Years ago something happened that would change the course of my life for the rest of my life.
It created a separate identity for me: someone I hadn’t met yet, who I didn’t know if I ever could. She was me, just removed. I wasn’t able to look her in the eye for years. She has been a stranger to me, but begging for me to recognize her … as us.
I was reckless but it was a beautiful mess. I was going to play hard and then get the hell out of this town. I was going to be broken-hearted and a writer and live above a bar or bookstore in Boston and wear scarves ironically. Smoke cigarettes, drink blood-red wine and swear like a sailor. On purpose. I would write poetry and be a starving artist and feel free and beautiful and be in love with men who would never marry me.
But I was too reckless with myself before any of this could take place.
Damaged – a mother in recovery with nothing to show for it… I had no identity to cling to. Except the one I made out of thin air.
And later, be theirs.
Years to the day of the aftermath that has carved the most severe and jagged cavern out of my life: I will begin,
And I will
This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.