I am going crazy in this little room. The more I try to ignore it the more I fuck up.I am forever guilty and at fault.
The air is finally getting warm . It is 3AM, and I wish I could stay awake until 5:30 so I could go outside and listen to the birds as they wake up. When I was little and woke up at ungodly hours of the morning, I would go into the living room and look out my living room window and listen to the silence of the house. I could hear, outside in the trees beside the house, the birds chirping and singing to the dawn. The sky was mostly dark, but just as I would begin to drift off to sleep with my head on the back of the couch, the sky would turn pink. The trees, black against the tangerine and coral of the sky behind them, were still and the grass was slick with dew and everything smelled like rain.
I would run off the school bus into my fathers arms, and my mother would make salad and pesto for dinner. I'd collect little bugs and try and save the frogs we found outside my hot tub. I had an orange hippopotamus and my mom's green apron and my dad's large rings that he got when he graduated from college. I had opera while I took a bath and played with my lion figurines in the water. I listened to Billy Joel cassette tapes and watched the fish in the fish tank swim as I fell asleep.
Now I have 100 different places and things. I am school I am an apartment in New York I am Pennsylvania I am nowhere. I wear a lot of bracelets and rings and my hair is too short and my eyes never a distinguishable color. I am dirty fish tanks and stupid memoirs and different languages. I am never what I am. I am soy milk and white dogs and windowsills with the paint peeling off . I am arugula and rabbits with people names . I am not the very blood that runs through my veins but am powerless to change it.
I am blond and I am light and I am nobody's but everyone's at the same time. I am not wanted, I was but then I wasn't and then I was and then I was again. Now you can't have me and it's all your fault even though I don't believe that. I long to be my own and my children's, but I have not found them yet. I have questions and I am sailing on an emerald bay. I am never far away. I am not weak and I do not hide every two weeks and I am not afraid. I long to have a place to crawl back to.
I love you and you and you and you. You are great with the ducks, and you with the fish. I should love you both but I cannot do so freely and without regret, and I should be in love and I should be angry but I cannot find the strength to be one or the other.
I know that once I am seen I lose my appeal.
