Maybe Bobbi

Maybe I’m Bobbi, maybe I’m not (but who would lie about a name like Bobbi?). Maybe a poet. Probably not. My ebook is available on Amazon for $3. Click here to purchase

[maybe-bobbi]

She’s dead.

I wake up in the middle of the night and see her standing over me. Everything about her is cold. Her eyes, her tone, her soul.

I am frozen. My voice is stuck in my throat. I don’t know whether to close my eyes or to cherish the moment. Despite panic, I fall back into nightmares.

In the nightmares she is warm. She is smiling. She has plans. She laughs. It feels like I am awake but I am not. We are talking about what we’ll do, and as I am looking at her face - a face from many years ago, a lifetime ago - a whisper trickles in. The whisper is a memory, the invisible whisper is flooding the room, and as it inches up my legs she is smiling and I am smiling and my socks are wet my jeans my shirt sleeves and she is looking at me and the whisper is my voice saying

“She is dead.”

And then her smiling face is gone, the whisper is replaced by sobs, and the noise wakes me up. The sun hasn’t come. The room is dark. I miss her. I tell the whisper not to remind me, next time I want to see her smiling a little longer. I want to live in the time that will never come, I want to greet her ghost and make new memories around the person she used to be. There’s so many things I need to know, need to ask. Next time I want to tell her…

…but, she’s dead.

[maybe-bobbi]

Parentification

“Parentification” is when a child

Is forced to become a parent

For themselves, their siblings, or their parents.

“Parentification” is

Waking up soaked with urine

From a toddler you didn’t birth. It’s

Changing them by the light of Telly Tubbies

While they whimper about their nightmares.

It’s going to school the next day,

Turning in your presentation and realizing

You forgot to do the paper.

Sometimes it’s sitting in the grocery store parking lot

Because there’s more consequences for being late to class

Than to missing it entirely.

It’s your friends learning to talk over the baby crying.

It’s your mother telling you you won’t get into college

So she gets two more years of your free childcare.

It’s you believing her.

It’s you staying.

“Parentification” is

When you tell your mother to get a job.

It’s selling paper snowflakes and giving her the dimes.

It’s telling her that you want to sleep in your own bed.

It’s when she shows you the sperm bank donation and the turkey baster,

It’s when you clean out morning sickness bile buckets.

It’s learning how to give a shot before you know long division.

It’s the way she trains you, in moments and fragments,

Her needs come first.

It’s putting her first.

“Parentification” is

When you’re at a tween birthday party

And the parent tells you, “You’re looking anorexic.

I know your mom is busy, maybe

You can come to our place for dinner?”

It’s going to your dad’s because he pays child support, your mother

Sleeping with him so he’ll fix your car.

It’s a one-night stand with a stranger you met on the Internet when you’re 14.

It’s living life in reverse.

It’s not knowing who to turn to,

Not knowing what’s normal,

Just knowing pills help (some of the time).

It’s not knowing how not to be a caretaker.

“Parentification” is moving away,

Losing everyone and everything.

It’s finding yourself and freedom

And love and life.

“Parentification” is

Your sister not coming to your wedding,

Your mother refusing to raise her glass

During toasts, only asking

Why you’re changing your name.

It’s leaning in, on the happiest day of your life,

To whisper to your soulmate, “I know

My mom is not happy. I am trying

To be okay with not being responsible

For her happiness.”

It’s only hearing from her because she

Wanted more recognition, it’s

Her asking for her wedding money back, it’s

Spending your honeymoon in tears.

“Parentification” is

Learning how to let go,

Rolling far away from that poisoned apple tree,

And hoping (praying)

You’re

Not poisoned, too.

[maybe-bobbi]

The Shadow

It’s the shadow at the edge of the light.

I can see it out of the corner of my eye,

Following me.

I’ve known this shadow since I toddled

Up and down the stairs, since

I sat on the kindergarten swings with

Jelly-stained fingers.

A girl I’ve never seen again asked why I was sad,

I told her about my dad lunging forward, screaming death threats at my mother.

Then, yes, the shadow held my hand.

It followed me, I saw it as I sat

In the bathroom sink, eight years old,

Left alone and grabbing from the medicine cabinet.

I knew it wasn’t safe, yet I threw

The white tablet in my mouth.

The shadow stretched out lazy fingers

Mocking the spearmint (mis)take.

I saw it hiding under unloving lovers,

Caught in dresses that fit too tightly,

Betwixt book pages with folded corners

And in pencil-smudged freeverse receipts.

The shadow held me as I mothered my mother,

As I raised my sister, as

My father handed me his first suicide letter.

I have been a fugitive, but its searchlight found me.

Crossing state lines doesn’t change the setting sun, only the view.

Somehow it sticks to the bottom of my shoes, and yet -

If I comply, if I’m quiet, if I’m still-

It tucks me in at night.

