Be Gentle With Yourself

 Dear Anger, I don’t know where you are hiding. Or why you are there. But you are. And you’re strong. I don’t consider myself an angry person, I forgive quickly and easily. You come out in my dreams, violent, dark, twisted, full of death and pain. Bludgeoning those I love, screaming with no words coming out. Unable to get my point across, nobody gets it. A constant block felt in sleep, waking up with unresolved feelings and unspoken words. Confused at their meaning, challenged to talk to those I love dearly, but were the source of my pain at night. You come out when I’m drunk, to myself, to others, to someone that looks at me wrong. To that man that decides tonight is the night to hit on me...it’s not the night, and it won’t ever be the night. I want to hit things, I want to smoke a cigarette in anger drawing the line of smoke in like a line of cocaine. I want to shoot whiskey and write inflamed words on a paper. At first glance, yes, I guess I might have some anger. I’m angry at the w

  If you ever find yourself outside of a used bookstore, do not pass go. Open the door and happen upon stories, treasure maps, keys to other worlds, and maybe an old cat named Frank wandering the corridors. You’ll know it’s the right place based on the unorganized shelves and grungy carpet, the smell of dust, life, and letters will whirl under your nostrils. That same dust will hang limply in the air under the stream of sunlight in the stained windows. You will be picked, called out and born here. As you walk silently down each aisle, you won’t really need to read the title. And if you do, do it at the end. If you let yourself feel it, your soul will tell you. Drift a finger over the hump of each spine, each worn and scarred body, and when it says stop, Listen. Grasp it gently, and no matter what, smell it first. The old ones always call to me most. So many hands where mine lies now, so many shelves, tables, and beds it laid on before resting here. There are so many lives it saw, with

I see in you the pain she holds. The unbearable thought of not being what we need. Could I even recognize you. If you appeared as an outline of us. As a ghost in my dreams. Who you used to be, traces the outlines of your eyes. Fades into therapy sessions on the past. The ghost of you when you're stressed and overwhelmed. Your emotions taking hold. Ghost of you shoved deep. Until your stomach aches and your head pounds. The ghost of you hides in books and sleep. I feel like I carry the wounds of her with me but am not sure how to heal. I can feel her shadow when you hug me, an apology lingering on the too long of squeeze. Why can’t I seem to let go, of the ghost of you.

  For 12 months we tried to fight the cloth tied over our face Begging to be free, pleading for control back of our spaces When the days brought flowers again, the hope rose The belief was that normalcy would return We untied, dismantled, and tore off our masks  Jubilated to feel free of this grasp Instead, what was found was both desolate and perplexing Normal had nowhere to go Except back into our purposeless pit  The place that held who we believed we were and wanted to be Normal began to feel more like a fraud than a foundation Yes, our breathe could flow in and out of our inlet But still felt imprisoned in our cavity, so tight Relationship was rigid and stiff Both with ourselves and fellow peers Our feelings and tempers rioting inside Blurting out our inadequacies far and wide After 2 short moons  It was recommended to tie that cloth back to our faces Which we did in most places A feeling of ease at this cumbersome task  To keep the monster behind our mask

I am realizing that when given a prompt, I want to write anything and everything that comes to mind. I am beginning to explore prompts and this one is from a SLC Group called "Salty Scribblers" Deep in her closet a box lies, the dust has spread over the top and seeped to the sides. It has moved with her again and again, though only receives a hesitant glance now and then. But sometimes In her dreams she skips to it, excited to rummage through and release the treasures inside. As she peeks in, she sees distant memories, fervent feelings, and amusement of all kinds.  A Pink and worn Teddy Bear with arms open and a rainbow kite, ripped and bright.  A Snowman sits at the bottom, still frosty and needing a nose.  The scraped knees and rain puddles remind her of play. Some nights she takes one or two out and lays them on her sleeping self, testing the fit.  The beliefs are the hardest to fit.  Her parents know all and her sister protects no matter her own monster wall. When she kne

  To my Mother To My Mother's Feet. Thank you for carrying me, through the woods when I refused to keep going. Through my pain when I thought it was too much to handle. Through my cuts and scratches as I explored the world. The bones that hold you up, that taught me what it feels like to stand and to move myself through the world. To My Mother's Arms. Thank you for rocking me to sleep for years when you were tired and couldn't hold anymore, thank you for still holding. Thank you for playing with my hair, braid after braid. For scratching my back when you wanted to do anything else. Thank you for hugging me, holding me close, tight, and never letting go. To My Mother's Hands. The hands that bandaged my wounds, bandage-able or not. Thank you for wiping my tears, catching them in your own. Thank you, hands, for clapping for me through sports, my words, my fears, and my battles. The hands that pushed me forward to be my best. To My Mother's Voice. That soothed me throug