I'm catching up as the last two days have been spent on a home renovation project. Our master bedroom has had one wall covered in old crate wood. The previous owners of our home thought that the crate wood (unfinished, unvarnished and full of spliters and old rusted nails) was a good look. My husband and I demolished the old panelling and put up new panels on a vertical look. The photos below are our before and after.
My poem today is sort of like a before and after of the self. A before and the reflection on it after...
Untitled Existence
The loops of my handwriting
connect and disconnect. What is love,
but to admit not loving & then
forgiving oneself for not always
being in love with oneself. My hand
writing is difficult to read because
maybe I’m difficult to read, maybe
this is my armor I started building
years ago, when I witnessed my mother
crying the day into gray, tears melting
into raincloud carpet. Days felt
like so many other days that followed
where stories became memories, truth
was never in doubt. I took everything
she told me and stored it away, believed
everything to the core of my body
and now I unpack myself, and I cannot
find where I end and where she begins,
where am I at but nowhere, who am I
but a culmination of everyone else—
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