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I don’t want to be alone with my own thoughts

So much is happening and I feel like i’ll fall apart

if I let them speak,

I watch television on the internet to drown them out

I bear witness to my own gluttony:

netlix, amazon, hulu…which I cancel periodically

pretending i wont start them again

I make a therapy appointment for wednesday,

this makes me feel better

I feel like i’m going to be sick

physically ill

I need a distraction

to distract and be distracted

to give and take until this thing works itself out

until I figure myself out

I need to remember that this isn’t an answer

only a piece of an ever evolving puzzle

which shifts itself constantly;

knowing i can’t keep up

doesn’t keep me from trying

Open Adoption

I used to check the mailbox every day

looking for something with my name

written in loose cursive,

with a Georgia postage stamp

telling me you love me

I dream of that mailbox

barren and sad, creaky door

flaccid flag, with nothing inside

I dream of ups drivers and big brown parcels,

just for me

I read your letters

to my mother

the woman who raised me

I hear the pain in your hand

when you ask why she doesn’t write

I’m sorry she didn’t write

I’m sorry for what was stolen from us

I’m afraid you’ve died

I look up your name in the obituaries online

like a ritual

So many have died

None are your age

It’s mothers day and my dreams say

I have repressed rage

I always thought it was a super power

Being able to stash it away, but

now there is only pain

and feeling afraid

My dreams tell me

I can’t live this way

Things an Adopted Child Learns:

I can’t make you want me

I can’t make you love me

27 years of learning breaks open in my chest

A seed was planted twenty-seven years ago

I just ripped it from my breast

It’s covered in blood and gristle,

It’s rough to the touch and has a foul stench

I need to cut out the branches, they’re woven around my ribs and heart and that little light in the center of me, I like to call my soul

Maybe I’ll set it aflame,

Cauterize the wounds even as the tree burns

As it turns to ash in my throat, cleansing my speech with it’s smoke, making space in my heart and around my lungs.

I think I’ll put it in a jar. Place it on my altar. 

A reminder, to make sure I keep the fire burning.

Turbulence 

I sit at the bar reading The Ethical Slut

Trying to pretend I’m not broken

Acting like I haven’t spent the night

Spilling my guts to the inside of a paper bag

I woke up just after the sun, with my mind reeling

Learning to identify the way regret feels on the inside of my bones

I’ve got fucked up priorities

This is clear to me, in the way glasses are when they come in from the rain

New year, new me

I wish it was a thing I believed

There are so many things I don’t believe

So many truths I’ve learned were false

Here is a truth I know:

I’ve been too focused on love, not on life

It’s funny because I’m currently mystified, my next step escapes me

I’m just wandering, bleary eyed and wild hearted

This life is moving by me, through me and I’m having a time keeping up, and with it, and present

I’ve begun to weave so many different patterns and I am unsure how they will come together

I have a strong desire to just say, fuck it.

To take something large and hard and durable and smash the shit out of everything around me

I was so optimistic yesterday

We’ll see how I feel tomorrow.

Ice

​Sunday was Christmas.  I spent  it alone, which, I told myself, I wanted. And I did. It was what I needed. I baked and I ate and I cried. I allowed myself to go deep. 

There was a moment where I imagined my now self going back in time and holding my infant self.  Loving on myself so tenderly, so purely that the love just seeped into my skin. Creating a shield,  to protect me from the things in the world which were waiting for me. Wanting, desperately,  to care for myself, raise myself so that I might become a force  to be reckoned with. 

It only happed once. And only for an instant. But I feel like I’m breaking through. 

Murder


​I cried for the first year of my life. I’m just now beginning to realize what that means. Babies mourn the loss of their mothers. They feel that separation and mourn. 

My screams were so loud, the next door neighbor would come over to make sure I wasn’t being murdered. 

That’s what she told me. That’s the story I was told, time and again, by my neighbor and by my mother who adopted me, about my first year on this earth. 

Now, I think of the pain that baby must have felt, the confusion, I must have felt. 

I wonder, if I’ll ever cry like that again. 

Sometimes,  it makes me sad that I can’t remember a lot of details from my childhood. Then I think of that first year and still feel a longing, but realize it’s no wonder my body aches. No wonder I’ve had the same knots on my shoulders and through my back for as long as I can remember.  

I think of that baby, of me, and wonder what, if anything, it would take to make me feel that way again. And I pray to whatever goddess watches over me, that it never comes.