In this poem, I am holding an arm full of dreams
In this poem, my arms are long like spaghetti. Strings of ribbon around presents. Each box tenderly mangled as I carry them for hours for days for years down the same ten to fifteen blocks into the same three to five bars ordering the same drink over and over again. I rewrite this poem about this experience repeatedly in different ways, using as many words in my brain, tempted to outreach to Thesaurus.com, until the feelings are no longer relevant to me and then one morning, when I try to open up the google doc I have been editing- I feel empty. I feel free. I think that is what writing it all down can do for me.
I spend an exhaustive amount of time writing about each emotion so dramatically that it performs an exorcism of sorts. Now, on the page, I am permanently crazy but in person I am loose. I am laughing- I go back to being less serious. To counting how many farts exit my ass hole on NJ transit during a one way trip to my parents place. To trying on wigs and different personas. To answering my phone singing songs. To being present.
Grief is permanent. It is a constant. It causes spurts of temporary insanity. In recent grief, I created a slew of burner social media accounts until one day I looked at a photo of you and decided I really could care less. In the aforementioned recent grief, I decided to sleep with a stranger who was 45 and had to put bifocals on in the morning to check his android. On the way out of my apartment, his foot slid in my cat’s surprise puke and I whispered to myself “an omen”
I am thinking of the days I spent crawling into my skin and making a home in my sadness. I am thinking about the folks who disappeared during those days and are now ready to come back to me now that I am back to talking about things other than despair. I cannot promise I won’t be back in my hole anytime soon but I can promise I will always somehow find my way out.
Whenever I do finally unfurl myself, I allow myself to finally release my grip and feel my arms to shrink back to me where my hands can comfortably rest over my heart. So in this poem, in this dream, I am able to expand and hide. I am able to act out and stay in. I forgive myself and everyone around me for doing the same.