free write

i don’t want to disappoint myself.
feeling all this weight pushing down
on me, resistance and tension
billowing from my shoulders like a cape.
i don’t care if you think i should have
done something differently,
if you think i was wrong to
move too quickly in the
speediest direction,
it wasn’t what i intended
but that’s how i turned out
origins are messy and
they don’t make sense
if you’re reading upside down.
the walls are only closing in
when my eyes are open
and the gauze has been removed-
there’s nothing beyond the shadows
that will comfort me,
only hidden creatures from
my imagination that watch
and linger long after midnight.
but here i am,
the last one standing,
or the only one who ever stood,
and i don’t know what to do next.
i feel like i’m trying to stay
on two icebergs that are breaking apart;
one leg on the past and one leg on the future,
trying to decide which side i’m on
which meaning is the one that fits into the scheme,
which heart feels the most like mine because i don’t
like to imitate more than words around me,
because words are begged for, borrowed, and stolen
and if i ever write something that i haven’t heard before,
i’m not writing.
i’m hurting because my self-critic feels too confident,
this is when my inner hater shines at the podium,
flicks out a stack of index card notes
and clears her throat,
preparing a litany of insults
that i know i’ve created for myself.
self- hate, that’s my biggest struggle,
but actually talking about it is the second biggest.
i don’t feel like i’m good enough
for my standards,
but you can’t reach the top of the ferris wheel
if the carriage is wobbling from side to side.
if you never lift your feet from the ground,
there will never be a landing,
and the string between heaven and earth
will stick to the soles of your feet.
i don’t want to fall.
i don’t want to fail.
i don’t want to slip into the cracks on the floor
next to my closet,
and let the blankets slip on top of my body,
i don’t want that,
i just want to be happy
but that seems so unattainable.
it’s at the highest shelf in Costco,
tipped backwards,
away from my fingertips because
nothing should be easy to obtain.
silver platters don’t belong here,
roast your duck in another oven and
come back when you’re ready to clean
the silverware.
my toes are getting tired of this poem.
or stream of thoughts,
or empty trash can immersed in dried up
paper airplanes that i never sent out into space
in fear of losing them,
and that’s another thing i’m afraid of,
losing things i care about because
you can only send so many emails and letters
before the glass is shattered and
you’re left with trails of blood all over your hands
that show how naïve you’ve been.
one minute you should be responsible and trusty,
the next you shouldn’t take care of everything on your own.
do you want me to succeed without getting a push from you first?
do you want me to do this all on my own
or do you want to make it yours
so that my story streams into your story
and eventually there’s no distinction between
what’s mine and what’s yours,
there’s no border between
free thoughts and bought thoughts,
because of course i bought my place in
society,
in my home,
in my community,
in my friend group.
there’s no way to come by this naturally,
there’s no way to plant seeds and grow them into
bean sprouts that bring you to the giant
without a chain of other mistakes left in your wake.
there’s no way to walk without destructing,
and somehow i’m back at my first point.
i don’t want to disappoint myself
but i already feel a frown forming
and creases between my eyebrows
rising like ocean levels,
the terrain of my face
twisting and becoming obscured
behind some façade that i bought on sale,
it was secondhand from some other girl
whose face was enough like mine for the mask
to look convincing,
and it doesn’t matter because no one
really looks close enough to notice
when you’ve changed.
they notice your hair,
they notice your clothes,
but never notice when you waver
from the stepping stones in front of your toes
or wash your hands
in soiled water
that someone else used,
soapy suds securing your sadness,
each little bubble is a thought
and there are too many to count
before reality catches up
and there are too many metaphors to
keep track of without a filing cabinet,
one stacked high enough to bring you to the giant,
the giant who rests casually behind his oak desk and
sips from a glass,
grins with conceit and sighs contentedly
because no force will wreck his
innocence.