(A follow-up to “Glass Breaking” written 6/2/14)
I wrote about you this weekend.
It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t poetic, really.
I just wrote what happened.
And when the Woman I Am wrote down
what happened to the Woman I Used To Be,
the Woman I Used To Be finally threw
that goddamn carafe and coffee mug
on the ground.
The Woman I Am watched as,
midair, the chemical components
so that when they hit the floor,
they did not break.
They just bounced a little…
made some noise.
The Woman I Used To Be smirked
because in the end,
the Woman I Am
didn’t have anything
to clean up after all.
and I can understand why.
because all you can see is the rubble
and the ruin left behind,
and you’re one of the last ones left.
I wish I could show you what I see
from a birds-eye view:
just over the crest of the next hill,
there’s another town that’s safe.
It’s not in ruins.
There are happy people there,
and you’ll be one of them.
You just can’t seem to look past the debris —
you’re still looking at it
as if it’s the only thing left in this world.
You just have to keep walking.
I devour 800 pages in one week,
turning each one with some anticipation.
It’s easy to get absorbed by a world
that’s just different enough from mine
to stay interesting, but similar enough
to spark hope.
In this, I try to lose myself.
Each morning while I sip my coffee,
I read my horoscopes —
general statements about my day,
my love life, my career.
I do not consciously change my actions
based on their predictions,
but I read them anyway.
In these, I try to find myself.
Most days, my time is spent
searching, finding, changing, keeping
the perfect words for you to say,
for me to write, for them to read
in law, in fiction, in life.
I persuade, reveal, express.
In this, I am myself.
I keep seeing similarities between us.
Or maybe I keep finding them.
Curly, sometimes unruly hair.
Well-educated and professionally trained.
Able to get on in almost any environment.
Still, reading about her
feels like an escape
because she’s been
where I haven’t.