Not Me

Photo credit: Kristin Antosz

I’m not great in an audience. 
I can’t leave me long enough

 to be up there with them. 

I don’t laugh at the jokes. 

My head screams too loud to hear them. 

But I know they’re there. 

And I’ll say they’re funny. 
I’ll cry when it’s sad. 

That, that I get. 

But I won’t let them see. 
Mostly, I just wish I was on stage. 

Because there, I’m not me. 

There, I’m big and beautiful. 

I can talk. And mean it. 

I can listen and not stand aside,

Waiting for a quiet minute,

to step away 

and back 

and gone. 

Somewhere I have things to wear and 

words to say. 

And it matters. 
Just not off stage.

Please not off stage. 

That’s where it’s dark. 

Where you get lost

By yourself. 

Without a thing to wear

Or words

And no one to hear them

Or listen if they did. 
When you walk around

without a mark

or a truth or a lie, 

Who are you?
Me?
Just sitting in the seats. 

Waiting in the dark. 

Wondering who to be. 

Just please,

Not me. 

Trapped

 

They don’t tell you you’re going to be trapped.
That once you’re in, you’ll never be out alone.
That it won’t get better, only different.
That it won’t get easier, just a different kind of hard.
They don’t tell you that you’re gone.
But you know.

You don’t matter.
What you think, what you feel
And that’s what cruelest,
you will feel everything.
Harder and faster
and bigger than you ever
nightmared.
Scares that will crush you.
Until there are only pieces left.
That’s all you have.

You’ll put them on like a costume.
Scraps and bits
yanked from the bottom
of a trunk life.
It might remind you
of you.
A flash of a place or
a tinny laugh from a corner.
You’ll put them on
and pretend.
Act like the savior,
the thief, the witch.
Whatever they want you
to be.
Whoever they make you play.

Because there’s no you.
Not anymore.
Them.  Acting.
It would be easier
it you didn’t know the lines.
If you could actually
cut the cord,
forget you ever were;
would make it easier
to be this new thing,
wearing old clothes
and speaking like a stranger.

But you don’t forget.
Not in the chilly morning.
Not in the hot day.
And never in the middle of the night.
Dark and red
illuminated.
That’s when you remember most.
That you were human.
Before.
Not anymore.
Now you’re clothes and food
and telling.
Doing and thinking,
never and always acting.

You may never get out.
Rattle the bars.
Make your complaints.
Only time to hear you.
And time is what trapped you.
Submissive or fighting.
Tied.
Trapped.
Time.
Your way out.
Only way out.
Time
to get out.

For Yet

 

I’m not bad.
I don’t kick puppies.
I do kill mice.
I do help with homework.
I will read your story.
I’ll say what you want to hear.
I’m bad.

I’m not good.
I don’t volunteer.
I’m not a vegetarian.
I’m selfish.
I won’t brag. But I want to.
I complain.
I won’t let you do for me.
I’m good.
I’m not fat.
I’m not fat fat.
I’m thin fat.
People won’t stop and look.
But people won’t stop to look.
I eat the food.
I eat the hurt.
I eat the pills.
I look in the mirror.
I’m fat.

I’m not smart.
I don’t know art.
I don’t know politics.
I don’t know music.
I try to learn.
I ask for help.
Listen once.
I stop.
It’s too much.
I stop asking.
I’m smart.

I’m not sexy.
Not for me.
Not for him.
Not often.
Not enough.
Not that way.
I want to.
Really want to.
I think about it.
Wish I could think
I’m sexy.
I don’t give up.
I push and need
and take.
It’s hard.
I don’t get it.
I’ll never get it.
I give up.

Please not yet.

I could add yet.
I should add yet.
I want to add yet.

To every time, every sentence,
every raging, awful thought
that rips and ravages
my heart and my will
to get up and say yet again.

I’m not waiting for the right time.
Not for the right one.
I have to make it
count because the
only one counting is me.
Now.
Give the courage.
Maybe not now,
or not just yet.

For me.
For yet.

For tomorrow

 

What I need
I won’t ask for.

I’m not asking for more.
I’m not.

You want to give
and you ask
and if there was something
to be had
I’ve have it.
I know you.
That’s why you.

But sometimes,
I just need tomorrow.
And you can’t give me that.
I know you, trust you.
My tomorrow.
Like I can’t give you yours.
I know me. Trust me.

