Posts for June 30, 2021 (page 4)

you must feel so fucking
claustrophobic
in your body,
the way you carefully measure
the dimensions that you will
allow it to be,
calculating exactly how much space
god intended for you to take up.
it’s biblical
the way you worship that book,
the title itself needing a trigger warning,
let alone the verses inside that you made yourself
a disciple of.

the warning isn’t just for you,
but for every person you talk to;
they should flash one at every commercial break
the way they do with diet pills and
celebrity-endorsed weight-loss plans,
the way they slap
“lite” and “skinny” and “fat-free”
onto every item in the grocery store,
as if fat is something to fear
and the point of eating is to be
skinny.

the trigger warnings for your loved ones
would read,
“warning:
we have given your loved one the lifetime gift of
internalized
(and externalized, of course)
fatphobia.
they may discuss in
great detail
many new habits that we have given them,
and you will almost certainly wish they would
shut the fuck up
when they bring these habits up
at the dinner table.”

the only thing i can think
when you say calorie-counting this,
fasting that,
low-carb, sugar-free, “good” food, “bad” food, cheat days, goal weight, thin enough, attractive enough, just enough,
is

isn’t this
fucking exhausting?
isn’t it constant?
isn’t it all-consuming?
how could you possibly be happy?
when you reach whatever superficial goal you set, will it satisfy you?
will you be enough then?
will you ever feel like enough?

the trigger warning for you
would be in fine print on the back of your bible
and it would read,
“warning:
diet culture is the most socially accepted form of
disordered eating.”

After everything, I never once expected
when I sat down for a few drinks,
comversing with a dear friend-
a children’s counsellor by profession
bartending on the side-
that in taking me through
the course of her week, she would
so easily name my disease.

Compassion fatigue:
the loss of one’s empathetic ability
from the world’s asking too much.
Also called secondhand trauma
for its prevalency in professions
of taking on the pain of others.
But for me, a neon sign
saying Enter Here,

for this is my ace of swords,
a focal point for healing
because a problem is so much harder to solve
when you can’t even say what it is.
Don’t I find myself with tanks running empty
or text messages left unread
or not wanting to go out
or not wanting to expend any energy at all?

It’s because I get tapped out so easily
(taking all of me just to write a poem some days)
and I don’t want to give love
to anyone who won’t give it back,
to the point where I
don’t want to give at all
despite all the guilt that carves me up
even as I consciously choose to withhold myself.

And I feel like society would do well 
to learn how to recognize this condition
in those that slip under its shadow
for I don’t believe this to be limited to
teachers, therapists, and first responders.
Prolonged suffering breeds dread,
desperation, and destruction,
no matter who you are.

For me, just having a name I can point to
is the first step toward a real solution
which lends meaning to my trials.
If there is a truth here that I can uncover
and later use to lift up another victim,
then there will have been a purpose to it all.
This sense of mission is what sustains me.
It’s what will always keep me fighting for tomorrow.

It’s difficult to say goodbye 
after learning to trust hello

As we all sit
and stew,
cutting ties,
pasting tape
on another June
fleeting,
I scrap the tattered
notebook lying
spread open, nearly
jumping
from my cluttered desk.

Coffee stains blanketing
scribbles
and etched out
thoughts; Arrows
flying across pages
redirecting pea-sized
phrases, unmissable ribbed edges
from being squished
in my book bag—

where it shall be placed
for another
11 months.

Stuck in this masculine job

in this masculine life.

And I just want to come home

and be your girl.

I want to bring her out,

that part of me

I hide all day.

Give her the freedom to be herself

and to be as girly as she wants.   

And you love me like this,

my playful, feminine side

so sweet and sensual

and so alive.

You love every giggle

and every pout.

You love holding me in your arms

and making me feel cherished.

You treat me like a princess.   

Your kisses taste so sweet.

And when you lay me down,

you make me feel

as natural as Carole King.

I just want to stay

in this world that we create,

far from the eyes of the world,

our private paradise.

But when you fall asleep,

the makeup comes off.

And soon morning comes streaming in

harsh and bright

like reality.

I spend all day

thinking about you,

wanting to be with you.

I can’t get enough

of our time together,

of being seen and loved

for who I really am.

I love being yours,

the way you look at me,

the way you touch me.

I love being transformed

in your eyes.

You make me feel safe

and protected.

Some day,

these solen moments

may be our life.

But I’m happy here in your arms

for now,

surrounded by your love.

I am slowly learning
To calm this spirit 
Of mine
She sits at the ready
Anxious to fly again

Forgetting she has all
She needs 
Surrounding her 

She is scared 
To sit still
She doesn’t know 

How to make home
Her destination 

it started off small
gradually rose
madness and torment
the little things that made it grow

i complained 
and no one listened

pangs of misery
arise in given time
now insanity 
controls me

I used to look forward
Now I find myself flipping to the back
Past the countless empty pages
Unfinished poems, unsent letters
To would-be recipients
Just to make sure you didn’t leave
Your mark here as well
Like you did on so much of what is mine
Or what used to be

What once I found to be
A sweet gesture, a special quirk
I now see as preconceived and conniving
A way to always be front and center
But the joke’s on you, friend
Because I’ve found a new way
To memorialize you
And for once it doesn’t involve ink
Or a broken spine

The morning coffee
Is brewed
Black. Strong. Hot  

A pot waits for me
After visiting
The islands in my sleep,  

After the sweet smells
Of salt and pepper,
Perfumes of trade winds,  

Have cleared my head
And daylight sweeps
Away visions caught in cobwebs,  

Like the quills of this pen
Releasing words and rhythms
Sore feet in soft slippers  

To walk the distance
To the newness of the day,
Tongue catching dew  

Like tiny drops of honey
Hidden in the silky web
Until revealed by the sun.  

It is like the first mouthful
Of water after the desert
Salt and sand washed away.  

So I say goodbye
To all of you for
This poetry month of June.