I'm realizing that I can't hold others to my own expectations
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DEAR READER
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@flowerchildinthedesert
I'm realizing that I can't hold others to my own expectations
“Well, when you have kids...”
Children don’t make you
special--they’re consolation
prizes for fucking
When work drains emotional energy
sometimes I want a
little less of a career
and more of a job
I think that I'm worth something--I just don't believe anyone else does
I harbor only the most
crooked of ships in my bay—
each windless sail is a forgotten
destination, a dream I never
fell asleep to
I used to dream of
circumnavigation—but
somehow I got stuck behind
the backyard fence
now the rust and the waves and
the creak of the dock remind me that
time stops for no one—I am
no exception
Marble-cold morning, skies
weighted by insignificance, shouldered by the
reverent stillness that only steam from
my mug has the whim to disobey
american dream
five dishrag weekdays–
perhaps if i am lucky
i’ll make sunday’s wash
summer raspberry
cool and covered with pinpricks
of water--taste me
My mind is
ten 1000-piece puzzles strewn about the floor the moment before you remember what you forgot to remember a million tabs loading on a fritzy screen poorly-placed "one way" street signs the pencil in the sharpener (I can't tell if it's ready) right before it breaks every disappointed lowering of eyes and fall in tone the blinking lights on the router do they even have a pattern the sequins you'll inevitably find if you buy that silly dress the ten poor reviews despite the ninety good ones a dissertation when only a proposal was required a list prefaced by a foul-tasting coffee with three shots of espresso but no motivation (and i don't even like coffee)
brainstorm: happy things
letters in the mail
dancing on a friday night
painting (preferably on a canvas even though I have no idea what I’m doing)
watching wall-e (because no, i still haven’t seen it)
tappy shoes on a wooden floor
trying on pretty and eccentric dresses
playing music with other people
doing make-up for no particular reason
singing with other people (in harmony)
lunch with a friend
black tea
playing in an orchestra
practicing cello and bass
braiding hair
henna
coloring animal pictures
tattoos
writing
making people laugh
laughing
successful new bird tricks
looking at houses
spontaneous adventures out of town
Taos, NM
live bands with dancing
talking to old teachers and mentors
going to the ocean
making cookies
finishing an arrangement/composition
crocheting
tasting new food
new pair of boots
being hugged
birdy conversations
The Daily Show
kisses from my love
when I help spark a student “ah ha!” moment
harmonizing well with a song on the radio
cooking with someone
crafting things with friends
to be continued as needed...
american dream
five dishrag weekdays--
perhaps if i am lucky
i’ll make sunday’s wash
I wish I could write happily, That the images that inspire me to Put my pen to paper weren't the Same ones that make me run to A knife or bottle Perhaps I'm not a writer
I am no creator No artist No lover No dancer No poet-- I fancied myself Full on cheap Fantasies, on silly Feelings that maybe I won't destroy Everything I touch, Maybe I won't make the Things I love implode, Maybe I won't-- But maybe I will, And sometimes that's Enough to make my Eggshell heart crack
Sometimes I harbor destructive fantasies– broken glass, bleeding palms–I live them in my head behind closed eyes and sealed lips: a thousand private retellings
i’m fine
an eggshell sanity is still a clean slate-- a porcelain mask is still a flawless cover-- construction is the easy part, just promise not to chip away at my “i’m fines”
between your lines
pouting, thin, timid, assertive--I fancied myself the taster of a thousand stories on a thousand lips--but ephemeral relations can breed insecurity can breed omissions of truth--(barely conducive to the baring of souls)--I suppose everything is temporary and even our lips will be gates to only so many breaths--so with the inhalations the universe grants me and the exhalations my body can muster, let me read between your lines for our story is the only I wish to forever taste
blending
satisfaction from the strangest things: your pocketknife on my dresser, my necklace on your nightstand, that mixed cd I made a year ago still in your car, that “maybe I should buy two” thought that comes when you aren’t there, the last bottle in the fridge from that six-pack we drank a week ago-- I find satisfaction in the commingling of lives, of our lives, and maybe that isn’t so strange after all