Some days I feel my pulse tap inside my skull and
I can almost hear it,
click, click, click, click, click,
and each click ticks like seconds on a stopwatch,
like it's Sunday night and my parents are watching 60 Minutes
as I lay on the couch, wavering between each side of consciousness, like a porch
swing caught in the softest breeze.
Interest pieces expire as Andy Rooney prepares to make his complaints and pet peeves clear,
and I think of the my own distaste of crunchy peanut butter,
and I start to wish housewives would listen to me complain about my dislikes once a week for a couple minutes or more.
And some days I clench my fists when I walk down the sidewalk,
hoping my shoulder's clipped by a passing cyclist
so I can lodge a stick between the stokes of his rear wheel
and send him soaring into a stop sign,
to make flailing arm fireworks.
On those days my knuckles get even whiter when slower walkers
make small talk in front of me, conveniently blocking every possibility of
a quick slip past them, forcing me to shuffle my steps like the bootied feet
of a walker driven grandmother confined to the tile lined floor of a nursing home.
I bite my lip to keep from shouting,
"Walk faster! It's 3:30, I haven't eaten, and Gilmore Girls starts in a half hour!"
And then I start to wish I was a daughter with a hot mother as my best friend,
one who gets ever literary reference I could manage to interject, so that each line
I spit's quotable enough to be replayed every afternoon at 4 central Monday through Friday
And I begin to question why my taste in television isn't more masculine.
Some days I wish the sky was darker and full of more clouds,
to give me something to fear with legitimacy, and a reason to
spend my day hidden in the basement avoiding any chance of human interaction.
A storm like the tornado my brother once spoke of,
when my family was huddled in the basement, and I, as a small child
cradled a cookie in my fingers as
each neighboring home
was full of mothers grasping for little boys’ small hands.
I wanna be satisfied with holding something superficial,
I wanna be naive and selfish.
But some days aren't like
everyday, when I think of the summer in which you filled my arms.
When something existed that was bigger than every word I could ever wish to say,
and things were beyond any tangible explanation of comfort and bliss,
but that won't come back to me.
I was once swinging for the fences for you, now I’m swinging at fences to tear them down,
because I can't bear to be contained or have set limits for my expectations of love.
I won’t question whether glass slippers can fit bare feet perfectly, and I won’t be convinced “I love you” is only a font greeting cards are written in,
I’m not so angry, Sarah,
I’m not that bitter.
I’m just upset,
and I wish you’d think of me too, some days.
Created: Jul 23, 2010Document Media