explain

my brain

and how and why it works the way it does

And I can tell you’re waiting

patiently

for the caveat to come

After I say there’s nowhere I’d rather be

than in a basement

by myself

where the world will let me write

(You want me to add that

of course, this is all second

to being here with you)

I’ve seen the look you’re giving me:

you realize you’re missing

something

but you don’t know enough

to be completely confused,

So I pause

and consider opening that Pandora’s box

(but then you’ll look at me like I’m crazy

and I’m not sure I’m in the mood to deal

with that)

Because once you know,

you’ll always wonder

if it’s happening again

(it is)

And you’ll never look at me the same,

And for what it’s worth,

I like the way you look at me

(even if you’re not so much looking at “me”

as you are looking at an edited version,

easier to digest,

than the original

complicated

mess)

I didn’t want you to be mad

but now you are

so I sigh

as I apologize

 (I never meant to hurt your feelings

but you asked

and I

am too tired to lie.)

(.)

I thought I heard your voice today, your laugh

and I smiled…

I smiled, but almost immediately stopped.

Because I know that I don’t know your laugh

because you never laughed in the first place

(at all)

and that is all my fault.

And I considered that your voice, your laugh

are only a small list of the things I’ll never know about you

even though I’ve always felt like I know you

since the day I realized you were

or, rather, weren’t.

And my heart broke as if this was the first time in all these years that I noticed your absence

when, really, I haven’t felt whole since I found out…I’m not.

So please understand that when I say “I miss you,” I mean it

And I’m trying to say that I’m sorry.

Instead, I send that apology to the world that never got to know you, either

and I’ll send it to you, someday, when I first collect the courage to ask for your forgiveness

( I don’t even know your name,

and I would have been the one to name you)

(I am not my poetry.)

I tried to write a happy poem, but…

I couldn’t.

I tried to write about the light in me

that I’ve only recently learned to love

but all my words dried up

I’ve never been afraid of the dark.

Even as a child, I learned your eyes

eventually adjust, and you can make it through without stumbling (too much)

Even still,

In the dark, there’s doubt

confusion

pain

And other things I can’t make sense of

and things I’m not even sure I actually see

So, with desperate curiosity, I write

Because words help me understand.

When I write,

I write to light the shadows between point A and B,

The places that I can’t quite see

And I forge a path with words

(and just like stars, it takes many to brighten a dark and cloudy sky)

But the light? I’ve never asked questions of the light

(And I think this might be common: who really begs, “why am I so happy?”)

I write, not because I am not happy,

but because, sometimes, I am sad

And writing helps me rearrange the world when the pieces don’t quite fit;

it fills the gaps when something is missing

And my notebook becomes my map to my heart

(which is a place I easily get lost).

So I write an apology to my pen,

Hoping, somehow, it can understand that the words it transcribes

and not the product of a sad person

but of a person who must navigate the darkness

in order to live in the Light.

(memphis/nashville/knoxville)

I’ve realized I fall in love with places

instead of people:

I’ve loved a river—

muddy, polluted, deep,

who always led me back to myself

let me pound along her banks, further each time,

as easily as she let me sit quietly, and without judgment

on the days I brought my notebook

but my running shoes sent their regrets

I loved a pyramid, odd + out of place

my lighthouse

my beacon

my signal

that I was Home

I fell in love with a porch swing

in the season of fireflies,

where moonlit laughter punctuated days that would otherwise run together—

a comma

or semi-colon

or ellipsis

in a summer serenade stuck on repeat

I had an affair with a back porch many years before,

brief, and fleeting

Who offered sanctuary from chaos,

peace amidst pain,

Unconditionally—

Knowing full well I wouldn’t stay

I fell in love with an old couch

in an old office

in an old, old church

that, I hope, wasn’t jealous

when I later loved an old bowling alley, in a younger church

that taught me more about Faith than I knew I needed to learn

and never cared that I couldn’t bowl.

I loved a tiny apartment, that was mine, all mine

that saved my life

or, at least, my sanity

But not as much (admittedly)

As the last time I loved a tiny apartment, in a lifetime before                                                    

for the same reasons I loved a glass cutting board, a cup and saucer, and a stupid sponge

none of which were “mine,” but “ours”
the year a pronoun shifted,

the year the place I loved the most 
was a nook

on a neck

on a man

who could make any place

feel like a place I could love

Still, my heart yearns for warmth,

Not of a touch,

but of the humidity, the consuming heat

of Summertime in the South

that wraps you like a blanket

hugs you

holds you

as if it will never let go

And my heart aches for a voice,

a collective voice that drops it’s g’s

and drawls one syllable into many

making every thing sound like song.

My heart settles for reminders

in melodies, corn grits and greens

And the hope for a reunion, the hope of a chance

to fall back in love with the place

that just happens to be the love of my life.

(words.)

Tonight, I write on a blank page—

No lines, no margins

With a marker not meant for writing words

     (too thick, too yellow, too old, crusty, dry)

I write too quickly to be legible

in a shorthand I invented in the moment

and have probably already forgotten

Because now,

NOW

ALL THE WORDS are coming,

all the words at once,

and I realize I just forgot a letter in my haste

to pour onto the page

and fill the space with the words my heart has been trying to find

to speak

to write

for years but...
forgot.

When you left, you left a space

A space in my heart, yes,

but a space, too,

in my belly

my gut

my womb

and apparently my brain

as it fought to collect all the words about you

and banish them, 
purge them, 
from me.

I never really could decide if I should fill the void

with any and every desperate “thing”

or if I should empty myself further

of the shame

regret

envy

HATE

hurt

and love

that I’ve always felt towards you.

So, I suppose it’s no wonder my words hid

in panic

and fear

of the Unnamable

that has so many names apart

but none

for the space where they collide

in me

for you.

It’s been four years

     (and I keep editing that line in my mind

     as time

     ticks

     away)

and you

remain

in place of words

that make sense together

it’s been almost five years

and sometimes I can string together one or two

before the rest

get scared

and run

and hide

it’s been five years

and I am still searching

for my words.