skeletons in my closet, the poem
Writing, for me
Is like kicking down my closet door
With analogies and metaphors
Walking in and inhaling a whiff of nostalgia
The slight scent of shame
Turning on the light of truth
Sitting down and shaking the bony hands
Of each skeleton in my closet
Giving each hollow frame a name
And discussing just exactly how they made
My closet their home
In the first place
Writing, for me
Is like dropping my pants in public
Slowly undressing my insecurities
In the blinding light of the eyes of an audience
Putting all my chips
That have been chiseled from my shoulder
On the table
And taking a gamble
On who I am
On who I want to be
While becoming best friends with uncertainty
Writing, for me
Is a vehicle of vindication
If you piss me off
I will simply
Write you off
In poems, in prose, in performance
And the whole world will know
That these memories and scars
Are now not just mine
But ours
Writing, for me
Is my eminent Ebenezer
The place where I silently settle
What I thought I knew
So I can break down
In order to break through
The statue that whispers
Remember, don’t forget
About how tough it was to tighten your jaw
Against the unjustness of his prideful man-made law
About the pain that registered in your brain
When betrayal became the new protocol of boyfriend
But most of all,
Remember, don’t forget
The lesson you learned
When you were ready to receive it
Is a form of forgiveness
An active act that
Is difficult to do on a daily basis
It is a way for me to reach out
To you, the person
I’ll never talk to
And feed you a supper of subtle thoughts
Ending the night with deserts of delicate disclosures
And if you walk away
Wondering
Was she talking to me, about me?
The correct answer is
Yes.
Yes, I was.
In that poem
In that line
Your face
Was in the back of my mind
And on the tip
Of my pen
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