Some Zombie

I know how to put on a smile,
how to be cordial and kind.
How to limit my words and expressions,
limit eye contact and interaction.

I've done this before
cut off contact.
Analyzed toxicity in its tracks.
Protected myself from others.

Dead and gone
to me and the world I knew.
Bury me with it,
don't dig it all up.

Lest I become some zombie,
a ghost of rotten memories.
A creature of Mr. Frankenstein.
I need not be resurrected.

Letting it go,
letting it be.
Looks different for you
than for me.

It's odd to be torn between worlds.
Wishing for contact and separation, all at once.
Evaluating most honestly,
what should and must never be.

I pray for the strength and focus
to harness this reflection when the time comes.
To see right through that past, those discarded memories.
Those people we thought we knew.

So many instances have taught me of grief and goodbyes.
You were different, challenged me to exercise new muscles.
Now I'm mostly on the other side, another for the resume.
You taught me what you taught me.

Let it rest, let it die.
Death isn't the worst thing to happen, after all.
There is closure and peace and after some time, relief.
RIP to you, RIP to me.

Life goes on, the poison no longer leaves me so weak.
Where there once was only despair, there is strength
and dreams of future odysseys.
Without you, without that version of me.

So bury me. With red lipstick and a cup of black coffee.
Among wildflowers, hair in a bouffant.
That girl you once knew and loved so deep.
She is gone, now dead to me.

My Foremothers

Joseph Daniel Fiedler for NPR

Somber days come and go.
Remind me of the work to put in.
These days are as much the work as any.
Happier moments are sprinkled throughout.
Take it all with grains of salt.
Astrology says I'm going through a major life shift,
changes to ways of looking at the world.
I don't need to believe it all to find comfort.
That this rough path is headed towards smoother plateaus.

I think of my Mother and Sister and Grandmothers.
All the work they may have or didn't put in.
"Trauma travels through a family, until someone is ready to feel it."
I don't believe all this pain is directly my own, but feel it all the same.
Women with my name.
Running, running, running away
Using booze, and pills, and methamphetamine to distract from dismay.

Women are so damn strong,
in spite of how we're told we are weak.
Children and marriage will give you what you need.
It all feels like some god damn sham.
Maybe for some it does the trick.
but I've watched so many women tear themselves
limb from limb.
To seek happiness, to be seen by some man.
That's the directive and narrative I grapple with.
I carry these women with me,
want to demand more for them and for me.

So much I wish to share and discuss with my Mom.
I still think of my sister and wish her strength and luck.
Pondering the legacy of women behind me,
it also cultivates thoughts of children and
what kind of parent I might be.
Breaking the cycle could present itself in various ways.
I don't want others to know this pain.
The challenge of truly standing and existing
on my own two feet.

Exploring the implications of self-care,
which really seem to be self-control and
even monotonous tasks, like going to the doctor
or keeping my spaces clean.
Anything to lessen the inherent madness
that comes with existence.
Existing as a person, as a woman
who loves, sometimes too much it seems.
Listening to my heart beats and racing thoughts.
Sitting through and traversing the insanities
of being a woman caught within a well-worn cycle.
Cultivating new pathways, neuro and physical.

Acknowledging my own story and actions,
seeing I relatively like who I am,
what I do and who I'm about.
Who I fuck with, ways I spend my time.
My goodness, my gracious.
I see you, my fellow foremothers.
Healing and breathing and seeing it through.
One day and space and step at a time,
the patience to learn from you.
And make something all my own,
something new,
something true.
My own legacy.

I am

I am not my relationships.
I am not my job, my cat, my friends, or family.
I am not the music I listen to or the movies I like.
the food I eat.

I am not valued based on what others see or don't
I am not my ex-boyfriends
or the number of times my heart has been broke.
I am not the religion I follow or don't
the places I go
the people I see.
the clothes I wear.
I am not the roof over my head.
the things I buy.

I am not anxiety.
depression
sleep apnea
chronic migraines
existential crisis or catastrophization
suicidal thoughts.

I am not the amount of time I exercise or don't.
a diet plan.
my appearance.
the car I drive
the work I put in.
a cog in the machine.

I am not your manic pixie girl.
your fantasy.
"your-emotions-make-me-uncomfortable"
a spoiled bitch.

I am not my hangups
trauma.
tears.
my biggest fears,
insecurities
how many chores I get done
the money I earn.

I am not alone.
I am not with anyone.
I am neither here, nor there.

I AM everything and nothing.
learning as I go.
seeking peace
searching for answers

I am only this moment.
I am gone as much as I am present.
breathing
feeling
wondering
working, lurking.

I am tired.
scared
at peace and aware.

