Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.
I want to apologize to all the women I have called beautiful
before I’ve called them intelligent or brave
I am sorry I made it sound as though
something as simple as what you’re born with
is all you have to be proud of
when you have broken mountains with your wit
from now on I will say things like
you are resilient, or you are extraordinary
not because I don’t think you’re beautiful
but because I need you to know
you are more than that
Saturday, 01:11 PM
Let these purple bruises mean healing.
Let these broken voices mean still trying.
Let every house fire mean forgiveness.
Let every poem from here mean still surviving,
even on the days it would be easier not to.
Maybe time’s not moving,
or maybe I just forgot how to count again.
When I swallowed down my monsters,
they undressed my bones for me.
When I kissed the sun,
she told me to go back home.
There is always time for burning later.
On your best days,
you’re still a little bit in love with him,
the forgetting comes eventually.
I painted a black hole across my ribs
and my heart found its way through.
Every moment since has been a failing magic show,
trying to make what was lost reappear.
But maybe it’s not really failing.
Maybe it’s just coming back slowly.
When the floors started boiling,
I stopped soaking my feet in them,
and even on my worst days,
I am proud of myself for that.
Maybe I lost what I lost to make room
for everything that is coming.
Maybe all this time,
it has been on its way.