(Disclaimer: Poetry is the way I express the things I feel at any given time; this means that some of the poems you read here may be sad. I pray that these will help you know that you are not alone. Regardless of these poems, remember: there is always hope and you are loved.)
When I was young, I saw bubbles in the sky.
Thousands of little spheres of soap,
floating up, up, up.
The bubbles must mean something -
it occurred to me -
they must be symbolic somehow.
I was sure each small, soapy circle
represented a soul -
and, if so, there were so many floating above me!
As a child, the sight frightened me,
and I averted my eyes
from the clear, blue ceiling.
I have been told by now that those bubbles weren’t part of the sky,
but a part of me.
They float in my eyes, not in the air above my head.
Now, I am no longer a child.
I have seen too much and not enough.
Now, as I sit on this cold, stone step,
it comforts me to look up
and see the bubbles in the sky.
of the watermarks, the bruises, or the acne.
It’s not the one who spills out your name like confetti but the one who sets it aflame like a firework, not the one who plays
your body like piano keys but the one who can make music out of your lips.
He is the one who can fall asleep in the crevice of your collarbone without moving your hand anywhere else except your pillow,
who thinks your skin is softer than sky and who never makes empty
promises, only ones spilling out over the surface of glass,
never makes you clean up the mess.
The person best fit to love you is not the one who wants to shape you, fix you, or conquer you but the one who
says your soul is like a story they read once when they were a child and they never forgot it.
The one you are meant to fall in love with will be the strongest connection, the biggest thought in your brain, and the veins in your wrist -
not that you can’t live without them, but you would just prefer not to.
The person you are meant to fall in love with is not an alarm clock set to six o’clock or a ticking time bomb but a patient mother nursing a sick child, a melody played together with harmony or
the beautiful rhythm of movement that only exists between you and only you.
The person best fit to love you is not the one who wants to change you
but thinks that your mouth is the biggest
pulsing temptation that they have ever come across,
they will love your elusiveness, I promise you, they won’t want to dull the razor blades under your skin or even take it away from you, they will sharpen it so it will cut through ice,
it will cut through metal, I promise you, the person best fit to love you will not change the colour of your skin or make falling in love
all too familiar.
The person best fit to love you is not a lucky penny on the sidewalk, that’s not rare enough,
they are a four-leaf clover hidden beneath the tundra, they are about as likely as being attacked
by a great white while swimming in Lake Ontario.
The person best fit to love you will play the music of your love without the thick concealer of auto tune, their voice
will be a song you will never want to stop singing.
The person best fit to love you is not the extra shot of gin or the condom in the alleyway.
The person best fit to love you is a shard of glass, I promise you.
They might cut you open but reflecting upon the light,
God, they are so stunning to look at.”
There are so many words I would add
to the letter I wrote you a decade ago,
the letter which was torn into strips
and crammed into the trash bin
seconds after it was written.
When I was young, I was told I should love you,
because there’s blood in your veins
that echoes and reverberates in mine.
Your face looked so much like the one I loved,
only younger and softer and wrong.
I hate you for what you did and didn’t do,
for the sobs and tremors that wrack this little body
with gangly legs and arms that spill out of my lap.
I hate you because you threw away the most precious gift.
Though your blood and my blood are alike,
the direction in which mine flows
is so very different.
I will never thank you for the mistakes that you made,
I can never again love you,
not after what you did to me, to us, to him.
But my heart pumps violently,
each tiny blood vessel crying out praises
to the God who took all of your terrible mistakes
and wasted life and made something,
something lanky and broken and absolutely beautiful,
the most precious gift that I have ever been given.
How simple it would be to fall asleep tonight
and awaken to a body ten years older
in a house bought with the husband sleeping next to me -
a man I did not have to wait for,
enduring heartache and confusion and annoyance.
How easy to walk the halls of that house,
peering into the rooms decorated just so,
just the way I want them, with colors and books and art -
a house I didn’t have to search for,
moving from dorm to apartment, never quite at home.
How relieving to walk out of that house,
knowing full well that my commute will take me to a great job -
a career I didn’t have to work for,
studying heavy tomes in the campus library, high stress, little sleep.
How exciting to arrive again at my home,
where husband and darling children wait for me to make dinner -
children I didn’t have to long for,
waiting for the right man and the right time to have them in my arms.
But if I awoke tomorrow,
ten years older,
with husband and home and career in perfect order,
what ever would I tell my children,
when they asked for a story?
I am a girl of lightning and thunder.
The steady rain on my window is a song
meant to call me, only me.
My heartbeat realigns itself to the drums
and I cannot keep my body in my bed.
I tiptoe to the door,
more excited than a little girl
on Christmas morning.
The creak of the door is overpowered
by the great crash of thunder
as my brothers welcome me.
Soon after, I am blinded
by my laughing sisters.
Their joy is my joy, again, and I smile.
I laugh aloud at their dancing and stomping and singing.
Tears fall from my eyes in ecstasy.
The rain whispers over me,
a homecoming, an embrace, a baptism.
The thunder shouts and the lightning dances -
I am new.
If tomorrow morning comes
and I am nowhere to be found,
look for me in the places I loved the most.
My name is not written on monuments,
my face is not carved in stone,
but I hope the memory of my laugh
brings a smile to your face.
Listen for me in the wind,
look for me in the backgrounds
of strangers’ photographs,
sitting - at peace - on the stone,
in the fading light
of the setting sun.