I am seeing myself more each day.
trying not to become attached to what or who I am.

I am a person.
some sentient being.
just as I am.

Do you know who you are?

A Morning Glory, a Raging Warrior

6 months out
I've learned to see myself and my heart and what it's about.
Holding the shards of it in my hand,
I am protective.
Misery and joy exist side-by-side
It's nothing to run from or cover up.
Let it breathe, read what the signposts speak of.
I hear myself more clearly than ever before.
Not really afraid or ashamed,
I now speak kind words to myself and reaffirm the process.
I've been called brave and strong and resilient
and I'm starting to see it, believe it.
Courage isn't the absence of fear, but the ability to walk with it.
It's true, it's true.
Call me Joan of Arc or even Wonder Woman. Some gosh dang white woman.
Beyonce. Audre Lorde. Rumi. Nelson Mandela. Dozens of other fighters.
Lucky to know their stories, their experiences with overcoming
and finding again, glory.
Those I admire most are the ones who are raw and honest
and sit through the muck and the mire.
Without defensive moves, but rather transparency and reflection.
Aim to become those you admire most.
I'm trying. I'm trying.
The emotional overwhelm won't kill you,
it only feels like it does.
Strips out the unsavory bits and holds them up on display.
Call it what you will
it hurts and it burns and it rips through you.
For me, it's new to not judge myself when I've crumbled on the floor.
but now, with a few self-assured kindnesses and no judgments,
I stand back up nearly as quickly as I went down.
It makes me feel strong as hell.
Females are, you know.
A woman scorned, it's true.
Heaven help you, the day I tap into the strength I posses
I'm coming for you, world. One day and tear-filled moment at a time.
These god damn demons are becoming familiar friends,
nothing to fear or shame or spit upon.
I see it all more clearly, I'm riding the waves and battling the forces.
Call me Buffy, Hermoine, a morning glory.
A beautifully scarred and raging warrior.
My weapons aren't what you think they might be,
they're boundaries and reflection and demanding better for me.
Also, a bit of sass and anger. Just the right amount.
I like me, god damn it.
Thanks for those lessons, departed lover.
I'm fighting and ripping through the barriers, without you.
Call me resilient and strong and not giving a damn or a fuck.
It is as it is. Was what it was.
This path  isn't for the mild or meek
I've got this arsenal, this squad of friends and fellow seeking compatriots
they've got my back, give me direction and support.
I stand so strong.
Hell fuckin' yeah.

Pulling Weeds, Presently

Sometimes it's merely that we get caught in the crossfire.
Get burned up in the process.
I was struck again and again,
intent be damned.
It happened to me, happened to you.
The scratches and scars
left by unspoken needs, unacknowledged wants.
Now strewn around on the ground,
left to rot or flourish,
some seeds take off, some do not.
And still others may lay just dormant,
I feel them.
Doing the work of uprooting some,
examining their structures and pathways.
Admitting the ways it became gangrenous and unruly,
the ways it choked the life from us all.


Didn't like where the story was going
what it was saying, the lessons it evoked.
Didn't feel fuzzy or fun
but still full of truths that cannot now be unseen, nor explained away.
The realness of the realest truths,
skinned me to the very bone.
The rawness on my exposed sense of self,
knowledge of the world, of myself in this place.
All up for grabs, up to be molded and melded.



The discomfort in this process cannot be described,
a joyfully frightful venture through thickened brush
and deceptions and traps,
set by me, set by others, by the world I've known.
Using machetes and other even blunted tools within reach.
Cut it down, pick up the bits of assorted trash and debris.
Make it all anew, foreign and fresh
casting previous tools of comfort aside.
Seeking new methods and means and models.

Rewrite the damn narrative, whatever it was or is.
Cast it out, cast me out.
No longer allowed preoccupations of you, of us.
I am where and with whom exactly I need be,
should always have been.
Holding it all in or releasing it all out,
whatever the space and place demands.
Finding clearness in the confusion of it all.
What is life? What is this head space?
Evaluating each moment, each thought.

I get up, I breathe, I rotate my head around and see
that I've become the person I dreamed I wanted to be.
That grueling, grimacing, glamorized version of a woman,
of a person,
that you see in films. Manic, pixie. Clementine.
It's not what you'd think it to be.
Whether intentional or not, this is where I am.
Later it might be a perfect show, a montage of grieving scenes
spliced with moments of dance, yelling in a car,
cursing the air, cursing the gods,
scribbling furiously.

The green, green grass I sit upon
Watering can, pulling up weeds.
This avant gardener I've become.
I'm beautiful and I'm breathing
not thinking much of what could or would be.
Inadvertently present and clever
and oddly
zen-like as ever.

Fourth Jhana by Eugenia Loli