Monday August 14, 2017
from a greeting card
It’s hard to hold each other because we tend to be busy figuring out where to put our hands on our own skin. Where does this limb go? Tucked into the corner of self and hope? Where do we put this paper cut? I don’t know how to give you all of me if my wrists cry out in the night to be touched. Some things aren’t meant to be shared. I have stashed cookies all over this place. In containers above the sink, in baggies nestled in the secret pouches of the living room, in plain sight, behind the placemats. Some things aren’t meant for other people. Once I figure out just how much sneaking I need to do to feel like I haven’t given all of myself away, I move my spots. I stop for a while. I become satisfied with the memory of stealing opportunities that no one needs to know about. I get obsessed with wondering where to hide this hand; this ingrown hair.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
from a piece of feedback
They do not ask you how you’re doing. They do not wonder if you’re a good liar. They aren’t supposing anything about you except that you must have few worries in this world. They do not pour your water first before theirs. They do not bring you batches of lemonade or lavender shortbread. They don’t call you on the phone. They don’t respond to your letters. They don’t tell you when they see something that reminds them of you. They do not buy it. They never buy it. They do not tell you when you are making them feel unsafe. They do not think you are hijacking the room. They do not know how little you’re listening. They do not expect anything from you. They do not include you in their conversation. They do not ask you if you want to help. They do not ask you if you’ve been places. They do not ask you if you understand the feeling. They do not give you the chance to improve the silence. They do not thank you for your advice. They aren’t borrowing your clothes or your poetry.
Sunday April 13, 2014
from a TTC transfer
To help others to help them so hard they don’t know what to do with themselves. That’s what I want. You ask me what I want and that’s the only thing. Give give give. It’d make my mother proud. She was a giver too. Only not in that way. She just had that spirit. She was always helping out where she could. But gambling got the best of her. She was a good person till the day she died, but that gambling, boy I’ll tell ya, it really hooked her in and kept her tight. Now if I don’t gamble and I give give give I can make my mother so happy. So happy that she saw that the good that there was in her could be transferred and that the bad that was in her didn’t have to go beyond her. And I haven’t started yet. I haven’t been able to sink my teeth into any old fashioned kindness. I mean, that’s what I want but I also have to make rent and some other stuff.