[maybe-bobbi]

I don't know if I'm the same anon in a philosophical sense, but I have anonymously asked a question here before. To answer your question: I don't have a Tumblr.

Anon, you'd probably do better following my work on Medium. I don't think you'd need an account. Although, of course, I always feel special when I receive an ask of any kind (anon or otherwise)!

[maybe-bobbi]

Nasty Women Project

You can now preorder the book I have an essay in. I discuss my experiences as a lesbian woman growing up in the south. I hope you purchase this book and learn from the experiences of others. All proceeds benefit Planned Parenthood. The Nasty Women Project: Voices from the Resistance https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06X17TQ9C/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_j9LRyb67YV1ER

[maybe-bobbi]

Know any good therapists or where to find them? That could be a book. Fantastic Therapists and Where to Find Them.

Actually I have a great therapist that I met through BetterHelp. We no longer use that service to communicate, but it was the perfect way for me to start talking to someone back when I lived way out in the country. Also anon, why are you always anon? Are you the same anon?

[maybe-bobbi]

You can now find my work on Medium. Through this link you can also purchase The Nasty Women Project, which I have an essay in.

[maybe-bobbi]

There are still some faded ropes I ache for, Lost connections just out of reach. I had no dreams deferred, but friends... I do miss the company we used to keep.

[maybe-bobbi]

Sometimes you trade in poetry for happiness

You don't miss it

[maybe-bobbi]

Forgiveness

I wish I could say that I had forgotten your details - The dance of your fingertips, your sudden movements, your tone. I wish I could say that those images had faded, Replaced by hazy suppositions. They haven’t, nor has the echo of conviction in your voice When you said, “I could never be with you again.”

It’s too late for me to seek forgiveness from you, And I know better than to question your stance.

But, maybe one day, I will forgive myself. Maybe, one day, that will be enough.

[maybe-bobbi]

I am happy to share, I have forgotten. I no longer remember what tone or movements this referred to.

[maybe-bobbi]

Where's the writing?????

Hey Anon, the odd thing about being a poet is sometimes when you're happy, the writing doesn't spill out like it once did. But, I'd rather be happy than make myself miserable for the sake of art. I hope you're doing well, whoever you are.

[maybe-bobbi]

Matchstick

I will probably always write poetry about you Because you loved me with the intensity Of first love at seventeen - Husky whispers while hiding in back seats. At five-and-twenty I didn't know that could still be me, That I could pine and perish like I had before bills and whiskey. Love like that burns hot and bright And scorches everything it touches. Which begs the question, was it even love at all?

[maybe-bobbi]

A Day In The Life

Quickly she drifts off to sleep. Sometimes it's an hour, sometimes it's longer, but Eventually I follow suit. If I wake up when she leaves, And then drift back off to sleep, I have nightmares. Every time. If I'm lucky, I'll sleep through her morning creep. She'll shimmy off the mattress, Sneak into our walk in closet, And change with the door ajar. My clowder of cats will alternate, Sometimes circling her ankles, Sometimes lazily lounging Against my slumbering form. When I wake, they press their heads against me, Begging for my affection. Eventually, once I sit up, they race to their food bowls, Their cacophony of mews a nearly rehearsed chorus. I stumble about, debating between fashion and comfort, planning for the day ahead. At the end of the day, I strip off my confining clothes and throw them into the hamper. The clowder crowds around me, And I empty their late night snack into their food bowls. From where I stand, I can hear her brushing her teeth. The water runs in the next room, and I turn on the TV. Once she reenters the room, she discards her dress. She makes a comment about my body, and I blush. We slide into the sheets. She wraps her arms around me. Quickly she drifts off to sleep. Sometimes it's an hour, sometimes it's longer, but Eventually I follow suit. If I wake up when she leaves, And then drift back off to sleep, I have nightmares. Every time.

[maybe-bobbi]

Forgiveness

I wish I could say that I had forgotten your details - The dance of your fingertips, your sudden movements, your tone. I wish I could say that those images had faded, Replaced by hazy suppositions. They haven't, nor has the echo of conviction in your voice When you said, "I could never be with you again." It's too late for me to seek forgiveness from you, And I know better than to question your stance. But, maybe one day, I will forgive myself. Maybe, one day, that will be enough.

[maybe-bobbi]

In the silence, sadness creeps unbidden; It slithers across stone, and yet It echoes.

[maybe-bobbi]

This is why it doesn't matter: Because anyone could be here right now, But they wouldn't be you.

[maybe-bobbi]

It's been 10 years since The last time Cupid passed by me Without stopping. It's been 10 years of candy hearts And chocolates, 10 years of Being passed from hand to hand And promise to promise. Who am I without the confetti? Who am I without someone beside me? I'm not sure.