You know how sometimes, you see something and you wish you had written it yourself? (This is how I amass writer friends. I simply decide that rather than being jealous like I used to in…ahem! …ages past, I would simply befriend them.) Well, this one is one of those such things. I could have used the lesson in this when I was 16.
And 19.
And 23. Heck, I could have used it not three years ago, dammit!
Ah, I miss writing poetry.
Enjoy this one.

I bind myself loosely so that you’ll see me
and not too tightly so that you can understand me
-neither helped
So, I come apart trying
…and you aren’t here for the pieces.
Pieces that you say will never touch floor,
Scrape earth,
Feel dust,
Are stuck in muddy expectations
I don’t recognize them anymore-

Me. Is this me?
This come-away, this back-and-fort-undecided
Without-conviction-or-a-clear-purpose girl?

This can’t be me

You see
I, pour forth from generations of kings that disregard their crown
Not because it doesn’t fit but because
The weight of gold is a constant reminder
of a responsibility we constantly wish-away.

Now this is me
Hands-on, cut-the-crap, say-what-you’re-about girl
You can take this response as my ability to get up
even when I touch floor
To trust again and slide from rubble
Knowing that these cracked situations are training wheels
…I train
…I catch a bus
…I ride…

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