Posts for June 7, 2021 (page 6)

I don’t know what you look like

but I know you’re beautiful.

I don’t know where you are,

but I know that it’s too far away,

because you’re not standing next to me.

I don’t know your name

but I know it will be my favorite word.

I don’t know when we’ll meet,

tomorrow or years from now.

But I know every second of waiting

will have been worth it.

I don’t know what you’re like.

I only know we were made for each other,

that we’ll fit together perfectly

like the last two puzzle pieces.

I can’t wait for you to get here,

to step out of my dreams

and into my life.

I’m ready for this romance to begin.

I can’t wait to show you

my favorite things,

my favorite places,

my favorite people

and to see all of yours.

I ache for our first kiss,

long to hold you,

long to feel your hand in mine.

I love you so much

and I don’t even know you

yet.

But I know how nice

your arms will feel around me,

how sweet your kisses will taste.

I know we’ll make love all night long.

Every time will feel like the first,

so new and passionate.

I can’t wait to dance with you.

I can’t wait to cuddle.

I can’t wait to watch

all my favorite movies

with you.

I’m gonna write you poems.

I’m gonna make you laugh.

I’m going to be the love of your life.

Every couple that I see

reminds me that you’re possible.

You’re on your way to me.

I’m going to cherish you,

treasure you,

adore you.

We’re going to have a beautiful life together.

Take your time.

Your journey is important.

But I just wanted you to know

I can’t wait to meet you.

Almost 3 years i’ve been a parent. Already you say you don’t like me,
you don’t like parents.
You run from my kisses, screech at my affection like a ghost in the room.
I know you’re just learning yourself,
learning who you are outside of me,
but still it hurts just a little to know it’s the beginning of you not needing me.

Your father doesn’t understand why I mourn those first two years of your life,
why I ache a little bit because I never got to hold you as an infant, 
never got to be your parent when you would have been so small,
and new,
and needed me the most.
I remember when I saw that photocopied picture of you in the newspaper announcing your finding.
That grainy black and white version of you no bigger than an inch.
That face i’d never known,
the one i’d never get a closer look at. 
It hit me like a punch to the gut,
the place inside me you’d never been.
I couldn’t stop thinking how empty your mother might have felt then without you curled within her.

Every day you’re different than the one before,
all bruised legs and dimples. 
I hardly remember how you were the day we first met,
you’re nearly a different person. 

I see so much of myself in you,
even more of your father.
Almost every day you talk about China,
the things you want to do there and the things you want to eat,
like a mirror image of your daily life,
just across the world.
I’m not sure i’m ready yet for you to realize how different your life there would be,
or how much you might be like your first mother and first father.
I don’t think i’m quite ready for you to start imagining what you’d be doing with them,
or whether your laugh sounds like theirs. 
I know the time will come.
I have always known you are not my child alone.
I will be forever grateful to be one of many who have loved and cared for you,
and forever longing for more time with you.
I wonder if parenting is like this for everyone,
slowly letting go of your child as each day passes, 
and months turn into years. 

I want to see you.
With all my heart, I want to see you,
But I’m not at my best right now.

I want you to see me,
With my hair and make-up done just right,
Wearing a tarty summer skirt,
At a lovely little table for two.

But I do not have the strength to leave the house.
I have worn this outfit for three days.
I panic at the thought of taking a shower.

But, oh, how I want to see you. 
Will you come to me?

I can’t see the slightest point of that, when I have the alternative of inventing utterly
subservient slave-people, whose every detail of appearance and behaviour I can bend to serve my theme and plot.

— Barbara Kingsolver, on whether people she knows appear (fictionalized) in her works

I, omnipotent,
would revise your lack of faith
in your own pizzazz.  

The lawn was manicured

I’m curious as to whether or not 
those who hurt me feel remorse.
Do they dwell on the past we shared as much as I?

Do they ever look down at their fists covered in my blood 
and weep at the sight of broken promises?
Do they regret throwing their verbal rocks,
the ones that left me beaten and bruised? 

Do the wish to be in my life again? 

Am I so weak that I would let them back in?

write while naked and pruned from the shower
be a pretty face on a pretty neck
regret weighing yourself at night
nothing more, nothing less
love things so you are soft
break yourself so you are strong
put on clothes that say how to speak
stay up after bedtime and
remember what you wish you forgot
be a gray sheep
dismiss the mask of a wolf
know what you know is a graveyard of lies
hurt in the shallows of your lake
become what you nightmared of a year ago
paint trademarked logos over your eyes
eat and feel nauseous
love people
joke about leaving
plant weeds

I feel your hands in the dark,

Vultures
at the carcass of my marriage

peck pecking
at the innards

have you considered though
what about the why

would you where will
you what will
you

When
will you insufferable birds

open a toxic pocket
with your greedy beaks

Feast 
upon the festerings

and glutton yourselves
on the pain

watching
as the poison immobilizes you too

Creeping from your spindly legs
to your beady eyes

and dinosaur brain,
mercifully rendering you,

for the first time,
speechless

Of your soul,

Of the way you praise Jesus.

Of the way that God smites sinners,

Even his own god-damned son.

This is—

An account of the way you treated women.

Fucking whores, the lot of them. The only things they’re good for is cooking, cleaning, and sex.

An account of the way your Bible tells you homosexuals are an 

abomination

while the penis in your mouth expels its demons.

An account of the fact that you hated your mother because of her vagina. It was her safe place. You were evicted. And she never let you back in.

An account of the institutionalized misery of men. Showing emotion makes you a girl. Empathy means your gay.

An account of this is bullshit. I wish things would go back to the way they were, when no one challenged our privilege.

This an evangelical account

of your life.

Of you burning energy foolishly

to stay in power.

Of you not knowing that Jesus didn’t rise from the dead to prove he could;

He did it to show everyone that he holds responsible—accountable.

Our father,

Thou who art in heaven.

What the fuck is your problem?