Oct. 18th, 2010

cedarmyna: illustrated image of a white bird on a branch at night (Default)
Going places

No matter which way
I point my feet,
every step I take
is a step closer to New Jersey.
I am just treading water.
I fought with both fists
to be allowed to take control
of my life, and here I am:

still too small
to reach the light switch.

The world is round;
the faster you run away from a place
the sooner you'll end up there again.

My world is the size of an elevator
stuck between floors
in a building that is closed for the night.
There is nothing to do now
but sit in a corner
on the dirty tile floor
and feel the fluorescent bulbs overhead
grow hotter.

Either they find me in the morning
or they don't.
There is no hurry to reach the ending.
There is no hurry
to pry open the steel doors and step out
into the open mouth of the empty shaft.

Technically, I did not write this poem today. I know this is kind of cheating; however, I did write it, and nobody else has ever read it until now. It was written when I was 22.
cedarmyna: illustrated image of a white bird on a branch at night (Default)

It's not a disease she can treat on her own,
though she's tried: tied her feet together,
pinched her skin in clothespins,
bitten down on her forearms until she bled.
She's been her own leeches.
When the only thing for it was to breathe less freely,
she tied her corset cords to the doorknob
and took several paces, hands on her tightening sides.

She is looking for a man
in a big bird mask: nightmare beak and black bag,
and hard, cold facial features.
Any other will not do.
Men can sense sickness on her breath like drink,
like dogs smell fear.
She can see it when they look at her: they know
there is a black spot in her breast,
and it is growing.

February 2011

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