Anthem of the Dust Motes
The dust motes float
gold in the air
their anthem pounding
through the room like
a drum.
Neon roses sing in my mind
like starlings
a bleached out vision
of beauty.
Stacks of coffee mugs
and dry pressed flowers
resonate
illuminated by the late afternoon light,
and the static of the radio.
And the floorboards creak
heavy with the weight of what they know
while the wind howls like my head.
And still the dust motes pound on
insistent that this time,
they will not be silenced.
(I wrote the above poem at 3 am a few weeks ago on one of my more difficult nights.)
Sparks
I'm listening to my favorite song and thinking about last september and wishing desperately I was a fortune teller so that I would always make the right decisions because god dammit I am so sorry for what I did last september. If you only knew how much I was sorry it would hurt you too because I know how you think because I know you and I am just so sorry I was such a bad person. I'd like to blame it on my anxiety, on my depression, but that isn't fair to you and I've already been so unfair. It was me-my world was crumbling and you tried desperately to fix it, you tried desperately to fix me but there was no fixing me- because last year I was so beyond saving that I'm not even sure how I got out of that one. I'm sorry I was so far gone and I'm sorry for what I did last september.
Please know I am a good person, even though I was not a good person to you.
Please know I am a good person.
