The importance of self care

He told me he realized he was going to die
I was nursing my gin and tonic
Not feeling cool the least
With all the pretty people having fun around
With all the depressing thoughts in my head
It wasn't a good night
And I was going to die as well.

He told me I was free to do whatever I wanted to do
It should have been freeing but it was not
When what was getting me down was not knowing
What is it that I want.

The beads sewn into my dress were falling apart

as I was pretending to dance
And my borrowed, fashionable high heels were killing me
I switched to sneakers, one last ditch attempt at coolness

It didn't work, I still looked like a sad blob of fat wrapped in embroidered tulle

                                                                                                in sneakers no less

And I only wanted to not to be there

Even if it meant 

                not to be

                          anywhere...

Assertive communication

There is this skill I am lacking
that my therapist says at the root of all my problems
and she has this neat little formula
to use if one doesn't know how to go about it

So one starts with "when you do <insert action>,"
"that makes me feel <insert feeling>,"
"because then I think you <insert perceived not-so-good intention>,"

So it goes "when you comment on my weight for the millionth time"
"that makes me fucking miserable"
"because then I think you don't give a flying fuck about how I feel"
"and only care about how I look, especially to your friends"

Or how about "when you offhandedly say I'm too stressed to think about travel"
"without even making an attempt to show me that you care the tiniest bit"
"about what is important to me"
"especially after you made me go through hell to travel last summer"
"that makes me fucking furious, not even hurt anymore"
"because then I think you don't care shit about me at all"
"you only care about how useful or helpful I can be to you"

And there is that one that goes "when you expect me to do something without hesitation or argument"
"just because it is something you want done"
"no matter how miserable it will make me"
"that makes me feel like an accessory to your life, like an extension of your body"
"because then I think you don't appreciate my as my own person"
"and value me only as I complete your story"

When I feel the urge to write things like these
It makes me feel very tired
Of every single one of you
Because then I think I might be better of
without having you in my life.

Then you do something nice
or smile just so
even ask for help
and I forget what I was supposed to say
love makes suckers out of all of us...

My heart as a metaphor

My heart now has a baby shaped growth on it
My heart is a muscle I keep exercising
My heart is etched with many beautiful faces
 that are scars in various stages of healing.

My heart constricts my chest, I have trouble breathing
My heart keeps me warm when storms are raging
My heart keeps me in the past, my heart helps me move on
 with every swing of its beating

"It's better to have loved and lost
Than never have loved"

newborn blues

poetry is my act of rebellion
when the walls close in
and I find myself stuck inside
the roles I've been given.

he has his father's eyelashes
and the soft brown color of his eyes
he is cute as a button and
likes to cuddle all the time.

I don't resent him one bit
he is pure beauty and a love magnet
even when he screams bloody murder
and smells of fresh shit.

no, what gets under my skin is
not being taken seriously
and all the unrequited advice,
the useless bouts of panic,
and the thoughtless comments
I have to deal with.

I wish I could it all on my own
I wish I didn't need to sleep
I wish I had a more authoritative voice
or wasn't this mild-mannered
if wishes were horses...

poetry is my act of rebellion
and I usually don't
spell things out this openly
yet sleep deprivation robes me of metaphors
and motherhood robes me of subtlety.

Prophecy

Little one,
I don't see you as a part of me
Even though I am growing you
Like a spare kidney
Inside of me.
You're already your own person
As you are always meant to be.

Little one,
I don't know what you will look like
I just know that you will be lovely
And loved, more than you can imagine
And for a very long while
Way past the times
that this kind of love
is everything you need.

Little one,
You'll soon be lying in your tiny crib
Looking at us with curious eyes,
As one day too soon you'll be
Lying on the fresh cut grass
Looking at the stars with unseeing eyes
Lost in your own thoughts.
Or, maybe, standing over another tiny crib
Looking at your own little one.

Little one,
For now you're mine and only mine,
But soon I will watch, in wonder,
many others stake their own claims
as you grow slowly away from me.
Always hoping that you keep
a part of me, in your heart
like a good luck charm
not to show you the way back home
but to help you to make one of your own.

going to the dentist

I have long forgotten the face you had
when I thought you were
beautiful beyond measure
and your smile poured like honey
- and maple syrup and molasses -
on everything around me.

Yet the exposed nerve endings

of the cavity you left behind

still make me yelp in pain

every time I accidentally bite on a memory.

please go away

"you will learn to fall in love with shadows 
/

instead of the bodies that cast them."

George Abraham, “How to Disappear,” 

When you're gone
I'm going to tear down this shrine
I made in your name
Inside my ribcage
And maybe I'll breathe easily again.

When you're gone
I will forgive myself
For all the crimes I contemplated committing
Firmly under your influence.

When you're gone
I'm going to forget what it does to me
When a face lights up as I enter the room
So I can get over
The emptiness behind your eyes
Now whenever you look at me.

When you're gone
I'll stop blaming you for my own flaws
And become my own hero again...

Goodbyes

Nobody likes goodbyes. 

so when words inevitably turn to ash in my mouth 

I will breathe them out as inconsequential platitudes. 

After all, mourning is for wimps 

and possibly for people who can't collect friendships like butterflies.

