I Will Not

I am not going to write another post about you. About how much I loved you, but how I afraid I was that I did not love you enough. I will not confess all the things you did that made me so angry I wanted to break things, or that made me so happy I wanted to dance. Instead, I’ll say things like “I am so scared of my role in my new job; the anxiety that comes from knowing that there is much that can go wrong, and that the responsibility is all mine; the insecurity of not knowing if anything I am doing is just right, or if everything I’ve done is so wrong.” I’ll talk about how when I’m nervous, or upset, or if something has triggered me, I’ll tug on my ear, and bite my nails. I’ll even throw in a tidbit about how much I love to take the band off my hair, and play with the hard, kinky spirals  my mother and I once spent so many years straightening. On occasion, I may talk about how angry I was when I felt that I’d been there for the people I cared about, but how it felt like I could never turn to them the year I let everything go, and crashed. Maybe, I’ll even bring up the “dark” year. The one in which rolling out of bed made me want to cry for the futility of it all. Or perhaps, I’ll go a step further, and confess that–when the pain went away, and all I felt was numbness–I wanted to hurt me. I needed to hurt me. Just to be sure I was still alive. That I was still capable of feeling something. Even if it was almost the blade of a knife I’d held over the flames on my stove. What do I know, is that I will not. I will not write another ridiculous post about frustration and anger; disappointments and expectations; forgiveness and uncertainty; love and understanding; that features you, because I don’t think you ever truly did anything to deserve it. So no, I will not write another post for you. And if on a whim, I catch one verse, one line, one lyric, one poetic phrase flittering out my fingers, I will turn away from it. And, if you ever truly knew me, you’d know, forgetting an iota of what I’ve written, letting go when the words are calling, is one of the hardest things for me to do.

K.N.O.W. Pour le quatorze janvier.

(A promise I reneged on because it stymied my creative process. Well then. -_-)


There is nothing but pregnant pauses,

Weighted with the silence of words unspoken.

In the throes of their labour, float naught,

But still births, and unformed limbs.

So, with spade and shovel,

Pick and ax,

I aim to bury–

Burrowing deeply into the spaces of muddy darkness.

And in their moist recesses,

Will I lay dead-born, and unborn,

Side by side with Friendship*.

Then, at long last, will Friendship’s last relative

Lie deathly beneath the stone;


In the anonymity of the unknown grave.


Tuesday, December 3, 2013.


*In collaboration with Death of a Friendship*