The Library

i’ll keep writing lettersand postcards, even ifI never make itto the post office.even if the ones I love,never read my efforts of rapport.my brother, my best friends,my mother, my fathermy boyfriendpages piling up, buteven unsentsincerity eases my heart,and sometimes my temper.little by little I’m starting to believethe stacks of postagedated and addressedare things I would’ve said all boozed upslurringand teary eyedbut now between breaths,I writeand prepare my hands shakily to place a stamp.but I never do.in some ways these lettershave absorbed the impactof flying shards of my heart.of a love that for most hitstoo deeply, which often comes withan equal force of rage (which is of courseuntamed sadness).Maybe somedayI’d like to sit together over teaand read the love letters,the layers of metaphors for how much Iadore each one of youthe empathy, the forgiveness,the acceptance i’ve experiencedthat encompassesevery conflictthat surpassesevery pain we endure.sincerely unsent

Shattered glass on the floor.

Wet with misfortune

Another tiresome chore

I’m not careful and let time

escape me

hoping she will take with her the pain of my own making

the cake i’ve baked.

I am yearning for love again

to mother with a full heart

to be held, my hair stroked

and praised for my many sacrifice.

But instead I’m

sitting with the new names i have

animals and adjectives

each pang hurts me deeper.

I try to laugh because i think evil hates laughter

and evil is my only explanation for all this

and it is not his lack of love or adoration that hurts so deeply but the feeling that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. That I’ve made a drastically wrong turn somewhere and I’m not living as someone I am not.

His words slowly sink into to me. It takes months sometimes. After the immediate armor of my courage and mantra wears off.

It makes me wallow in dark and painful thoughts.

I’m unfit to be a mother and it would be better if abandoned my son for this stable, cleanly life. So he can go to a prestigious school with a prestigious family and grow in a culture I myself adore.

My whole life I’ve wanted to be a mother. I thought I could. I thought I could do it better than what was done to me. To surround my child with only love. Always have a listening ear . Be present. Teach him from the heart and give the gift of seeing beauty in all things. Reality shoes you what is possible and what is not.

It is so hard to hold the weight of heavy hurtful words.

my dry face searches for a well of tears within me to wash me clean.

My core feels like brittle iron. oxidized, nearly ready to buckle.

What will happen if I do…crumble?

AND I’m navigating this foggy landscape alone. my mother exacerbates my pain and makes it hers that I then need to tend. and my father would think so lowly of my weakness. the shame makes me want to disappear.

So my mania slips out after hours, like a slow leak- water pooling around the edges. My eyes glaze over and my smile has faded. The joyous child that has lead my heart for a lifetime is lost and damp. A dim light inside me a remains that’s fed on the daydreams I will fall into the arms of a man who loves me tenderly.

this very thought causes more guilt. taht my daydreams have pulled me from my son. that my only daydream isn’t about his happiness and success but of my own joy and desire for connection. The duty of a mother is tiresome. Not knowing whether my mantra should be should be “do what is best for me” or “ do what is best for my child” searching for the middle way. i could potentially make sacrifices on a child’s behalf, which he might resent when he becomes mildly aware. the idea of my child saying, I made the wrong choice freezes me in my tracks.

I sweep the glass into the dustpan and drop it into the trash bin. Checking twice for any shards left behind.

I write to recover.

Can it return to me? The sureness of Self that was fractured postpartum. A small baby cooing and a man who corroded my self worth; was it really about the paper wrapper of a tea bag I left the counter one too many times, or for my collection of mugs around the house? Who cares, the damage is done best not to search for it cause beyond what’s necessary to avoid repeating it.

I’m going to write about of wonderful I am. About the way I’m in touch with the unknown, the mystery and the vision. How I know I am a different girl, and always have been. I’m going to write because I know that I too, am not that different and the experiences we share are what make spring time joyous. I’m going to write truths about my desire to have created a different life - yet I am learning to synchronize with the one I have; and synchronization requires an understanding of chance, dimension and purpose.

For me to ignore the ego damage would be arrogant. I suffered - but I made that choice. I am ashamed that I dismissed my misery and called it postpartum hormones. I embarrassed that shunned the strong message to leave because of my dream to be a family. I have more choices to make. That’s all we do everyday is make choice whether to enjoy or be miserable- and sometimes the shift from misery to joy is a small step and sometimes is a grand leap.

I write to recover.

words that were sewn togetherseamlesslywithmemoriesi was thinking in titles instead of poetry

knocking rocksmake sparks between my shoulder bladesi wince in agonyan agony that resembles a hollownesslike a damp stairwellslick stairs.i’m mad because i can’t see anything and i amassuming i must ascend.the wet walls are not cold but warm like my bodyi am but a small inner voiceobserving the whole thingscreamingbut for whati couldn’t sayit’s all very fragileand empty and like an egg it will breakwhether it be from pressure or fromthe divine nature of birth i cannot tell youi miss my own handwritingand folding loose leaf in thirds.it feels in order to bring my imagination back homei must leave.

i can’t shake him from my mind

every how and every why

calls me backi’m desperate to know why

his crisp voice comes

to blow into low embers

if his hands can’t be here

while the fire burns

i dreamt of our faces

years between them

sweetened with age

his honey lingers in my memory

as i wake my body surges

desperate for the distance between us

to vanish

i don’t know if we will ever

meet again

that’s the question

4382 kilometers between us

he has big plans

and i see him even far beyond his own beliefs

but don’t want to make room for myself

in his dreams

my americano is free

and the baristas are singing to american love songs

i bob my head and smile

grateful that the heart doesn’t know

kilometers