wordplayground

i reach out to hold you,
but by the time my hand was in reach
you were already gone.
(my hand is left empty).

let's go back to the early mornings
when you would sit in pajamas and slippers
and watch me opening the store
the first customers always looked at you funny
as if it weren't our coffee shop
and our morning to be in pajamas

let's go back to trying to keep warm
in my room at the house on broadway
we'll be safe under the weight of the blankets
complaining about goosebumps and not shaving
elwood is still just as entertaining
we could make it up as if nothing changed

first you're irritated because i'm trying to be nice, i'm caring, but trying not to care too much. i'm in tears because nothing i do coincides with your minute. because i don't coincide with you.

is it a good thing
if i no longer relate?
if i can't understand that feeling,
that wanting to die?

when you're in need of a hand to hold,
will mine do the job if i no longer see
through the same tear-stained eyes?

if the words gave meaning
to an otherwise
life seeming empty,
and if 
the words stop,
is life empty
or in need of redefinition?

empty pages
organized on a bookshelf,
pens put away in a drawer,
and eventually even i 
forget who i am.
i am those words
i am
those empty pages.

your words imply
that living in america
equates love for our country
when really, 
it might just be the best 
available circumstances

your idealistic racial profiling 
implies the america 
you so adamently defend
is proud to be white
proud to be bigger
stronger richer
like those are everyone's dreams

i find a poem
on turning seven,
on the subsequent
age of reason.
then suddenly 
i don't feel alone
in having to grow up -
forced to be grown up - 
before i wore my cherished white dress,
before i placed my left hand over my right,
before i could even respond with amen.

but, i didn't agree
and doing what i was told
stole my life.

on sunday
you asked for our trust
explained why
this time
really this time
will be different

on tuesday
first storm of winter
but it's spring
and you don't want to drive
or maybe you don't want
to change
at any rate
you missed your tuesday
methadone savior

by thursday
you forgot 
how we had come running
so long ago
on sunday

before a week had past
you slipped away
again
you never even say good-bye

my best friend is strung out -
on a line
left to dry.

if you don't call,
you don't care.
if you're angry
and bitter,
selfish,
if you cry,
but won't call
can you still say best friend?

you could say this girl i knew
it's impersonal,
implies you don't care, but
you're not even sure you knew this girl.
knowing her is frightening.

you could describe how 
you used to be sisters, but
again the past tense
implicates
guilt
or anger
even hatred, which
so often replaces love.

you could call her by name, but
that might make this
who she is.
are you in denial - 
or is she?
what was her name?

you're left alone
reaching out for her
constantly.
she's out of reach,
can't see you,
you reach and swing
trying to pull her off the line.
you're crying,
angry,
she doesn't even know you're there.
this is her fault.

she's drying out on that line,
when she's gone
you'll blame yourself
for leaving her there.

but,
she didn't see you
and 
you would have called,
if you remembered
her name.

i threw my watch on the floor
but just to spite me,
i still hear my wrist ticking.
the seconds that pass
have accepted that you're dying
but we number everything
and never come to terms with that.

---

am i bitter with myself
for not giving more?
or with her,
for not taking my hand?

we're laughing at my cat
chasing his tail
stupid thing
falls in disregard

but didn't we do the same?
i ran in circles
after you, in awe,
confusion, 
bewilderment.
uncertain of your next move
i fell
without knowing what i was falling for
i ran after you
with such dedication
attention you learned to accept
but in frustration
or uncertainty, or 
intelligence
i stopped,
lost all interest.

stupid cat
see how he just lies there now?
with no interest 
in his tail.

i was ideal at one hundred pounds.
perfect at seventy-nine.
now i am so much more
and i hate it.
yes, i once had an eating disorder.
once, twice, three times –
(who counts these things)
i would rather count
the pounds, the repetitions,
the units of energy.
but here i am, recovered.
trying to help others –
but how can i save them, 
knowing how i hate
my own salvation.
i spent so many days
knowing
it would be better to die
at seventy-nine pounds
than to ever be this.

and these numbers –
how can i ever keep up?

had we fallen in love
or just fallen -
thinking 
we could help each other up
instead
we held each other down

so this is the answer you ring in with?
we're uncertain,
we need an observation period,
but the alarm bells indicate you're correct.
you win five minutes of our time,
you tell your stories, and
when the time is up
we'll let you back in
we'll forget, again.
you had the right answer,
you called,
you're clean, days now,
this is what you want,
right?

will i blame the methadone,
can i blame the answer?
if you disappear,
if the methadone fails,
(not you, not you)
how will i rationalize the pain
once more?

if i trusted you once, 
will i ever again?

beauty was never only skin deep.
this is america.
we know beauty is thin.
we tally and target the overweight,
the average american.
but i was never average,
and i hate america,
so what is my excuse?