I am afraid of crying
It could ruin my makeup and that is my war paint
My armor against the world
Today I am hungry on the L train
I have cried and hurt and been human this evening
My lipstick is smeared and my mascara must be lopsided
I am sure my eyeliner is approaching that place we call raccoon
But I will carry myself with honor
I will go home and I will water my plants because they never care if I am beautiful or vulnerable or strong
They only ask me to be kind to them once a week and give them a drink so they will grow
I am afraid of crying because it might tarnish my armor
Someday I will learn to stand tall in my own skin.
Hello, readers, friends, etc.
This post is probably the hardest for me to write. Unfortunately, for health reasons, I’ve struggled this year posting weekly poems and after missing so many weeks in a row, I’ve decided to take a break from posting in order to focus on getting and staying healthy.
Poetry and writing are such important and effective coping mechanisms for me to deal with my world, and while posting has become difficult, I am still writing. I hope to share some of my work from these months come April during my National Poetry Month challenge, which turns six this year.
When I started this blog, it was a creative outlet for a college freshman who needed a voice. I can’t express how grateful I am and how happy it makes me that so much later, so many of you have read and connected to the poetry I write. Thank you for all the comments, the feedback, and even just the quick glance. I appreciate it so much.
Many wishes for the new year,
I wind my scarf around my neck.
The leaves blow into my arms as I walk to the subway.
It is cold again, and I am glad to feel each breath in my lungs.
I will let the trees remind me, it is time again to let go.
I Could Write About the Rain
I could write about the rain.
I could write about wet umbrellas,
About the keys in my coat pocket,
The puddles around the bean boots on my feet.
I could write about how for the first time in a long time, I am learning to trust my muscles.
I could write how I am learning, again, to swim.
These Mixed-Up Pieces, Part II
The flames don’t last forever,
I tell myself, stitch the sinews and put each piece of china back in place.
I am a mosaic of mixed up pieces,
Of scars and lines and my life,
Tattooed to my heart like the sun across the sky, my story smoothed by time and a thousand eyes reading, reading.
I am a painting, built from layers, scrubbed over and made clean to be built again.
I am a survivor.