You can give me today.
So can I.
And I’ll take it.
Because it’s a good today.
It’s a fantastic, wonderful today.
Where you measure your success
in my smiles
and you feel bigger
making my shoulder lighter.
Where my sheets carry your smell
and my corner your clothes;
some folded fresh and some crumpled worn,
some ready for tomorrow
some still tired from last night.
But all there. Comfortable together.
They’re making themselves
at home in mine;
where my table has your work
and your ears have mine,
and there’s always tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe a different thought.
Maybe not.
Are our yesterdays worth a tomorrow?
Today they are.
I’ll take today.
Best thing you could give.
Take mine, love.
We’ll keep them,
comfortable together,
in my corner.
Worry about the rest,
tomorrow.

Much Enough

When more become too much
It’s same as being not enough.
Today was too much.

I scheduled a visit with my therapist.
I missed a visit with my therapist.
I took that anger and hurt out on myself
and someone who was trying to help.
He left the house once to buy food.
And then again to buy different food
because I’m a miserable cunt.
I drank a lot of wine.
Cried a lot of tears.
He does too much.
From and for, us and them.                              I understand  why he came.                          I’ll never understand why                             he came back. 

It’s not enough.                                              It’s too much. 

That’s in my not enough head. 

In the much too real world, 

Our president bombed Syria.
Maybe that was too much.
Maybe it was not enough.
Children are dead.
Mine is safe
and spoiled and his
attitude reflects his place and making.
My too much.
My not enough.
Someday both will be his.

We are all becoming something we hate.
Hating what we can’t become.
Realizing tonight is too much.
And just, only tonight is not enough.

Tomorrow we want for more.
Need for more.
For ourselves and the ones
we push away,
out the door,
out of our lives,
out of this world.
We need this to make it.
Make it
not too much.
Only just enough.

Tangled Limbs

Tangled limbs.

The pain is not always a knife,
not quick and slicing and bleeding before you know it.
Sometimes it’s a bracing and tightening and a
before-impact hurt.
A knowing it, seeing it,
feeling the molecules slide in slow-motion hurt.
One that gathers, in the hollow between your lungs
and drills through to your back.
It gestures. It promises.
It lets you know what the world will be tomorrow.

Your shoulders ache.
An up-all-night,
sixteen hour drive,
flu-is-coming-on ache.
It’s twisted braches of knotted
limbs and mossy fibers,
entangled to the limits
of organic,
needing mechanical intervention
to ever separate them.

Your eyes blur.
A staring-into-the-sun,
reading-instructions
twist and gnarl fuzzing.

Your head hurts.
A day-after-whiskey throb.
But more than that.
That’s just the grey matter.
Tired. So tired.
Needing-to-lie-down-in-the-aisle
exhausted.
When the phone is too far
to call for pizza
and the other end of the room
is the width of a castle moat.

Your body feels enormous,
heavy, dragging and tied to the dirt.
Or it feels empty,
floating and untethered
and prone to escape.

But before you can move,
this dark monster grabs and digs in,
claws below the surface,
sinewy tentacles above.

And that fucker will not let you go.

Fight, it’s worse.

Let go, it’s worse.

Tangled.

But that’s only the physical.

The other side,
the harder to touch or explain side,
can be more hobbling than
any bone or viscera dysfunction.

Most of us live life uncertain.
Not quite knowing
what to do or
what is best.

But in this night, you know.
Complete and absolute.
Without hesitation.
Without equivocation.
You know what you are worth.
Never is it more clear.
It’s not a void or a vacancy.
The problem is not
the absence of being.
The opposite.
It’s the absolute crushing weight
of space. Without worth.
Of taking up so many cubic inches
of weight and mass and air.
Because the heft of that debt
is more suffocating
than a room drowning in water.

They can’t see
and they can’t believe
and they don’t understand.

You can’t explain exsanguination
without a cut,
amputation with whole limbs.
or birth without conception.

And you can’t point to
what is wrong
when they see
there’s nothing wrong.

You’re the one inside.

Alone. Screaming. Not heard.

They are outside. Screaming. Not heard.

Silent. Eviscerating noise. Corporal crumbling. Soul sucking.

And that’s what depression feels like.

Or love.

See that? You try. You try to laugh.

Maybe shingles, or mono or slight GERD.

That’s funny.

Sometimes strep throat. Or a general staph.

