I am so short
I walk the ends off
everything
my pants
my words
my relationships
I hide my feelings
in the linings
of suitcases
borrowed for the
occasion
I think part of my struggle in writing is that I have tried to bend myself and my will towards more polished and technical means. In reality, I am a confessor, and a confessee, and while I clean up well, let's face it, I will always wipe my hand on my dress without thinking, if I need my fingers free to do something and no napkin is at hand.
I've always know that I could never be a Martha Stewart, everything-in-its-place, my-house-is-a-showroom, type of woman. I'm domesticated, but still always wild at heart. I tried, though, but it's just not who I was born to be, and still be me.
I always pictured myself and my children, my girls I always knew I'd have, drawing on the wooden floors of cottages, using the sun for light, spilling dirt as we planted and re-planted growing things we would talk to as if they were listening. To me, the scattered parts of living lives that you trip over until Saturday or Sunday cleans things up, cheered on by bad pop music, was something beautiful. Despite my best intentions, I'm a hopeless romantic, and a born poet, and every imperfection is full of meaning. Maybe I misrepresented myself. Or maybe I was misunderstood. I'm not sure about these things. I'm a different creature in the office, and a different creature in the process of being someone for somebody else when force and focus is needed. We are all more than one self within our selves.
Do you see me?
I walk the ends off
everything
my pants
my words
my relationships
I hide my feelings
in the linings
of suitcases
borrowed for the
occasion
I think part of my struggle in writing is that I have tried to bend myself and my will towards more polished and technical means. In reality, I am a confessor, and a confessee, and while I clean up well, let's face it, I will always wipe my hand on my dress without thinking, if I need my fingers free to do something and no napkin is at hand.
I've always know that I could never be a Martha Stewart, everything-in-its-place, my-house-is-a-showroom, type of woman. I'm domesticated, but still always wild at heart. I tried, though, but it's just not who I was born to be, and still be me.
I always pictured myself and my children, my girls I always knew I'd have, drawing on the wooden floors of cottages, using the sun for light, spilling dirt as we planted and re-planted growing things we would talk to as if they were listening. To me, the scattered parts of living lives that you trip over until Saturday or Sunday cleans things up, cheered on by bad pop music, was something beautiful. Despite my best intentions, I'm a hopeless romantic, and a born poet, and every imperfection is full of meaning. Maybe I misrepresented myself. Or maybe I was misunderstood. I'm not sure about these things. I'm a different creature in the office, and a different creature in the process of being someone for somebody else when force and focus is needed. We are all more than one self within our selves.
Do you see me?
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