Nothing I thought might work is working.
This isn’t even working.
The words aren’t coming.
The words that did come don’t matter...
The pain is there no matter if I type or sit or drive or eat or sleep or bathe.
Can’t hold or rock or type or reach
Tears fill my eyes
out of sadness for what could be
what might have been
So, I go on and reach and type and rock and hold and then later–
in the hot water where I don’t feel anything but warmth and the pain is muted–
I cry only in the car and when I write at a coffee shop.
in the middle of the night when everyone sleeps.
I cry at all I give up on.
I can’t even control myself here in this cafe
no one seems to notice
which is good.
I could say, “It’s just allergies.”
I fumble in my bag for tissues, but all I see is the heat wrap I carry for long bouts of writing.
One of the girls behind the counter–
long blond pony tail
runs out from behind the counter and hugs a young man who comes through the door which has a bell.
Tan, straight teeth, short hair.
They hug and sit down.
He chews gum. She leans back and twirls her hair.
She didn’t notice.
I realized I never dreamed of that fairytale.
My fairytale was about NYC, agents, and editors...book signings...
But her fairytale, her hopes and dreams of being
a writer, a chef, a teacher, a fashion designer
are still possible
Searing, aching, pinching.
of the joints.
It’s time to let go. Stop holding on.
This is the irony of life that I always thought was just on paper:
All I thought I would be and do,
I will not.
I will drop my arms, I will stop clutching and pulling and twisting and gripping.
I will surrender.