Thirty-seven

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.

Be his.

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, 

again.

And I will

Be mine.


This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.