The Stages (a series), pt. II

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poetry / The stages (a series).

I.

I will buy my way to perfect. I will purchase freedom. I will swipe myself to bliss. I can buy a good soul (on sale!) to peer into. Can’t work with my soul. Not as it is, any way–nobody wants to peer into that. I can buy one, though. All the blogs say so. I wonder what it will look like. (I’m ordering it online, and sometimes you don’t get what you pay for, you know?)

I will buy my way to perfect. Nobody bothers with cultivating authenticity. People have put those two words together, the intent obviously being that we should define both words together, you know, as a phrase. But whenever I see these guys on Oprah I feel like just to catch up with them spiritually I have to buy. Buy a book and good lighting and quality makeup and a wardrobe that screams “me.” Maybe that’s not what anybody else gets out of it. Maybe I’m shopping to bury a hole.

Ooh, how insightful. Now I sound just like those people I just mentioned. It’s a lot of work to be awesome. Maybe I’m just doing it wrong. In fact that’s very possible.

Maybe I am buying the wrong things.

II.

Inna nother life
I was a
Hummingbird
Floating from
One flower to the other
The various scents pulling my feathered body in different directions

In this life
I am a hummingbird
Inna human’s body
But

Hummingbirds who masquerade as humans can get crushed by the weight of expectation,
They can get blown back by it, wind-damaged wings
Then they can’t fly no more
Then they are crushed into a birch box for long term hibernation
Then they slowly
Lose the life in they eyes
The flowers around them
Begin to
Look withered
The sun
Casts them in a dull light
The impetus then becomes
To
Participate in rote chirping

Singing the same lines
Over and over
On the same tree branch,
Clinging to the knowledge that
You never
Have to sing a different song again

(2016)

© losethepaper, 2015-2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to the author and losethepaper with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

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The Stages (a series).

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poetry / The stages (a series).

I.

I opened the door; I did. It wasn’t something I did on purpose. It was something that happened. It wasn’t done purposefully. I didn’t rub my palms together conspiratorially. I didn’t say “open chests and willing body and bright eyes.” I didn’t. I also didn’t do these things by myself. I didn’t. I think you’d say I did but that’s not true. If you weren’t lying to yourself you’d see. But you are lying. You are a liar. You’d have me sit up here and believe some
other version of events but I was there too.
Did you see that I was there, or did you see someone else?

II.

Even if
every other
thing
was
perfect
would it be?

Even if u loved me
gave me the gift i been askin 4
for months

Would it
really
mean anything?

Would it
be a salve

It shouldn’t be
this relationship shouldn’t be a balm

I am my own damn balm

If i am
my own salvation
then
the love i’m askin of u
isn’t actually necessary then

But I want it anyway

What
does that mean?

Am I healthy or not?

Is it
okay to want somebody and want yourself?

Or does wanting yourself
necessarily preclude

Longing?

III.

I think that I am healthy. I thought that I was healthy.
I hadn’t thought about you in that way in a while,
so I thought that I was done hoping against hope.
I thought that I was really done.

How long before this project of loving myself is over? When will the touch of my own palm warming my own thigh feel as good, or better, than yours or anybody else’s?

What I’m asking is, “will I always want you?”

IV.

I am leaving everything on the cutting room floor. Blood. Fingernails. Hair. I cut it all. Cut you out. Cut down to the bone; cut down to a nub. When I cut, I cut you off. I cut you out. Down. Away. Cutting feels good–unfortunately, once I start cutting there’s nothing that I won’t cut. I accidentally cut me. I cut me trying to cut you. I read that short hair girls avoid deep feeling. Well that can’t be true cuz all I have are feelings. Inconvenient, persistent, vast and clawing damn feelings. That’s all I have. It grows so wild. Hence…

V.

It is probably not enough
To pull away
I will probably always feel like I owe him something.

My resolve will probably always crumble when he makes a request of me.

But
That’s not love
Slavish devotion is not bein in love.

Accepting anything and everything from him because you think that that will make him stay is not bein in love

Makin yourself smaller is not bein in love.
Fitting your body inside the palm of his hand is not love.

U cannot hollow out your heart to make a space for his

Asking him to tell u who u are is not love
Instead,
That is a plastic romance

It is okay to heal with someone but you cannot show up
An open wound
And
Use him as a salve

VI.

Because it is not my job to make you love me. Because I am lovable.

Because it is not my job to fix you. Because you are your own person.
Because I am not alone; I have me.

Because you are not the only one. Because there are so many others.
Because you are a lesson. Because I am learning.

Because today is different from yesterday. Because life goes on.
Because I love you. Because I love myself.

Because love is not always how you want it to be. Because the universe funny like that.
Because I am here. Because I am supposed to be.

(2016)

© losethepaper, 2015-2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to the author and losethepaper with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

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marked ones.

poetry

Our whole life
a strategy.

A dusk-tinged game
plan.

(2017)

© losethepaper, 2015-2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to the author and losethepaper with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

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howl (for fifth grade girls)

poetry

I don’t know what it is to speak up for myself or to really trust myself

I don’t know what the shape of my voice looks like.

I often wonder if this is the burden
Many young girls carry

I wonder if it could have gone another way when i was a kid.

I’m not trying to rewrite anything 
If imma be a wise old woman,
The story
Of how 
I became one’s not gonna be interesting if it don’t start with a little lost girl looking for herself

I’m actually wondering if
Girls
When they become women
If they
Ever do
Think about how they were raised with a fist pushed into the mouth

I mean, I knew some girls in school with a lotta sass
But
Sass could be identity crisis in disguise, no?

Black sass
Makes me proud
And introspective at the same time
Cause

Are you howlin cause you’re worthy or are you howlin cause you hurt?

It was never clear to me.

I’d like to professionally orchestrate
A collective howl
Rooted in self care
And a sturdy self knowledge

Cause I know
There are a lot of fifth grade little girls
That
Howl hurt
And some
That don’t howl at all.

(2016)

© losethepaper, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to the author and losethepaper with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

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lung.

poetry

You in
The corna of my mouth.
You da blu sky in my daydreams.
You da machine gun o love in my damn nightmares,
Firin off your rays of light in my body so fast.
Your ghost
Be in my bed sometimes, taunting me.

An if I make u part of me,
Does that mean I know less of myself?
Sometimes i feel like i’m an organ–i am
Somebody’s throbbing lung,
Or somebody’s limb

It’s been
Very hard
In this life
To figure out who i could be
Because i spend
Most of my time
Trying
To breathe for somebody else.

Alot of the time,
This work feels good
But when the person
You’re breathing for
Wants to begin breathing on their own
But all you’ve been doing all this time
Is making a bed out of your body for them,
It is painful.

I don’t know how to breathe on my own. I don’t know how not to become the people I fall in love with.

I told u
Not to feel guilty,
But the truth is,
I want u to feel sooo guilty
Want you.
To write me a poem.
For
Each day we’ve been apart

(2016)

© losethepaper, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to the author and losethepaper with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

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