in my youth,
my family took me
on road trips all over the country.
I drank coffee and tea
with women who were wise
and men who were haughty.
I witnessed the aftermath
of how forceful
nature can be.
when I stood at the precipice at Cappadocia,
where I gazed upon
the breathtaking fairy chimneys.
I trekked underground
through tunnels in hidden cities,
built in secrecy for Zoroastrian refugees.
I took in the sight of cisterns and minarets,
raised up in former centuries.
I walked barefoot, without pain,
all across the greatest salt seas.
walked from Harlem to Brighton Beach,
it took me 16 hours on feet;
that one day in New York,
back when I was in my teens.
and found pieces all over the world
that fit a part of me.
as I piece myself together day by day,
I know that I am not complete.
I know that,
when my aching feet,
brought me to you last week,
I felt at ease,
but still almost childlike;
even though I am thirty,
and you’re only
a short poem
Let my gaze meet your hungry eyes;
Let us breathe together, heavy with lust.
Your capable hands forget how to be gentle when they touch my skin.
Let us live, and love together.
I want to hear rain again
like it felt before the PTSD.
none yet clean enough to drink.
it’s like a metaphor for my life:
being stuck; drowning in myself.
you are my destruction
I’m being haunted by a ghost.
He’s never really there,
but sometimes he makes a sound,
and makes me think I’m not alone.
He’s like cigarettes to me;
they both destroy me slowly,
but I can’t stop reaching for them when I’m low.
He doesn’t know how to love;
he can only run away.
But I, when I feel something,
I run towards it with all my heart.
I’m not afraid to love,
and I’m not scared of ghosts.
ellerin (your hands)
always seeking mine to hold for comfort;
at night, wielding a knife to cook for me;
when you write, holding your pen the wrong way,
and holding on way too tightly;
your hands, my love,
are precious to me.
they are calloused from work;
there’s dust under your fingernails.
even if divine angels came down from heaven,
and reached their holy hands out to me,
I would reach for yours instead,
because your hands, my love,
they captivate me, then set me free.
My brain is trying to kill my body slowly:
“You ate yesterday; you don’t need to eat today.”
What kind of self-destructive reasoning is that?
skip meals all day; eat cake at night.
You need those calories, after all,
but they make you feel more tired than before.
Get a hold of yourself; you’re an adult!
Besides, what’s so bad about being fat?
“You won’t fit your favorite clothes.”
So what? You’ll buy some new ones.
“You want to be the smallest person in the room,
and I hate it.
How much would you like to know about me?
You can care only so much.
You don’t want to know every struggle
that every individual goes through.
How much do you really want to know
about my background, sexuality, passions, and loves?
Maybe we can connect
if you find a thread that ties us together.
Do you really want to know
what makes me sad, angry, indignant?
Will you grow hateful and malicious,
if we don’t see eye to eye?
Before I lay myself out in the open,
before I strip my heart bare,
I just wanted to ask:
do you really want to know me?
I forgot what I was going to say;
it’s on the tip of my tongue.
Here comes a torrent of new thought;
do I have it in me to make sense of it all?
My hands long to be busy;
my toes will not stop wriggling in anxiety.
Peace is a concept foreign to me;
although dad says it can be found in piety.
I no longer have faith, so I won’t pray
to God to cure my ADHD.
I just take it day by day,
and hope that I can just be.
through struggle, we grow.
baby fever – an original spoken word poem about motherhood, anxieties, and abuse
an honest poem.