Possibly herpes simplex. Not the bad kind.

Usually PMS.

Definitely IBS.

See that? Cute.

Maybe vertigo or lumbago,
depending on your immune system
and your semicircular canals.

On the rare occasion, scurvy.

But mostly depression.

You could laugh.

Because it’s ridiculous.

But you can’t.

But it’s not funny.

It’s real.

Real as scurvy and not an orange in sight.

Real as the forest. Tough as the trees.

Real.

Hard.

And you

are the one alone and

tangled.

(Answer) Before (Listen)

Empty glasses. Empty words. Empty night.         Empty answer.  Empty listen.  

(ANSWER)

Why are you helping me?

Seriously. Put that down.

I didn’t ask you to…

Why? No one just “wants” to do laundry for someone.

Did you do something?
Something bad?  Jesus. Is it really bad? Am I going to be pissed?

No, I’m fine, okay? Why are you..are you just trying to distract me?

Nothing. I’m just tired.

Whatever.

So, we’re not going to talk about it?  That’s the answer?

I said that two days ago.

You could talk to me.

Don’t hurt yourself.

This isn’t what you what.

I’m not what you want.

Look at me.

Right. Cause I want to do this. That it?
I want to put everyone through this shit?                                                                                I wish you’d listen.

It’s so hard.

God, just, stop. Stop saying it’s fine. Stop telling me I’m okay.
I’m not. Obviously I’m a mess. I see. I get it. Obviously I’m not okay.

No. I’m sorry. It’s just… It’s just a really bad day.
I know you do…um…I guess. Get me noodles. 7 1/2 heat. No five. No. Yeah. 7 1/2…
I’m going upstairs. Just…just put mine away if I’m asleep.

(LISTEN)

I’m just doing laundry. It’s no big-

It’s fine. I’m almost done.

I know you didn’t ask me to. I just wanted to help.

Well, no, I didn’t want to do laundry, I’m not weird. I just thought-

What? No, I didn’t do anything. Ok, I smoked today.
I’m sorry. I know you don’t like it, but I grabbed lunch with Mark.
It was one.
Am I missing something? Are you okay?

No, I’m not trying anything. What happened today?

See? Just sit down. Don’t worry about it. We’ll order some pad thai.

Ok. How am I supposed to know?

You said you didn’t want to.

I can’t read your mind. I want to listen. Talk. Answer.  I’m listening.

What have I been doing? I’m trying. I’ve been trying.

I don’t need to.

Of course I want this.

Why would you say that?

I am. Please stop.

It’s me. We don’t have to.
You don’t have to with me.

I know, baby. You’re okay.

I’m sorry.
It….,no. It’s not okay.
I know you’re not okay. It’s not your fault. And I get it.
I don’t have an answer. But I’ll listen.  I want to help.

Ok. I’ll be down here.

(answer)

A Perfect Sphere

 

 

 

 

Sphere by C.K. Without instructions.

 

Being a parent is like
making a perfect sphere;

out of a pile of broken legos.
Sure.

They tell you you can do it.
They tell you there are instructions,
but those are long ago lost;
one page floating in the toilet
another page under the forks in the drawer
another in the basement of your bag
stuck to the bottom with melted chocolate
and to the side with bubble gum
that was tried, but named ‘not my favorite.’

What happens is, the pieces you need aren’t there,                                                   but that’s when you know how to use them;

or the pieces are there,                                                                                                                   but that’s when you can’t make them fit.

In the pictures, the ones they all seem to have,                                                          they tell you:
blue 3×2
grey 1×6
red 4×4

Press here,
click there,

perfect.

So, you try the same,                                                                                                                       but all you have is:
green 2×2
black 8×8
white 1×1

You pound here,
you smack there,                                                                                                                                but not.

And there is it…

A crumbling pyramid.

Not a perfect sphere.

Some people can do it.

They dive their hands in,

and without any hesitation or sweat

or swear words or crying or whiskey,

they do it.

Round. Smooth. Perfect.

You can’t do that.

But you have to do something,

make something.

Try something.

So you do.
With whatever bags of edges and
sides and cracked bumps you have left.
You can’t just leave these blocks
scattered and pointless and deserted.

Maybe if you stack it,
just keep pushing to the center,
every one mounded on the next
as many as you can.

But they still separate and they fall.

You can’t make a perfect sphere.
You’ll never.

