I’m the woman who believes in thorns,
the beauty of fallen fruit,
and lavishing love on the lovable
I’m generous, difficult, and incomplete.
I’m emotional, moody and often demanding
I have spells of sullen iciness,
and moments of hot tea and clarity.
I’m the woman who can only be
of this world for moments at a time.
My soul affixed to solitude
and one darkness after another.
When the lights finally come back on,
I confess I like a warm arm around my waist
and a strong shoulder to rest my chaotic head.
I’m also partial to masculine fingers
that know how to coax my color back,
under silk sheets, with creative words,
and hands of purpose.
I’m often confused. Do I succumb
to the screeching crow
or pay homage to the nightingale?
I’m the woman who would go
anywhere to leave you,
but will beg you to come with me.
When we get there, I’ll fight with you
over the map and then kiss you
on the street.
I’m an expert at backbends.
I practice them every night
under memory’s disco light.
I hide an extra heart under my bed
in a packed suitcase of longing.
I’m the woman waiting for good enough
to be enough. Still, always wanting
more of much. Knowing life, like art,
is what we make it.
We all deserve something more than nothing.
I’m insignificant, and at times insecure.
I’m the broken woman.
cracked, bent. Damaged.
I’m the woman becoming whole,
becoming more me with each new break.