[im]perfection
plagues my mind
i strive for it
though i know it’s
unattainable
i try to rewire
rewrite
the narrative
the choice
to choose imperfection
but the core of me whispers
‘what if you’re just not trying hard enough
and you
and only you
are the one person who could do it
perfectly
and you’re just proving how much of a failure you are
by choosing
not to
try’
and i am stuck
in this cycle
never-ending
that only ends in
failure
failure
failure
a failing
of
me
the concept of community scares me
and i know the ancestors of this land
would balk
at that self-assessment
but i bet white supremacy would smile
feeling/being only beholden to oneself
makes for
either
one great bootstraps story
or
one of many that the upper-crust doesn’t have to deal with
other than as
stepping stones
but i was born and raised in this society
that values individuality above all else
and insists that, even within social standing
that place is precarious at best
(imagine entire books/movies/tv episodes
about a whole friend group
turning against you
for no reason other than
they can)
so to be solidly a part of a posse
you should be the one holding
all the power
that isn’t sustainable
that isn’t healthy
that isn’t the way humanity should be
but
i’ve lived it
multiple times
so please, caretakers of turtle island
i feel whispering in my flailing mind
from time to time,
forgive me as i resist the concept of community
and rely on only myself
and my spouse
for literally everything–
i’m only doing what i was taught
for the first 30 or so years of my life
and experienced from others
taught the same way…
my heart is vulnerable
but quite willing
to learn
i’m pretty great
at
poetry of the mundane
(if i can give myself that credit)
but i’ve been edging towards
a more gruesome poetry
as of late
poetry of the gross daily tasks
the icky parts of being human
the scattered co-morbids of mental illness
the ones with strange satisfactions
and i don’t want to subject readers to such poems
as odes to pimple popping
and detailed descriptions of how my anxiety makes me
pick my skin to bleeding
but
they are part of my human experience
so maybe
they are also a part
of yours
?
the focus
of today
is failing
whether i write one hundred words
or one
i can’t seem to keep them all in line
with one another
i’m not one to give up
but i am known for knowing
when i’m fighting a losing battle
and maybe it’s simply time
to give myself
a [day’s]
break
the cat
has her zoomies
up and down the upstairs hall
back and forth
from bathroom to
under-the-bed
and we
(below the galloping stomps and stomping gallops)
ask
“is she having more zoomies than usual?”
“isn’t she a senior cat now?”
“is she maybe training to play with the puppy
once the puppy is all healed
and is allowed to play once more?”
i hope hope hope hope hope
the answer to that last question
is yes
wake
myself up
with poetry
widen my eyes
with words
pump my veins
with phrases
of soft rhymes
and alliterations
and pick up the pace
of morning
with stanzas of
longing
and beauty
wake
myself up
with poetry
my body feels like it is one slight accident away
from complete and total annihilation
but also
like it’s one good massage away from
actually feeling like a full and functional body once again
(so maybe i ought to schedule that body work)
the combination
of jazz
in the ear
and siren
in the distance
somehow
reminds me of
Brooklyn
i haven’t really thought of
Valentine’s Day
in so long.
as a child it merely meant i’d probably get candy
that day
in school
(which, i’ll admit, was pretty cool).
as a teen,
highly aware of my own diverging sexuality,
i only saw loud reinforcements of
heteronormativity
and having that binaried bullshit shoved down my throat.
with Kip, the year they wooed me, they sent four presents
on one Valentine’s
(keep in mind we were not even officially dating at that point)
a song
a string of lights
a website
and origami roses.
and yes, we used to go to the melting pot,
or grab oysters,
or have some sort of dinner;
but COVID and coziness
and now our Valentimes look more like any other time.
but i don’t worry
because we still get excited in the morning to say
“Happy Valentine’s Day!!!”
to each other
i wish i had written more as a child
about what it felt like to be
those ages that i was–
it all felt so solid
inevitable
unchangeable
at the time
but now it slips my mind
i try to hold the grains of sand
as tightly as i can
and i have no specificity
just generic hazy memory
like things
vibes
of times
but i want the solid
the thought processes
the emotions (good and bad and in-between)
i want to remember
me
but instead i get this vague reaching
for who i used to be
and who i might
have grown
into
but none of this feels as solid
as writing does
now
so maybe that’s why i write
every day
even if it feels silly
or poorly crafted
or i don’t know what i’ll ever do with it
i need to find a way to look back
and identify myself
from years away
because sometimes i can’t even identify myself today
