my birthstone is the opal
and the irony isn’t wasted on me:
i don’t know what it’s like to be precious,
sought, shiny, or lucky
but i can tell you what it’s like to be so alone it feels the universe itself is swallowing you whole and
i can tell you what it’s like to look in the mirror with white-knuckles
trying to recognize the image inside the glass.
i may not know much, but i am sure of enough.
i can tell you that it’s not a big deal if you forgot that poem on the coffee shop napkin because
they’re just words and you don’t own any of the twenty six letters that
tumble out of lips and clot inside of pens and veins waiting for release
and i can tell you that it’s okay to be scared of people and things,
that sometimes scared is okay because, hell, i’m scared too;
i can tell you that it’s worth it to wake up and watch the sun crawl into the sky and to watch it sink back down and it will never be mundane.
i can’t tell you what it’s like to be precious
but a gem is just a stone;
maybe all i need is a polish.
how do you tell someone that you want to rip yourself open
and undo your seams
and how do you tell them you used to be burning inside
but now the fire is dead
and there used to be storms in your veins but
there are only the calms now that aren’t even waiting to surge
how do you ask for help when you don’t know what you need?
everything is cyclical and i am trapped and spinning and
there’s got to be someone out there who can take the scars carved in these bones
and kiss them into the ink i long to seep again so the words
can be released.
do you ever want to rip off your own skin and bare your soul to the only person you can bring yourself to trust?
do you ever want to disappear so badly you can’t even move in the morning
because the pressure of disappointment is just going to swallow you whole?
i do, thank you.
curl into me and crack my spine, read my pages and let me
show you how i can bleed ink and words for a little love;
let me hold you and whisper words – you are stronger than you think
and you are made of stars but i can show you the world
if you would invest a look in the mirror.
the sun always looks so milky right before it rises
and then it just gets so brilliant and i think of birth and how
i wonder what it looks like coming out; far less glorious,
i’m sure, than a sunrise over the horizon but maybe just so distant like that,
a little more than unreachable and after swimming in fears &
uncertainties for so long…
i wonder if it’s just as welcome and warm.
a mother should hold, she should cherish,
she should breathe and be seen not
locked away like a monster in my belly and my chest
or like a closet door that
always traps but is wanting more, more, more
or scars across and written in my skin;
a mother should respect and be an idol not
the boogeyman waiting in the shadows so i’m too afraid to sleep,
want to claw out my eyes and rip out my lungs…
a mother has something to live for even at her lowest point &
she had two but congratulations now there’s one who still loves you
and one who walks away.