Nobody likes goodbyes.
Yet here I am, saying the same goodbye over and over again.
The cookie cutter shape of the creeping hurt and loneliness
branding my all too fragile psyche once more
making me wonder why do I bother with meeting new people at all.

Nobody likes goodbyes
For once, I would like a proper one though.
For once, I would like to cut a tie so severely
that it would cauterize the wound in the process
and I'd stay committed to never caring for you again.

Nobody likes goodbyes
nice to never see you again, what's-his-name
you never mattered anyway
maybe if I pretend hard enough
I may even fool myself.

The other side

I wish I could ask you
How does it feel like
To have poems written about you...

Do you also look at birch trees,
and think you could grow leaves?
Do you seek shelter from rain,
believing you could make a better storm than this?

When I call you beautiful in so many ways
Which one do you chose to believe, if any at all
and does it ever add some bounce to your step
or do you slouch instead
since attention from someone unwanted
feels the same as
indifference from someone beloved?

I know what being a poet is all about
But for once I wish I'd know
how being a muse feels like...

I am shallow

Beautiful creature, I want to write about you
I like the way you tie your hair
And how your eyes contrast with your skin
But lovely as you are I don't know you
And it would be hypocritical of me
To make up stories involving you
Just because you have this pretty face
So I'll stalk you in corners instead
And when we do talk for the first time
I'll finish this poem...

Leonard Cohen

We didn't always have these scars
Or was I this quick with a smile
I always wrote poetry though
mostly about inconsequential things
nobody seemed to care about
and had at least four versions of 'Hallelujah'
on my playlist at all times
and Leonard Cohen was alive.

There was this guy I knew once
he had a green raincoat, not a blue one
and was nothing like the one described in the song
but he had autumn leaves in his eyes
and to me he seemed like he carried
harsh winds and cold rain around
even mid-august, under the city sun.
He was my friend then
and Leonard Cohen was alive.

She had this rough, deep voice
singing about freedom and beauty and love
beyond the grave
singing to me for the first time
when I was at my loneliest
or screaming, rather,
and she once had stayed at the Chelsea hotel
and Leonard Cohen was alive.

Then there was this wonderful night
As if all the crowds were gone
and it was just the two of us
He was heartbreakingly handsome
My skirts were puffy as the clouds
We were determined to dance to the end of love
and Leonard Cohen was alive.

Heroes die, villains win, stories lie
We all change, then get set in our ways, get old
No, I am not getting tired of poetry
or the beauty and the strength of words
like hot tea with lemon and honey
soothing sore throats and broken hearts
I am getting tired of writing about lost things though
and just for today I wish that I could write about something nice
and that Leonard Cohen was alive.

Attention to detail

You thought wrong, it's not true.
Nobody is going to look at you and think
                  you're interesting or beautiful
Just because you wear dandelion yellow as often as you can
and keep stuffed animals on your shelf.

Nobody is going to want to talk to you
just because you have these dangly earrings
and carry your scars like badges of honor.

When you're be busy running from place to place
people will be preoccupied with their own little errands
So nobody is going to stop you mid-run
just to ask your name
ask how you are doing
or what your favorite ice cream flavor is.

No one will see you on the bus and think
                                  'we could be friends'
just because you are smiling at your own reflection
or tapping one foot to the rhythm of the song
                           that is playing in your head.

Just as well.

Because the guy who noticed that your eyeshadow matched your socks
                       and that you had a different coffee mug for every season
broke your heart when he left
and the place he carved in your life for himself
is still an open wound
a crack in your outermost wall
where rainwater is seeping in.

The next time you spot a stranger for his tattoo
                               of a girl with coral in her hair
you'll pretend not noticing that his shoelaces are slightly mismatched
and that he doodles dragon tails on post-it notes while he is talking.

So that you won't get upset when you wear your favorite shirt
and nobody, especially not him, comments on it.

Too much fun

This is the sun

This is the sun going down

This is a childhood dream

           of never being alone.

This is also too much water

           not to quench your thirst

           but to let you drown.

This is the sun

           burning everything to the ground.

Not nice

I don't want to talk to you
and try to make you smile,
I only want to steal your bones
and bury them in my backyard.

I don't want to feign interest
or pretend that we're alike,
I want to turn you into a wax statue instead
and put a lampshade on your head.

I don't want your superficial friendship
or your mask of 'always nice'.
I want to extract the sky from your eyes,
put it in a small jar, tie it around my neck,
or make tiaras out of your fingers
and paint my eyelashes with your blood.

I want the parts of you that no one else would want
Even though you no longer want anything of mine.

Industrial

A poet is like a machine
transforming heartbreak into verse
and sadness
and excitement
and hope
In go all the feelings
out come words
on paper, on screen
like beads on a string
more like life-lines
preventing the whole knitted fabric
of our reality
from unraveling.

A poet is not a machine
you may feed it the same raw materials
still the outcome may not be the same
a sidelong, furtive glance
would inspire sonnets one evening
and a full blown passionate kiss
won't even be worth a mention
in passing
another morning.

A poet is like a machine
It won't produce anything
if you don't feed anything to it
and will break if you overload it.
It won't get bored doing the same thing
over and over again
even though it chafes and grinds
and wears out it's bearings.

A poet is not a machine
Eventually it will get sick of
writing about the same thing...