But maybe,
maybe,

you can give them,                                                                                                                            the one on the floor next to you,                                                                                           who doesn’t mind the plastic in their knees,
give them the blocks  and a hug and                                                                                                    whatever ideas you have and some courage

and you might
make them
a better builder
than you.

It won’t be a perfect sphere.

Because maybe a perfect crumbling pyramid                                                                     is what they wanted all along.

You’re Okay

 

Complete Fascination.

I can’t fathom how

anyone likes themselves

as they seem to do now.

 

How can you know

without doubt, what you think,

say and want most is

worth the cartridge of ink

 

it would take to print

that mess out for display?

How can anyone here

even think they’re okay?

 

Aren’t you scared? Aren’t you wrong?

Don’t you constantly doubt?

Who on earth is that strong?

Don’t you flounder about?

 

Where’s the fear, the anxiety,

the disordered depression?

How are you standing there

speaking a lesson?

 

To say “you’re okay”

“It’ll pass, just believe.”

Are you walking around

with an ace up your sleeve?

 

Some magical card

that fills you with hope

that you’re smart and your charm

is as slick as the soap

 

in your fabulous shower

that never has mold,

in your house where your

marvelous stories are told;

 

as you pour your friends wine

and then strum your guitar,

loudly laugh, self-impressed

at the genius you are.

 

 

 

With your four spoken languages,

your new published book,

your soon displayed sculpture,

next to pictures you took.

 

What the fuck is your problem?

Why can’t you just be

as miserable as all of us?

Content to just see

 

that it is usually shitty

and we can’t get ahead.

Now give me my wine,

let me go back to bed.

 

Cause I’m tired, I’m cranky

I’m chubby and late.

You eat your scratch curry

from your recycled plate.

 

We can’t all be good

nope, not even close

but we still try to change

our clothes and our dose

 

of self-loathing, the one

we prescribed to ourselves

cause esteem never served

the ones on the shelves.

 

I don’t want to be this.

None of us, we sure don’t .

It’s just what we know

And our brains, they just won’t

 

let us see what is possible,

what we just might achieve,

if just for a second

it’d let us believe;

 

that we might be worth more

with great things to conceive

that all of us might have

an ace up our own sleeve.

 

So, go on with your dreaming,

enjoy your success,

your perfect blessed family,

your tiny sized dress.

Go run those five miles

have that vegan dessert

we’ll be sitting right here

hummus stains on our shirt.

 

But one day we’ll get there.

So don’t be surprised

when we saddle up close

with our gorgeous thick thighs.

 

When know we are worthy

because of our work;

our brains and our talent

on point, but beserk.

 

Cause we want to be friends

have it all, just like you.

the posts and the followers

the great photos too.

 

Just be a bit easy

we’re taking it slow.

 

Wait, someone just messaged me.

K, thanks, gotta go.

Just Stay There

 

Bridge to staying.

Just stay there.

I’ll get back to you.

You’ll stay there, right?

Quiet and well,
ready and smiling,
engaged and giving.

But don’t be too.

Not too quiet,
then there’s something wrong
and I might have to fix it.

I want you well.
I like your face
when you’re well.
But not too well.
You don’t want to look
distracted or involved.
And I need my wellness.

I need to be full.

Ambition achieved

Talent realized,

Dreams in pockets.

I’m ready.

You?

Ready?

I want to play.

You’re beautiful
when you smile.
Do it more.
Just for me.

Best for me.

Be engaged,
obsessed and driven
but I need your attention.
I need to share mine,
that’s how I live and
create and validate.
But I need yours most.
You make me better.
And you’re already good.

Giving.
You.
That,
that can never be too.
You have to give.
I need your mind
and your body.
Your talents and
your trials.
How do I know that
I am good
if you don’t give that to me?
How do I know that you’ll
stay, that
I’m not left in place
while you move
and become?

Give.
But not too.
Don’t give too.
Not the hard and the dirty
the ugly and profane.
I need you to stay right there,
and if you keep giving the
hidden, corrosive things,
I can’t stay.
I’m fragile and your acid
will burn and dissolve me.
And I don’t want to disappear.

I’m more and whole and
I want to be
All.

So you stay.
And tomorrow,
maybe I’ll stay.
And the day after,
we’ll see who’s left.

See what’s left.

See what stayed.

You.

Stay.