Dim
I have always wanted to be both hard and soft, to resist the world’s rigid exterior, yet always feel firmly planted in the ground, never letting others establish my roots. To let my edges curve like rivers bending toward their end, yet stand unyielding, a cliff carved sharp by time.
I would like to feel the warmth of care the way everyone else does. I would like to feel another’s love for me traveling light years, traveling through dimensions just because they can, without me having to beg and plead. I would like to be thought of in the middle of the night when the wolves howl and the stars shine so bright you can’t fall back asleep. I would like to stand firm in my place within the ground, remaining strong-minded, yet always reassured—like soil breaking for roots, to give and take in equal measure.
I have felt the softness seep out of some of the sweetest souls I have ever known. Smooth, supple skin that was always drying out and withering away. How do we continue to give pieces of our hearts, when we receive none in return? How do we let ourselves be the only shining light, even when we are standing all alone in the darkness ourselves?
Shooting star, forever. My bright glint of hope, a beacon of those who came before me who could not keep their beaming spirit–who never felt love enkindle their hearts without poking and prodding–but who never faltered in getting what they wanted. Loud, bright, and bold: they learned to never bite their tongues. The stars themselves endure this duality: to blind and harden, or to glow and soften. I, too, will learn to carry both.
Mother
“911. I’m calling 911.”
He slams the phone down on the table, the screaming on the other end stopping abruptly
The fridge creeks as he opens the door,
His fingers tingle from the cold condensation,
but the ice cold beer soothes his mind and his blood
Her screaming sniffles ring through his ears,
He turns the television up louder
They sound just like her mother’s
Her fucking mother
His cellphone rings, rings, and rings
He closes his eyes — Her mother
He opens them to see his cellphone crushed into hundreds of tiny pieces in the palm of his hand
Her mother
She’s just like her mother
She’s just like her mother
Stubborn, arrogant, controlling
And so is he
He crushes the now-empty beer can between his fingertips
He carefully picks up the pieces of cell phone and hear as they settle to the bottom of the trash can
He doesn’t need it
He’s not making any more calls tonight.
How Old is November Anyway?
November is the last glimpse of autumn surrounding us
November is the smell of the cranberry candle on my mother’s bedside table
November is gazing at the moon and making a wish, and another, and one more for good luck
November is the haze of perfumes that form a cloud around my girlhood
November is staying outside just a minute longer to feel the crispness of the air on my nose
November is a midnight call from my sister
November is not hanging up until 5am
November is staring at myself a little too long in the mirror
November is loving it more each time
November is the sweet smell of birthday cakes and cherry blossoms in my grandmother’s hair
November is knowing this scent has carried me into my womanhood
November is saying the hardest goodbyes to the people who hurt me the most
November is the hugs that turn into cries that intertwine our souls
November is getting older.
And so am I.
