it’s not a midlife crisis,
it’s a cracking,
like thin ice on a puddle of water,
first just some hairline wrinkles around the eyes,
then the rest, all at once
it’s a 40-odd year journey of finally feeling free enough to crack,
of figuring out how to pick apart the shell and stand in the presence of myself,
of giving myself permission to unearth and to write,
but also to stalk my own soul,
and sometimes having too much of my own self
sometimes the stalking hurts,
if for no other reason than my skin doesn’t feel like it’s mine;
sometimes I panic,
because I’ve been staring at the answers for so long,
but can’t locate the questions
finding and asking the right questions,
speaking them out loud and in the open,
oh, God –
it turns the air around my words into weather
they say a person’s personality is the sum of their experiences,
but that isn’t entirely true;
if my past was all that defined me,
I’d never be able to put up with myself –
I need the freedom to convince myself that I’m more than the mistakes I made yesterday,
that I am all of my next choices, too,
all of my tomorrows
I am words into rain,
face upturned as the dirt around my bare feet becomes freckled with brown question marks,
my body a thing to be spoken with
and I reach out with open arms for those I love,
pulling them so close there will never be room for blame
This is just so wonderful!
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Thank you, Suzanne!
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It’s good to see a new poem from you, Angela! I love the use of metaphor, and the last two stanzas are just perfect. Brava!
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Thank you, Liz! 💜
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You’re welcome, Angela!
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Ang, this is EXQUISITE! I absolutely love and totally feel it. ❤️❤️❤️
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Thank you, Rita. 💜
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My pleasure.
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