notes on everything you thought you'd resolved by now.
i haven’t created a lot lately. i say create, because i don’t just write poems- i collage, play around with graphic design, and i bake. like, a lot. but sometimes, everything comes to a grinding halt.
i traveled for the holidays and any time i spend any sort of time with my partners family or my own, i learn things about myself. like, i have more patience than i thought i did, but i still don’t have the emotional regulation skills down pat, like i swore i did. those revelations can be beautiful and sting all at once.
i also struggle to thrive when the seasons change. when things are in transition, i often catch myself standing still. i have a touch of seasonal depression, (just like i have a touch of many different mental illnesses) and it threatens to break me. i can always anticipate it coming, but when that sadness arrives, its like a heavy blanket i can’t shake off.
i think that’s the thing about plans. people love to use that one shitty quote about “the best made plans..” but i tend to reluctantly agree that i have almost no control over most things. which, doesn’t make “most things” any easier. if we can’t stick to our plans, doesn’t that make us flaky? the kind of person you never want to invite to parties or be part of big events? recently i’ve realized that i don’t think bailing on your plan makes you the worst kind of person. it really just makes you even more connected to your own humanity.
this winter is a moment where everything i thought was dormant is actually making an appearance. so while i’ve felt a little stagnant and exhausted, i’ve found that writing poems about this experience has helped me feel a sense of grounding and revitalization. hopefully this will extend to me re-scheduling the therapy session i bailed on last week because i didn’t feel like unpacking any of it.
i hope know that even though i’m processing things i thought i had processed in the past, i still have a leg to stand on. a reason to write. a lot to be proud of when it comes to how far i’ve come as a person.
so, with that being said, i leave you with a series of poems below. i’ve been playing with these for a bit, chewing and spitting them out. stay sane this holiday season. we’ll talk soon. xo
- strega clare
I. marked
you were swaddled in purple stitches
full moon eyes underneath the sheets
as your brother reads the same book
to you- like a check off his to do list
while your mother is a figurehead affixed
to the bedframe, away from you,
nudged between the laughter of two dads
who you start to believe are the same
“don’t forget there are monsters in the closet,”
he teases as he closes the book
but you can’t take your eyes off the closed door
down the hallway.
ii. sexless
desire is a sisyphean task
like waking up to catch the bus
or reading the room.
instead of tinders inside your chest
when your crush asks you to prom
something dark oozes and hardens
you tell your mother you can’t go.
she makes you tie your tie and take the pictures
stand a little too close while you calculate
this seventeen year old girl
because she is a formula
all chemistry and two step
leading you where all the teenagers go
but you let her walk ahead
biting skin off your lip for years to come
wondering what would’ve happened if you let her
hold your hand.
iii. dating
your dad gives terrible advice, like, if you just shake her hand and ask her for coffee she’ll want to hook up with you. this, you discover, never works. you are all instruction manuals and following the speed limit, but you still can’t get yourself to accelerate. fuck, just go, your face is red and your hands bloom like poppies as you imitate, a good statue with a little too much carving. but you get good at being what they want. can i. please. what are your hobbies. googling, “how do i choke someone without cutting off their circulation?” the deftones and the weekend play on repeat and you imagine this is what it feels like to be a torture chamber when you’re inside her for the first time. but you’re doing it. one day this will pay off. one day it will mean something.
iv. circle back to that
your mom is sorry, like really sorry, she’s in therapy now. she is finally taking the bipolar medication she needs and she sleeps more, but she can steam clean the carpets and pick up dogshit. she can be sat down on back porches and told ‘no,’ after crossing another line, jabbing another blade in the side of an already scarred body. but, she is sorry. doesn’t that count for something?? she hisses like the wind as any trace of her softness blows away again, but you, you still believe means every word of it.
V. me
i am now the bullseye, center of gravity,
this ring they grab my finger to touch says so
and we are undressed to our bones.
i am trying make my way through your skin
grasp your organs like a doctor would
gentle but firm to check they are functioning
like us, well oiled but squeaking out apologies
for the way we hold and miss each other
i was never afraid of a third
but she carried you in her womb
molded you into a stoic
flatlining at the people who adore you
like you were her creation,
doctor waldman’s prized possession
who should’ve been a girl but found one
that fights with her bare hands instead
please please please let me hit the target