The Moon is tidally locked, which is a fancy way of saying that she cannot turn her head. We tell her she is beautiful, but she wonders what it means when we've only seen one side — the one that shines the brightest. She worries what we would think if we only knew how much she loves her darkest self.
thoughts
living
I spend so much time lamenting the days I can't write poetry sometimes I fail to notice the days I'm living it instead
worry
I am not afraid of bees or wasps or flies or other things that sting and bite no, the thing that fills my heart with fear is the elusive buzzing in my ear that whispers: what if what if what if
city girl
Give me the living lights of these high-rise constellations, and not just the pilgrimage of a billion lonely suns. Give me the astringent musk of a dozen factory workers on the crowded bus home; let our lungs pass oxygen like relay runners on the same team. I'd rather be kept awake by the drunken testament to life on the other side of paper-thin walls, than spend my nights pretending the universe is emptier than it already is.
between
Closed doors
are so much more
enticing
than open ones.
Odd or familiar,
cherished or abandoned,
they lead everywhere
all at once.
Infinite constellations
collapse like dominos
into singularity with
the twist of a knob.
What am I afraid of?
Flowers pressed to paper
lose the vibrancy
of impermanence.
Let me exist in the
moments between moments
in the space between
thought and action.
Let me persist
forever in the breath
before the door begins
to open.
Work in progress.
This is the poem I can't write. I've never hit the backspace so many times, never scribbled out so many lines. This is the ball of yarn I'm not sure I'll ever untangle. The knot I've left unbrushed since childhood, but now it's so matted, it breaks all my scissors and combs. Look at me hiding behind metaphors because I'm afraid I'll cut my fingers on the point. Because the point is that I use other women to determine my self-worth. That I'm never sure if I'm good enough unless I'm the best and there is always someone better isn't there? That another women's success feels like a personal attack, and shit I don't want to talk about this but I think we need to talk about this, because every time I see a provocative woman I hate myself, and I hate her a little bit too. And I get the feeling I'm not the only one who uses an outdated rubric to determine their grade. The only one who needs a grade to feel they have value. God I want to scrub this off so hard that it stings. This inky stain ignored for so long it's become a tattoo so ugly I'd rather pretend it's a birthmark. Like envy was the sin assigned to me by God. Some days I look in the mirror and think I'm beautiful, not despite, not in comparison to. Just truth. And then I hear an old coworker telling me the hottest women are the ones who don't know it. A chorus of lamentation about my fat thighs. All the careful reminders that boys will jump when offered something better. And there's always something better isn't there? Now I've taken you down to the bottom of the well. This is where the echoes live, the place where I point fingers at corpses. Where I use other women's bodies as stepping stones to try to escape. Because we all want to escape. But this isn't a birthmark. And I don't believe in sin. Or God. Or unsolvable problems. So why the hell do I believe that anyone could be better? Or worse? And I think I'm scared to write because I don't know how it ends. I wish I knew how to translate thought into feeling. To transfigure conviction into belief. But I don't. I don't.
Just in case.
We should have said goodbye, but "I'll see you soon" inflates the hours like balloons and softens our fall. I think we all know the movies are a lie: goodbye is taboo for all but happy endings. So we just pretend we'll see each other again, and even on a deathbed we'll say goodbye without the punctuation just in case. Just in case. Can you hear it too? The phantom ringing of a phone we set to silent? Weren't we taught that unlocked doors are dangerous? But then again, what hope isn't?
let go
Do you recall the moment you were introduced to the ladder? Maybe you were sat on the ground, forced to squint against the sun while they pointed out some lofty goal. Or maybe you were placed on a rung, lifted by loving arms while you judged the distance you'd have to fall if you took just one wrong step. No wonder you want to defend it, all the hours you climbed and fretted, the blistered hands from grasping and lifting, bruised shins from slipping. No wonder your fingers instinctively curl when I tell you: that ladder never existed. No wonder you cling so tightly that your nails press false woodgrain into your flesh until that imaginary position is as identifying as your own handprint. If only you'd look around you'd see those cuts and scrapes weren't in vain; it's no shame to trip on the uneven ground, and so much easier to get up again. Without the dizzying vertigo of ascent you'll see how far you've come compared not to everyone walking by your side, but to that unique place you started from. @amnotpoetry
Amy Notdorft 