drowsing
vignettes play,
of me in my new place.
imagined happenings,
dancing in front of the mirrors I hope to put up,
putting things away
in the vanity that solves
storage problems galore,
crying in MY bed,
in MY shiny red bedroom
over some
new,
problematic dalliance
with some imagined boy.
tacking pretty things on the wall
to satisfy imagined estimations
of my taste and personage.
making the clothes I WANT to wear
out of painstakingly selected fabrics
on my ancient fucking machine.
playing the music that makes me want
to choreograph elaborate quadrilles
smeared eyes stained lips
painting art nouveau tableaux in gold glaze
on the teal walls,
waxing the wooden floors,
padding across stained imitation persian carpets
wrapped in my disintegrating blue embroidered peach-that-is-too-close-to-pink silk robe
winding my victrola
designing my life around every warped note.
lacing animal bones and airplane parts through
riveted leather
stitching turkoman buttons, conus shells, antique coins
into costumes materialized from my own drawings,
and cutting colored acetate into stained glass windows...
Making a life that will come with me when I leave my
home,
that will make me stronger
building some confidence in my own countenance
for once...
And God do I hope it sticks,
cause I think the next phase got here already;
almost un-announced..
and I’ve been the girl,
the gibbering madman
the drooling junkie,
the broken doll that everyone wants to fix,
the girl with The Checkered Past
and now,
now I want to be The Person
the one that’s as fully realized as I can manage,
the one that has no more cords to cut
and stays present
to realize what else is happening around her,
that she can’t tune it out;
like tinitis patients
won’t hear the
clangings
and
crashings of their own
broken refrigerator.
I’ll hope to hear and fully address the noises
and I won’t wait
for
someone
else
to mention
them.
