You are critical because I am critical. I will be criticized as I hear your thoughts with so few follows. We all have so much to tell that our stories often feel tedious and mundane. Nothing original going on in our head. Is originality truly possible? Hasn’t it all been said before so perhaps we look for new ways to describe the original. Make it seem new again. Hold it up to the light to see a new fascet that illuminates our mind for a brief moment. Reminding us of essential truths. We matter even if we walk alone.
I know you are sane because you do not hold 32 twelve-year-olds hostages in a small room to teach them to read and write every weekday. I have a severe mental illness because I choose this as a profession and most days find it entertaining. Twelve-year-olds have the annoyingly, astounding, ability to forget everything every 24 hours. Their brains are akin to an etch a sketch with a sassy attitude. So why am I sure you are not mentally ill? Because you don’t teach children, 148 kids, the language they NATURALLY SPEAK but can’t pass a test on, and I call that sanity.
Your giant bedbugs will only leave because you divorced it. A bedbug is something that wakes you throughout the night with its bloodthirsty teeth. My bedbugs teeth are huge and have a little droll coming from one side. It has only bit me for fun but it makes threatening noises all night keeping me awake and sucking me dry of sleep. I try to turn it over or shove a pillow under its head and, occasionally, on to its face but it is to no avail. The bedbug must be fumigated to sleep in another room or divorce will be its only option.
I have watched commercials of starving children and wished for a more beautiful face
I have watched men beheaded and wanted new shoes
I can’t rectify the images I see with the mundane of my life
I hear of abused children and go on a new diet
My heart breaks with every image until I am splitting apart
The cracks fractured like a mosaic
I split into pieces with every horror-filled story
My empathy runs like a cut artery showering the room red
It leaves me washed on the shore exhausted from the swim
I watch a school shooting and try to find the confidence to dwell in this skin
How do I navigate this world of horror and beauty
How do I find joy without being swallowed by the cracks
I watched her as she looked down and kept staring at her toe. She was talking herself into something, and suddenly she went to the woman so cleanly pressed and asked if she would buy the various items of junk in her hands, a curling iron, an old jewelry box, a wrench, and a screwdriver. I recognized the look on the woman’s face instantly, it was pure disgust at being confronted with poverty first hand. She firmly said no with a quick I am sorry and clenched smile. The poor woman said she needed the money for her daughter’s medicine. It was then that I noticed the rusted out car with a broken window. A little girl sat watching. Poverty destroys our worth. It devalues as human beings. Little girl, you don’t even deserve to get better. That little girl was me.
In the quiet aftermath of my storm
As I walk among the debris
Fear overcomes me
needs a file to be gently sorted
I have been considering what should be written on my urn. I don’t want a boring, ugly urn but a fabulous vase with something mildly witty written on it. Ideas so far are:
“She was bound to end up here.”
“Don’t confuse with potpourri.”
“Rub three times, and a genie will pop out.”
“Smoke only if you want to trip for four days.”
“She arrived against her better judgment.”
“Let me out”
Maybe I can have an etch-a-sketch urn so you can write what you want or ohhh, perhaps some harry potter-esque one that changes automatically every few weeks. So many fun ways to traumatize my family when I am gone – good times.