no one asked if i was
ready
but i’m here anyway.
mishaps and
missteps
and confusion and all.
there’s a lot of
pain that’s been left inside me;
i’ve been giving it places to live outside of me.
in my poems and
my rings
and the hair on my bathroom floor -
somewhere else other than that third intercostal space.
i really do forget
how to breathe sometimes,
i forget how to think
how to form words in my mouth
how to stand here and exist,
but i don’t forget how to write.
I AM YOUNG AND LEARNING
HOW TO LIVE,
HOW TO COEXIST WITH ALL OF ME and
i carry around a photo of me that i kind of like.
something to remind me i’m real.
i wonder if maybe
someone sat down and wrote a very
long story one day
and if that story is me.
who’s reading? who’s rooting for me?
who’s wishing for my best?
i don’t read my poems after i write them.
i can’t i cannot i cannot cannot cannot.
i must write, not Read.
i must be, not Perceive. not myself. not myself.
i’ve tried so much,
so hard,
so many different loves
and so many different walking paths
and so many different heartbreaks
and poems
and hair dyes
and i think now it’s time to give myself a try.
‘ natasha ‘
nat or tash or tasha or my love
or angel or sweetheart or darling
my name is not Mine.
there is a girl nameless and shameless
and happy and untouched within me.
call me by my name, call
me by whatever,
but My Girl is only mine.
i’ll keep coming home to her every night.
i’ll keep coming back to her. i will.
she’s my home. i crawl into her arms,
shake while i cry, or tell her a funny joke i kept to myself.
life is not punishment. let it be. enough is enough is enough is enough.
it’s ironic;
the way you are a Golden Girl in summer
yet shine in winter. you will shiver in your sheets again, come december.
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