(from January 2nd, 2020)
I am crying out of me
18 years (give and take a few)
of grief for having no choice
over my coming and goings,
having been trapped and made captive to be my mother’s extension,
and being beaten into her image.
Maybe the tears will free me
to make a little more space for myself.
My tears will help me find a sacred room of my own choosing
with a door that I myself control.
Maybe the tears will save me from
a shriveled body,
tense, small, curled and bent with
Everytime the anger rises,
“What’s still hurts here?”
Instead of revealing a mask
the truth trickles out.
Then, after, I watch the last drop land
I stand up, take a step forward,
making for myself the life I can still live.
I remind myself,
I can do that again
And will need to, again,
the next time the tide of anger comes.
– withdrawn type
(Knowing how warm my tears have kept me
I try not to apologise for crying
for they have kept me from mutating
into a tragic nightmare.
In my most peaceful dreams,
Jekyll and Hyde are friends).
“I know that I am a thought in God,
no matter how insignificant I may be – the most abandoned of beings,
one no one thinks of.” – Oscar Romero
Something about the fact
that birds are chattering brightly
the temperature oscillates
like a stressed out needle
or a worried woman pacing a room.
Something about that fact,
the birds going about their day with no plans
keeps me hoping
we’ll find a way out of this mess.
Even if the world ends
(even if our world ends)
and the chattering stops
it mattered that they were here.
(Did it matter that they were here?)
This is not a romanticization of death.
All things decay
or pass away.
I am terrified
that all things change.
I want to know that something wonderful will outlive me
that God remembers and holds the infinite dead
and watches Her own tears scatter the universe like stardust.
If, like stardust,
Her grief will last millions,
billions of years.
When Her thoughts slip away from Earth’s face
I imagine the chorus of roars and laughs,
chirps and groans,
bubbles and rustles
that She’ll miss
echoing throughout eternity in the Divine’s ear
in that burdensome, turned tolerable way
in which those we love never quite leave us.
In this cold season, I am learning to be patient
to let go, to not scream to not scream to. not. scream.
I have watched petals drop all summer long,
all of fall
and I have placed so many dried out bouquets down on a frozen ground I find myself still crouching on.
From this place, I gravely look up at a gray sky that feels so vast and so lonely.
Still, I am learning to live comfortably in the endless gray
to make my bed and to put my socks away daily despite the storm inside and out
or what the window nearby tells me to forecast.
Learning the patience to let go
to not scream
or lock myself away from trying
or dreaming of brighter days-
This is me trying.
I am trying to hold on to this:
that love might still flower large with a radiance that I could have never fathomed
but does anyway.
It might come around to greet me,
and it might turn to-warm me
despite what I can now imagine.