I am enough –
all of me,
not just parts,
not pieces that you can pick
and choose
and patch together –
fashion into something
socially acceptable so everyone
will smile with approval.
But nope –
that’s not my bag.
I don’t want to be acceptable anymore.
I don’t want to check off
someone’s list and get a seal of approval.
I want to be me.
Just me.
No additives or fillers.
Nothing artificial to make me look right
for the pictures.
Took a while, but I finally got it figured out –
I’m totally unique and
not made to be in the regular flow.
Because I have my own,
I am enough,
and if you don’t like it,
then you’re out of luck for anything else.
I’m done moving myself
around to fit into everyone – or someone else’s mold.
Been there,
did that enough that I don’t want
any more t-shirts.
I am enough.
Nothing else to say.
Peace out.
#enoughisenough
13 Aug 2019 Leave a comment
in Poetry
girl power
06 Jun 2019 Leave a comment
in Poetry
I’ll never forget the day
when I finally figured out who I was.
No labels,
no political correctness,
nothing neat and easily explained.
I was a blend of terms and ideas and styles and blood.
All of it, all over the place.
Took me a while to shut out the noise
and see for myself.
But when I got it, I really got it.
The emperor finally found his clothes.
Her clothes.
My power suit, so to speak.
Feathers flying like they were meant to all along.
So I leveled my gaze and went for it.
Exam Room 24
05 Jun 2019 Leave a comment
in Prose
It’s been a while, but I’m still here. For your reading pleasure – my try at flash fiction:
Exam Room 24
“I don’t like how men smell. Or really, I don’t how it smells. And how I smell after.”
The nurse looked up from her clipboard, but didn’t say anything. The young woman in the hospital gown continued speaking, either forgetting that she wasn’t alone or not caring.
“They’re always so shocked when I say anything – like they don’t think they smell bad. Like they think it would smell good. And it doesn’t go away quick either. Not even after a shower.”
“What is your name?”
The young woman didn’t make eye contact. “Emily.”
“And your last name?”
“Bronte.”
The nurse sighed quietly. “I’m going to need your real name.”
The young woman frowned. “They said it was okay to use fake names though.”
“That was the counseling hotline. This is different…we’ll need your actual name.”
“Can’t I just be her for a little bit? Just a little?”
The nurse stretched a smile on her face. “Sure, Emily – for a little bit. But eventually….”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“You mean did he force me? Don’t they all in some way though? Force it? The others were nicer about it, made it seem like I wanted to…made it seem like my idea sometimes. And most times, I probably mostly did want to. But it was always their idea before mine. And I always knew that, but I went along anyway. I’d pretend that I was all for it, and they’d pretend to call again.”
“But this time?”
Emily glanced down at her fingers. “I broke a nail, I think. Doesn’t matter, I guess, since the paint’s chipped on all of them.”
“Emily?”
“Yeah, this time he was just more upfront about it. I said no. Or, I think I did. I wanted to. I tried to pull away. He hurt, in general, you know? It was rough and he didn’t care.”
The nurse stopped writing. “I’m sorry, Emily. I’m sorry for him. For all of them, but definitely for him.”
Emily shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to talk about it again, huh?”
“A detective’s waiting to take your statement.”
“About time to stop being Emily.”
The nurse smiled gently. “Maybe after the examination. That okay?”
“Sure. That way someone else is being poked and scraped.”
“I’ll be gentle. Promise. Now, lie back please and we’ll get this done as quickly as possible.”
Emily’s chestnut hair fell over the back of the examination table. “I hate how they smell.”
Stuff We Don’t Talk About
22 Apr 2019 Leave a comment
in Poetry
Sometimes things happen —
that’s what we say when it’s too complicated,
or painful,
or petty,
or messy to explain
and we just want to shrug it off,
even though
we know that isn’t happening
anytime soon.
Because things happen —
like when I married the wrong man
who bullied me
into
the
ground
and never thought he spoke unkindly.
Or when I let that person
break my heart over and over
and over,
like I’m not china.
Or when the first of two monsters
took something from me and left only scars.
But hey – things happen.
Yep — things.
Colossus
13 Jan 2019 Leave a comment
in Poetry
I saw that old man, all covered in stone,
from the top of his head
and well into his shaggy beard –
petrified from years of regret and wondering
about what was there
and what might come next.
He’s stuck,
there in that tomb,
just close enough to the water to be taunted,
but never allowed to drink.
That must be how Prometheus felt after
the millionth day of his spleen being ripped from his body.
Was the spleen important back then?
Did Zeus know what it did?
Maybe he also had some insight into the function
of the appendix.
Maybe he is also punishing this god
for choosing Earth
and the mortals instead of the soap opera in heaven.
Zeus captured this old god’s sadness
perfectly,
and then encased him in stone
to relive it for all time.
I wonder if that guy’s wishing he could switch places
with Prometheus
and lose his spleen for a few millennia.
#workingonatitle
28 Dec 2018 Leave a comment
in Poetry
I wish we could communicate in poems.
Forget the gifs and memes
and emojis
and hashtags and the newest slang
that I still don’t understand.
Let’s only speak in metaphors and iambic pentameter
(if either of us is feeling brave)
and push beneath our surface and really get
a good look under the hood
and see what’s what at the end of the day.
I want to take your breath away
and all that jazz.
Let’s bare souls and see who’s still standing
when the dust settles.
Hopefully I used enough idioms for your fancy.
Beast
28 Dec 2018 Leave a comment
in Poetry
There’s a man in that animal’s face –
or perhaps
it’s a devil of some kind,
given the horns.
Or maybe a creature from another world.
Or a fictional character –
perhaps it’s Beauty’s beast who is lost
and needs to return home.
Or maybe,
there really is a man in there,
trapped in that animal,
all burly and rough and gorgeous and graceful.
So much power
and not enough legs to slow things down.
But somehow,
he does stop himself,
both the animal and the man,
and glides like a Thoroughbred who just won the Triple Crown.
That blue shimmer makes him seem
like a super hero –
strong and dashing and ready to save damsels.
But if those azul eyes could talk,
they would probably ask for water instead.
He must be thirsty by now.