Published in Death Flails, “Romance,” issue 3

DECEMBER, 2016

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I am encapsulated.

I am within vastness

And I am vast.

My mark outstretches me

I am here and I am now

and now is here

But now is also there there there

 

Blind faith

We rely

I am overwhelmed by all decision making

Do I want coffee or tea? Sparkling water or still?

Should I move from this city, this country?

Is my feminism true?

Am I pointless?

 

I convince myself to be positive

Tell myself hope is my only hope

And that the enormity of the universe is not something to be afraid of.

 

But if my body is me

and I am my body

Why can’t I share it more generously like I do the rest?

 

Longing for entwinement with the elements

With others

You only want parts of me

forgot about my essence.

 

Dancing with ghosts

Gliding into presence?

Or slipping way?

Mindfulness always escaping me

 

If I am my body

and my body is here

Why does my mind float off?

Prefer elsewhere

 

Deep imagination disembodiment

 

The truth is blurry

But I rely on hardness

Practicality,

level-headedness,

organization.

Demand mutual respect.

Both strive for and resent productivity

Bathe myself in contradictions.

 

I am the wetness

You are the liquid peppermint

Together we lather

Rinse off yesterday

Sniff soothe rub

Ground me and cleanse me

Tell me it will all be okay

Leave me tingling

and just as quickly move on with my day

 

What does it mean to just be?

What does it mean to be happy?

Stuck between hating and striving for cliches

Asking myself questions I roll my eyes at

 

I convince myself this all matters

 

I aim to please

I am your cheery customer service gal

Your engaged student

Your creative daughter

And your enlightened social justice warrior

 

Juggling fragmented identities

Of pleasantry

I perform gratitude

I am good

I am good

I am good

 

But what is good if untrue?

It seems all we’re doing is swallowing want

Of near-merged existences

and radical togetherness

 

Left (with)

Heavy-hearted solitude

Doom

Cyclical oppression

Mourning for what could be

Limbs outstretched marked white

Ends scraped with desperacy

 

But I still glean with optimism.

 

My own authentic pleasantry,

whatever authentic means

in this existence of coerced consent

and false freedom.

 

I do good.

I am good.

Remind myself this counts

Small things count.

 

I am mine and you are yours

But maybe we can help each other out.

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