are you a poet? decipher this

the skirt of a creative mind
snags on the clasp of a hook
to close, zips up the teeth of
colors with figurative language
too explicit it’s a neckline plunging
no, a modest A line tempts intellects
only some can pull off
wearing a dress

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the best of us

when a shower rod breaks
it is not even, in fact there are no parts
the two ends slip unspoken
their simple shared responsibility
to uphold the billowing curtain
marred by towels and makeshift
hanger dryer not in the agreement,
the ends unhinge together as one

I dug my own grave

I  sat in the staff workroom perfecting the upcoming book celebration plan. After kindergarten completes reading a Magic Tree House book – a second grade reading level – we decorate the cafeteria based on the book theme and have a dance party. For Midnight on the Moon, the scholars will walk in to a read aloud about the moon to see a blacked out room with bulletin board paper, stars and rocket ships on the walls, astronauts and moons hanging from the ceiling, a bowl of moon rocks in moon dust as centerpieces at each table and a pumped up playlist to get them moving after they eat.
All for them and to prove that I can excel at creation.
When my boss walked in, I was listening to a moon lullaby. I stopped it to find a more dance inducing song, and Boss told me to not stop on account of her. Smiling, I admitted I was searching for a better option.
As she placed her Wendy’s lunch on the table to sort through and refrigerate, I moved across the room to check the printer. I can lead a class of twenty-six five year olds, but striking up a common dialogue with a superior makes me bite my tongue. It was her who spoke. Curiosity I don’t know, but the Boss mentioned my approved day off. “I also saw that you added another day. Are you going somewhere?”
A conversation I didn’t expect, I was unprepared to lie. Stumbling sincerity: no, I just wanted another day to myself to write. Like a fifth grader asked about her feelings for her crush by the crush’s mom, I awkwardly added, “I can come in if you want me to.”
Where was the future me traveling back in time to stop me from committing stupidity?
Of course Boss tried to be lenient. Would I want Monday or Tuesday? I was getting a day off March 12th. That was a gift.
She packed up her prepped salad to take upstairs to eat in her office. I stood there in the empty space knowing if I screamed everybody would hear.
The chasm of frustration had me teetering on the endless rim of black hole vexation. What’s a personal day if I have to talk about it?
It’s Rich’s spring break that week. This semester has been hard on us. He juggles work, eighteen credits and jumping into game design without prior experience. We don’t see each other so much. All I wanted was to spend a long weekend with him, Indigo curled up between us as we continued our Naruto marathon. That day for vacation is approved. I just wanted the extra day for myself.
Why should I feel guilty about what I want? I take pride in my work, the youngest of the pack, I try to maintain my gait with the grade leader. Somehow I’m still the twelve year old who’s not good enough in comparison to the teachers who spend their weekends traveling to teacher conventions and hobble in noncontagious but diseased.
Scholars, parents, boyfriend, cat – and those are just the people who covet time and energy from me. Ice it with my meticulous desire to excel at creation in school projects, I don’t know how Supergirl does it. I don’t want to be taken care of, but I’m not taking care of myself either. How can I be entrusted to bring joy into anyone’s life?
I am a balloon filled with slime. Mud masked it can’t be popped; trickling life force leaving a trail of unappreciative attitude. I can’t inspire if I’m not my best self.
Coincidence awarded me the chance to blog nightly this week. This literacy testing period will be over soon and I will have to write twelve more lesson plans instead. The next testing period begins two days before Rich’s birthday. Personal days then won’t be an option so I won’t ask.
The worst hell isn’t torture. It’s a stretch of bleakness.
I used to be an actress, Jack Daniels my teacher, but it was a bad habit I had to let go of. A dull rock will never have the luster of pyrite – fool’s gold yet it sparkles. So I retreat into my mental cave of creation – for work and for myself – because the words I say aloud come out wrong.

you’re the same if you walk away

daughter of the waves
she collects shells, broken
whole, the sand jealous scratches
but she claps back the dirt
drags the debris down depths
of no discernment, graveyard of baubles

daughter of the waves
buoy admiration, she bobs up
wherever the foam takes her
under the pull of light
her temperamental full display
none can touch her
without the fear of drowning

The No Break-Up Clause

Nope, we’re not breaking up. Nope, you don’t know what you want. Oh senioritis got you wondering? You want the college experience? Here it is: people live by themselves, people go to class, they get food with friends and hang out at parties or game or watch movies together. It’s freeing, yes, because you can do it when you want to do it.
But me? You can only choose me now.
Not tomorrow because I’m not going to waste my time not being appreciated. I am not some girl to taste in an array of cuisine. No I’m the full meal: my coquettish giggle the appetizer, my intellectual conversation about passions the three-course meal and if you’re lucky – and only then – the depths of my heart for dessert.
So you’ll choose me today because I am the best damn woman you have in your life.
We’re not breaking up.

That’s what I wish I said. Instead I begged for another chance like a dirty dishtowel desperate to clean the last crummy plate. I never wanted to stop, didn’t want to start over, too afraid to never find a flame again.

now i see clearly

when I saw her castle I was jealous
fancy tools to perfect towers and windows
I could not reach her dig depth for wet sand
adamant I collected underwater grains
soaked I set a foundation on a dry hill
decorated with protection layers of shells
in a dampening mood, the tides surged forward
her rotundas fell inward swimming in their
self-created moat while mine withstood
but pride was unsatisfactory when her
company danced on the mounds of prime
beach architecture gaily and I was left with
mermaid toenails