There’s healing and then there’s not knowing
There’s survivors guilt
and there’s surviving
Would anyone want to know about my healing?
Because everyone is
Moving. Moving. Moving.
Moving and moving
I am always moving.
All that I didn’t bring.
All that extra baggage.
I was sexually assaulted at 23. My family did not understand my
depression that followed.
Everyone wanted me to hurry up and heal.
No one was arrested, so I imprisoned myself, and did not write or
perform my poetry.
I missed writing. Yet, there was something about accessing emotions
and memories that my body and mind could not handle.
Limping ahead without a map
a little of me lingered out onto the sidewalk, clouds parted
Then there is dating again
after healing or are you still healing?
One day he appeared
everything turned blue
Took Valium with him
Saturday night, skipping
rocks over water
The city looked like an upside down crane
Thought he’d stay
My anxiety disappeared
with one pill
without a map
Moon braided feathers
I bite my lip
piece of you
Is this a surprise?
If I knew
The dance would
be so jagged
would I stop moving
Having the best sex of my life is an understatement
To cut one’s Creative Life force is hostage
it’s not about the sex
or How to have have sex again with the lights on....
future memoir title
it’s like a Holding period
This is the somatic radio playing
all the words to the song locked in my spine
Don’t disappear in A minor
We crossed by parting eyelashes.
I became a young Goldie Hawn with a messy bun.
Writing and Writing and Writing and Writing and Writing
A lot of me stays with the discomfort of not knowing
Close your eyes.
Take a deep breath through your nose and out of your mouth.
Feel your two feet on the ground. What do you see?
I am washing my lingerie in the bathroom sink.
It’s no small feat
I am single and thirty seven
The night is for shooting stars or wrinkles
My hands submerge into the water,
rubbing scents and stains away.