Time

I keep thinking of that song, you know

The one we keep replaying

It reminds me of a time when tunes sounded good

And you easily and breezily walk away to this place

That spot

I remember that time when I

Clasped my hands around your neck

I remember the thick smell of your sweat on your neck

And wanting nothing else

I look down in my white t shirt with the red collars on the neck and sleeve

So emblematic of the 90s

Our time

I miss it so and I want it back

Those warm golden sunsets

Of my youth

I remember one day just not liking you

Or was it the other way around

Such an awkward ending that seemed so monumental at the time

And here I am, not remembering so much of the details

It’s trauma still embedded into my DNA

Only time will tell

If this gets passed on

Once again—

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The Witness

Watching myself trying to write this poem

The Witness

I recall the many times throughout this day

I

Attempted to

And failed at

Decoding the

Compost in my mind

And

I wonder if I could somehow

Add Andrew into this poem—

The one who tells me how to be THE witness

How to observe

Detached I can see myself, all my parts, the gloriously messy, wrought with metal, iron, rice and beans, yellow-stained project hallways, piss stained staircases, where no one would dare to walk or climb unless the other piss stained elevator was broken (again) and you went with someone else (or would you?— because I actually only remember ever going alone?)

Where we moved to another place in the Bronx, “safer” this time (from whom or what… myself?) but lonely, and desolate (internally), with picturesque, sun drenched horse rides, no pesky, little half-sister siblings around or even really invented of course, of course…

And then I have to stop here, the Witness tells me—

You’ve been down this wistful, “nostalgic” road before, the looping, winding trajectory, who am I doing this for? She asks,

There is no need, she continues

To show me that I am right where I am supposed to be

That I am

The—

The Window

I have this image in my mind of our window, the window.

A picture of it too, an actual picture.

I am standing there, in front of it, the window.

It’s a warm, sunny morning

After a long, dark night of using

It’s seconds after the sun fully pops up and exposes itself in warrior pose

Bright, golden light flooding my apartment, and my face, my body

I’m wearing gray, baggy sweatpants, a tight, but loose shirt, expanded by the evenings to-do’s.

I think I was still straightening my curly hair at the time, for lack of self love

and lack of children, I’m still mostly consumed with how I look

instead of how I really feel and ways that I can change my misery to something more sun-shiny

more whole

more real…

and I remember myself looking down, walking slowly, standing slowly at the edge of the window

wanting to soak up the sun star’s warmth, joy and healing…

while simultaneously regretting and feeling guilty for all I have done in the last 24 hours….

And I somehow remember in this cycle of sunrise and sunset, that there is more to this life

that if the sun can awaken anew

so can I

even at the window

for a few, short

glorious

seconds…

Self

Five seven five

We’ll get out of here alive—

Petals. of. the. mind.

Petals

They say we are planting seeds

But I don’t know

I just don’t know

If the seeds will grow

If there will be enough sunlight to make the seed take root

Or water to make those roots extend… up and out through the brown, dry soil

No wet earth to make the green stalk push easily out into the light—

Have we lost our collective minds?

Scrambling for some sense of normalcy, we want that old urgency, but… we don’t?

It’s like, we want to face the sun, you know?

That sun? That big, bright, burning ball of gas in the sky— to be proud

To show our unblemished visage to that glorious star

The one who, for eternity, remains in warrior pose

So sure of himself

No questioning or empty self reflections…

And in that same way we want to bask in it…

And yet—

And yet, I still want to hide, in that earth, in the darkness, the blackest womb…

And I think:

Is it okay not to grow? What does that mean that I want to be back where I was… do I just crave the usual, predictable safety, or the warm embrace of the mother, that luscious amniotic fluid, my first feeling of true, tangible love and support?

Those petals of the mind, of the body, of the face prompts me up and out—

And I remember:

We need that sun, we need that water, I want to grow— but when? And how? Much more do I need to take in the up and down rollercoaster of a life that defies my beautiful words… that takes them all away… that leaves me sounding like I cannot write or express myself anymore… as I once did…

What have I done, petals? What have I done?

And then I remember again…

To let go…

As the petal does…

And I drop to the floor—

In that darkness

In that womb

To start anew—

Once again…