For the first time, I have had a poem professionally published!
It is called “I Do Not Miss the Spring,” and you can read it online here: https://lit202.org/issues/issue-one
It will soon be available as a physical copy as well, if you wish to purchase it.
When I left the high school for the last time
on Friday, March 13
I thought we’d be closed for a week.
Maybe Two.
I told my students to enjoy the week off.
I didn’t bother saying goodbye to the students
I didn’t have that day.
I left a water bottle in my room.
I left a stack of papers, ungraded.
I left a sweater.
I left homework written on the board.
I miss my students.
I miss even the annoying ones.
I miss the busy halls and filled-up lunchroom.
I miss the hectic joy of graduating seniors.
I wish we knew, when we left, that we were leaving
Because now we’re gone
And the school is a ghost town
But the ghosts have all left.
i never thought i’d be tired of being at home.
my god. is this what being an extrovert feels like?
i’m dying for touch. i just want to see someone smile
i just want to laugh
i want to go to a bar
a party
i want to go clubbing
and if you know me
you know
how crazy that sounds.
i want to run
i want to run to a place where we can be outside without a mask
i want to go back in time just 30 days
to when this all seemed impossible.
to when i doubted schools would close
to when i was still able to go out to eat
to when i still *wanted* to be alone.
read me aloud
read me a poem
make me a poem
and read me to sleep
take all my words
turn them to art and
music and dancing
will follow them soon
my diary is on your lips
top of your shopping list
pens and ink, paper
the necessary end
read me aloud
read me to children
read out my histories
and let them be loud
for you have a voice
mine is a quiet one
you have a mic
while i’m lost in a crowd
so take all my words
the good and the bad ones
say them with your smile
and they will be heard.
I have always hated the Boston accent.
I think because a lot of people I don’t like have it.
including me.
I know the problem with hating local accents.
It’s classist.
I get it.
But I think I’m allowed to hate the sound of my own voice
when I’m angry or drunk
and I drop my r’s.
my mother says
the boston accent
isn’t an accent, really,
but an attitude.
“come ahn, ked”
“pahk ya cah” and all that.
it’s angry, it’s drunk
just like me
when it comes out of my mouth.
i already feel gangly and too big
too noticable
(though I’m only 5’2).
I already don’t like to be noticed in person.
I only like my words to be noticed
when they are printed
and handed over silently.
i want people to read my words
and hear their own voice
not mine.
i want to be invisible.
i hate my accent.
“you don’t even have an accent.”
everybody has an accent.
even when i’m not drunk or angry
people at college knew where i was born.
i’ll never be free of this place.
my tongue remains a prisoner.
at least my fingers are free.
i know that i should get out of bed
but who’s keeping score, anyway?
who but I will know
if i spend today
unmoving?
“spend” today
like a day is a handful of coins
given in exchange for something else.
it’s sunday.
i shouldn’t have to do anything
but i should do something.
according to who?
well i guess, me.
i guess i’m the one who will be disappointed if i don’t
get up
i will think to myself.
you’re wasting the day
the voice inside my head tells me.
is it wasted if i’m enjoying it?
is money used to buy candy wasted
or spent?
a big tip in writing is to “take a step back” and wait a few days, weeks, even months before going over your first draft.
maybe the same is true for trauma
to forget it for awhile
to tuck it away in the folds of your grey matter
to bury it in the bottom of your sheets with chilly toes
and sit on it for a few days, weeks, even months
before going over it.
maybe you need to let it stew
let it sit
let it tumble around in your brain without your consciousness getting in the way
maybe you need to see it with different eyes
older eyes
eyes more wise and steeled with time.
strengthened by distance.
maybe you need to forget a little
to be strong enough to step back into your pain again.
maybe that’s why i know my grandparents’ stories
but not my own.
in and out of doors
should be attached to alarms
laugh because they’re not
owen and jim are absorbed in whatever
jim’s working for like,
an insurance company?
and he’s getting annoyed at his boss asking him to order his groceries for him.
jim has the body of a man when he wants it.
when he’s playing dungeons and dragons
you believe he would really use a sword to kill.
when he’s just being himself
you doubt whether he’d know which end to hold.
for such a big dude
with such a well-kept beard
he’s rather immature
when he can afford to be.
i couldn’t tell jim this stuff. he wouldn’t get it.
he’d be too awkward
and then run off.
if i was a character in a novel
my “surface” journey is easy to figure.
i would be working to get out of this abusive house
and settle myself into a healthy life.
my “inner” journey
would be to get myself out of my abusive mindset
and ease my anxiety
and grow as a person
into a confident young woman
i’m still caught in the rising action, i guess.
the resolution is a whole plot line away.
Introvert Playground 