A Poetry Blog

you are only twelve, but you are so much more. the first born: you care for your sisters like you have to raise them and sometimes you do, but you love them still. the miracle boy: you had so many allergies when you were born it’s a wonder you’re still alive. at five, you walked with your hands behind your back so you wouldn’t be tempted to touch, and taste. the man of the house: you have to be in the house to be its man, so that is you. whenever I was frustrated with you, please know it was because you were acting like a twelve year old, and you tricked me with your maturity. you should be free to be twelve all the time, but you carry yourself like a man. the truth seeker: not much longer now before you decide, it’s worth it to let them have it, and tell them the truth. you’re not fooled anymore. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye, but I’ll see you much sooner than you think.

you are only seven, but you are so much more. you are beautiful, inside and out. maybe not blonde like your mother but you should know that like a lot of things in her life, she’s only pretending. you are a wonderful performer. please don’t stop singing or dancing or acting. you were born for it, and the stage was built for you. you are honest to the bone. your parents are going to tell you that’s a bad thing, especially when you use it with them, but tell the truth always, and make them apologize to you. we didn’t say goodbye because it would have hurt so bad, we didn’t say goodbye because we don’t know that I’m not coming back.

you are only two, but you are so much more. a queen of compassion: when you bumped me in the lip, I teared up, and you told me, that those I loved would be here soon and held my face in your tiny hands. an eager adventurer: once afraid that puppies would eat your feet, you asked me to pat every one we saw, and told me how nice and soft they were. a crazy daredevil: you always asked to go higher on the swing until it was bouncing you mid air, even after the time you let go and flew off. a curious monkey: whenever I explained something crazy and new, you would give it a try even when no one else understood you. my precious girl: I miss you so dearly, I’m so sorry I left.

we were both dressed just right, until it started to rain. we got lost on the way to putt putt, and on the putt putt course, but we were lost together. they wouldn’t let us rent out a golf buggy. you almost convinced me to get drunk and steal one, so we could tear around the course in the dark, but I told you I hate drinking because it makes me regret. as we sat surrounded by my ghosts you made me ask the hard questions and you gave the right answers. you said, “thank you for tonight” no thank you.

I am watching the bookshelf tilt. one book drops off the shelf and hits the floor. thud, goes my heart. it seems like the whole thing might fall over now, crash through the floor to the room below. thud. before I know it there are books everywhere. thud. thud. thud. the shelf is gone and the floor is collapsing, the roof is collapsing, everything is collapsing. my heart is collapsing, thud. if I only I didn’t have so many books.

I don’t know if I’m ready to be vulnerable again. I want to let you in but my greatest fear is that I already have. you’re trying to take care of me but I thought I could take care of myself. was I wrong? am I wrong? is this wrong?

in between is not enough.

we were both overdressed, for the heat and occasion as we sat by the shore. and you told me you liked hearing me talk, and asked if there would be a second date. every time I saw a dog I apologized for my lapse in attention but you just looked at the dogs with me. you asked me about my dreams. I said it’s all so unclear. you said you’d help clear it up. when I got home there were flowers in my room from you. they said, “thank you for this morning” no thank you.

the worst kind of space is between your words where the barbs and thorns hide. the worst kind of space is between us talking when I wonder if this is the time I’ve done it. the worst kind of space is between our hands, between how I feel and how I act, between my lungs. there is no good space.

daddy doesn’t need a shotgun, he knows his daughter is one. big brother doesn’t need to threaten, he knows his sister is a weapon.

daddy doesn’t need a shotgun, he knows his daughter is one. and boys don’t try to call me princess they just bow before a queen. I wasn’t raised to wait for protection. I was raised on cartoon toddlers saving the world. just three little girls. big brother doesn’t need to threaten he knows his sister is a weapon. and boys don’t try to touch her they just watch her from the crowd. I wasn’t raised to be a victim. I was raised on Charlie’s Angels, keeping that fatale femme. I’m going to be just like them.

daddy doesn’t need a shotgun, he knows his daughter is one.

“you are no less than a stuffed man. in our last conflict four of your five wits went halting off,” but I fell for you still. you should eat the sword you swear on. you leant me your heart awhile and won mine under false pretense. but then you had two hearts and I had none. because I speak with the pride of a man, you discard me as an improper woman, but were I a man I would eat your heart in the marketplace. I loved you more than reason. I loved you without reason. these are the reasons I no longer love you.

in the woods of my mind, there are only black birds. every caw reminds me of things that can go wrong. they fly in murders, flocks and herds. all the tree roots climb across the ground, like beggars asking, please just one more meal, but muck is all they’ve ever found. when the sun comes out the leaves are like glass and the floor is a kaleidoscope of green and dreams and hope. I pull out the grass in the clearing looking for the map, of a landscape untamed and uncharted, finding only dust and twigs and bugs and rust. in the woods of my mind there is beauty and ferocity, but without this it would be a garden within four picket walls, and not a wood that goes on forever, and earth that calls and calls.

it will be different this time

I play on my phone too much, and I wear character bandaids. I’ve asked you to fight me more than once. I discuss spongebob conspiracy theories on the regular and I never shut up, but you’re still willing to take a chance with me. maybe that’s all love is.

I’m not to be touched, as if you are blind. you can see. so I should be touched, rarely and gently, because you can see me and I am magnificent.