obviously i can’t leave

i have a child & husband
no family threads to speak of
nothing that would miss me
but i also know
i don’t want to start again

the idea of rebuilding
it’s exhausting
rationally i don’t want to destroy
everything i’ve stabilized
all the progress
the lack of symptoms

but it’s just this time of year
after thanksgiving
before the end
and i find myself cruising Craigslist
looking at jobs
i wonder what housing looks like there

because we know this can’t last
why would you saddle yourself with me
i’m only going to destroy her
our marriage will implode
simply because i don’t know
suppression – only immolation

and maybe that’s the discomfort
the creeping silence
of a self that hasn’t been torn apart
shredded examined sifted through for lies
in far too long, falling headlong
into the winter of my discontent

Listen –

I’m not saying that
all the white woman wellness messages
are right or wrong –
that I should start
using designer vaginal gemstones,
guzzle smoothies spiked with ancient herbs
or surround myself with wabi-sabi pottery
to reconnect to the earth-mother
and my inner child.

However-
I did spend seventeen years
mourning Conan O’Brien’s
Successful marriage and the circumstances of
time / wealth / social class / intelligence
that conspired to keep us separated,
only to be at a point today
where my husband is a 6’5″ redhead
with a impish smile
a refreshing lack of cynicism
and a ridiculously dry and surreal sense of humor
which means he thinks I’m hilarious.

So –
Maybe be mindful
of the energy juice you throw out
into the void of the universe
and the next time your friend starts in
with the cedar burning or the salt lamp
whatever it might be,
try not to laugh.
Everyone deserves a shot at their Conan.

Just as I notice

the leaves on the ground
and the annual return of
pumpkin spice everything,
i notice my thoughts return to you
and what you might be doing today.
No longer do the feel the urge
to google you,
to find your mugshot from age 19
and a shoplifting bust
when you needed to desperately escape
your life in Florida
but I still wonder about your happiness.
Are you an old lady
writing poetry on your front porch yet?
Or did you give up that dream
like I did
simply for the sake of avoiding the cliche?

Poetry is a game

for the young at heart
that still possess
ragged cliffs of emotions
and passions
not yet dulled
by the years of tides
of sorrow beating against them,
the salt of which you can still taste
in the tears that fall
from the frustration caused
by creating an emoji response
for something that you’ve trained
yourself not to feel any longer.

Welcome to your 30’s.