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A fragment of myself is all I can show the world. Many think it’s me, happy go lucky, always smiling, beaming like the brightest star. It is only a fragment they see.

My whole self is a myriad of fragmented pieces, put together loosely. It’s an ill-fitting suit but the only one I have. This world is unsafe for people like me. My most intimate parts and my darkness hides behind a fragment of sunshine.

I have shown some of these fragments but always, always am told how disgusting, how unbecoming, how ugly they are. I tuck them back into the spaces I removed them from, but they don’t fit exactly the same. Somehow by exposing them to another and feeling the rejection, the fragments become misshapened. I reach within myself and pull out the one everyone likes, the fragment everyone appreciates.

It gets tired sometimes, always being the light, the cloak that renders all the other fragmented pieces of me invisible. It is the piece I must care for the most. I give it rest during the night while allowing the others to wander and howl and scream and cry, while that piece sleeps peacefully.

It puts on a good show when the curtain pulls back. It is there, beaming, a red, red rose between its teeth. “Oh I love you. I love you. Thank you. Thank you,” it says to its audience as it bows. A great performer, no one could know what hides behind that beaming light. Have you ever tried to see past the sun? It is a task no one can do, not without the aid of sunglasses or transition lenses.

Poetically Aloof

I’m as distant as the meaning of an obscure poem. People hang on my every word, even though, my words drip

with poisonous cynicism. I make them laugh as I flit from person to person, hovering, my nerves on edge, ready to strike

I am a murder hornet, searching for honeybees to decapitate. They fall into my hands unwittingly, caught up in my spell

of poetics. Similes and soliloquies keep them captivated. One would think I am friendly, the way they swarm

around me. I feel like a queen. Maleficient, draped in black, a raven resting on my shoulder. I shoo them away

with a flick of my wrist, swat them down like a fly swatter. The people are pests, surrounding me, bothering me with

their quibbling and smiles, begging me to speak, to lay upon them, sonnets and villanelles and sestinas of words

Words, words, words. If I could not speak I would surely die

I Will Listen

Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash

I will listen as the rain pelts the metal awning outside my living room window. I will listen for the crows call on a foggy fall day with overcast gray skies. I will listen as the leaves dance in the wind. They crunch and scratch as they whirl in the street.

I will listen to the birds chirping at my mother’s feeders. I will listen as the wind howls on a cold blustery fall afternoon. I will listen for that one note in a song that sends delicious chills up my spine. I will listen as my dog barks at passersby on the sidewalk.

I will listen closely as day turns to night, as fall changes to winter, as rain turns to snow. I will listen. I will be still and I will listen.


Photo by Luis Alfonso Orellana on Unsplash

Doorways and open tree-lined paths and roads send my mind wandering. I’m lost in a myriad of possibilities. My mind’s eye takes me through the door.

I save pictures of doorways. Flower-covered or blocked by weeds, square or arched in multiple colors. I save pictures of tree-lined roads and paths. Paths covered in autumn leaves, snow or rain slick. If I open the door where would it take me? If I travel this road where will it lead me?

Closed doors or open doors beckon to me. Should I enter? Open roads, open dirt paths, should I explore them? My mind opens. Is this admiration for these images a subconscious longing? Do I wish to explore what my mind wants me to know? Do I wish to travel or does it mean something deeper? Are doorways and open roads my idea of being free?

I know seeing the images saved to my Pinterest page makes my mind soar. Seeing the images fills me with excitement, something akin to pure joy. Doorways and open roads and picturesque paths call out to me. My heart and mind scream in unison, “Let’s explore! Let’s see! Let’s notice! Let’s explore!”

Noticing: A Writing Prompt

Photo by Diego PH on Unsplash

We walk through life wrapped up in our heads, in our responsibilities, our expectations, our work, we don’t take the time to stop and notice. We don’t notice the lone blade of grass dancing in the wind or the way a maple leaf waves hello as the wind blows. We are too busy to notice the mourning doves scourging for loose bird seed or the squirrel fussing from a tree branch. We don’t notice the howl of a wintry wind or the craters in an October supermoon. We don’t notice the lavenders and pinks of the sky during a sunset. Nor the darkening of the sky and the awakening of the stars. We are all too busy with our plans, our to-do lists or private thoughts. I wonder would any of that matter if we took a minute or two to sit idle and notice the passing of time spent doing, doing, doing and not being.