Truth is freeing, sweet thing.
I know you think I’ll cower
or wince or judge.
I know you think it’ll make things worse
or it’ll cut power before you flip the “on” switch.
I won’t. It won’t.
I’ll hold your gaze. The light will go on.
And for the first time,
we’ll both see what’s really there.
And I know
it’ll be beautiful.
Monthly Archives: May 2014
Truth is freeing, sweet thing.
Coffee to the left,
phone to the right,
music playing softly
while the breeze carried in
the smell of my new garden.
And I wrote.
Let’s see where I am
when my coffee is still to the left,
my phone is who-cares-where,
the music is something else,
and the smell of the heater
and maybe a scented candle
set the mood.
I’m going to write a book.
Things I’ve seen,
words I’ve heard,
hearts and minds and stories.
I don’t know what shape it’ll take in the end,
but there’s some fun in that —
in knowing and not knowing at the same time.
I’ve always been afraid
that I have nothing to say.
That there’s nothing new to add
to this world’s library.
But the beauty of life and language and people
is that there isn’t anything new.
It’s the same story told from a million perspectives,
and I want to know mine.
It’s been a running joke for some time.
How, with all my talents and instincts,
I’ve never kept a plant alive.
I don’t mind the joke.
After all, it’s based in truth.
But this year, I’m determined
to plant, to dig,
to nourish, to grow,
to keep alive.
I know that somewhere
underneath the black,
there’s a beautiful green
just waiting patiently
for me to notice it.
I’ve never seen that much lightning before.
I’ve seen sheets of rain like that,
the fat drops soaking everything
from the shrubs to the patio
to the carpet
to my bare feet,
that disgusting squishing sound
assaulting my ears
with every step.
Not this time.
Those fat drops
stopped inches from my doorway.
I stayed dry.
But I’ve never seen the night sky
act like a natural stroboscope —
meant for slowing things down.
I’ve never seen it,
but I think I’ve felt something like it.
And I just kept staring,
hoping and somehow knowing
that soon enough,
I’ll feel it again.
I almost forgot someone wrote a song for me.
I was flattered and embarassed and too young
to know that you can say thanks and no
at the same time.
I almost forgot how mad someone else’s mom was
when he got me a dozen long-stem red roses,
a gesture more fitting for a husband and wife
than two teenagers, she said.
I almost forgot that that one dated my sister first,
but I remember that I said yes
because it made me feel like I might be as pretty as she is.
I almost forgot how small I felt when the other one
got too drunk and introduced me as Sarah —
but how vindicated I felt
when his brothers booed him for it.
I almost forgot how both of them told me,
years apart, that they used to date someone like me —
but I have forgotten whether this was a good thing.
I almost forgot how another one’s sister
asked for my help choosing a dress,
and how I chose a gold one when no one was home.
I almost forgot that somebody’s dad swore me to secrecy
when he asked me to give his son
one more chance because I was “good for him.”
I almost forgot.
It’s not that I don’t understand negativity
or feeling bad or getting angry.
It’s not that bad things haven’t happened to me,
around me, because of me.
It’s that I can’t understand (and I refuse to accept)
an existence that revolves around
the lack of something.
I’d rather be filled by what exists
than be emptied by what doesn’t.