Sometimes my count says no,
but my body says yes because
a machine doesn’t know
what my body feels like.
A machine’s not my body.
My body is me.
You don’t know my body,
my body only knows me.
My chart says this,
but my body doesn’t see.
My body only knows
who I am is me.
typing to me.
Nothing else matters,
I’m Type Me.
I’m a wilted rose in the ceramic vase I made. But that was a year and a half ago. My contacts dried up in January and it’ll be March tomorrow.
My hair is much less lustrious then it used to be, much too brown now.
My clothes are plainer than five years ago, and I don’t feel sexy
There’s a speck of water in my stem, but no one cares but me. Although maybe they do care and pity me, but won’t say anything because this is the life I’ve chosen.
But today I drove to the city with all the windows down. I let my hair loose and it flew around me with no gravity. It was warm so I smiled, and I felt 16 again.
But my spirit stopped when the car did. My hair didn’t dance, but turned mousy. Glasses pulled heavy on my brow. This isn’t me.
I’m evergreen, like pine. I’m a dance on the hands of time. And there on my mousy coat is a sheen that you’ve never seen. Yes, it stings. A sheen that brings a sting. A feeling thing thats meaning gets lost. It’s luster is muddled, but there. I know it’s there.
My thoughts are mine, but they don’t cost a dime to rhyme them.
My thoughts are spaghetti noodles jumbled up in a big bowl. Squishy, twirly, yucky, delightful noodles.
Because they’re mine. And I don’t have to give them to you at all. And you can’t make me dehydrate them neatly and put them into a cardboard box,
but I’ll do that for myself.
If you want you can come look at and hold them, but be careful not to break them. Because then they won’t be the same.
It’s that moment sitting there on the couch when I’m bouncing my baby up and down till my backside’s muscles hurt.
She’ll start to squirm and fuss so I’ll bounce again although I’m getting sore wishing I was not bouncing anymore.
It’s the boredom of sitting there bouncing- not doing anything else, the breeze waddling through the open patio door.
And then I stop moving and realize she must have fallen asleep. I hear the cars driving outside and realize I don’t really want to drive anywhere.
I sat there and held her while I listened to the cars and the neighbor’s AC discovering for the 20th time today how much I love her. And it really doesn’t get much simpler than that.
I’m starving for words
to make my head seem straight,
for my bedtime thrill,
my daily drill.
I need my head tightened (tighter!)
I’m going crazy (fighter!)
Can’t focus, can’t relay
-words said to me.
There’s a delay.
I’m not alone.
All others stare off too
into the computer screen
At a pretty smile,
a flawless life,
while all the while
planning a brand new wife.
He has your number,
you posted it last night.
He knows where you’re eating;
it’s on Google Maps.
“Please RSVP, here’s my address!”
He knows what time your kids play at recess.
He knows because you told him,
Even your husband’s work hours.
We’re all going crazy,
staring into soulless screens.
Some think everything’s real,
but to others it’s no big deal.