The Poetry Marathon

Prowling around the house
a tiny predator
built to hunt and kill.

Also likes treats and
getting petted first thing
in the morning.

He is striped and gray.
He loves his parents
and his sister.

Twice a day,
he gets excited and runs
around as fast as he can.

He has sharp teeth and claws
Sometimes he bites too hard,
but he is a good boy.

All my love to my
candy-named cat,
Butterscotch.

Eyes red,
dry from over-use.

brain foggy,
stuffed with clouds
from lack of rest

head hurting from
too many hours in the sun.

Blankets are best made
through the following process.

One.
Cut squares and triangles
of all sizes and fabrics.

Two.
Stitch the shapes together
into a large rectangle

Three.
Cry over some small mistake.
Let the tears seep into the quilt.

Four.
Stitch the front, batting, and back together.
Put your back into it.

Five.
Deliver the finished quilt to someone
you love more than anything in the world.

Depression often robs me of this feeling.
Strips it away bit by bit
with devastating truths
that everyone hates me,
and I’m terrible,
and I don’t deserve to be loved.

Even when I feel robbed of hope,
it’s only just sleeping.
The coals buried under the ash
waiting to be awoken.
Affirmations, good food,
and time with friends brush away the ash
and breathe life into the coals.

Slowly, the fire returns.
Waxing and waning,
but always there,
even on the coldest, darkest nights.

Completely dark black fur,
Terrified of thunderstorms,
Absolute sweetheart.

Small, gray, and stripey,
Loves running laps each morning,
Adores his sister.

First I had to tell myself.
Always the hardest part.
17 years spent ignoring and repressing.

Then I had to tell my friends.
All were happy for me.
They were trying to be authentic too.

Then it was time to tell my family.
Mom took it well.
Dad appeared to take it well.

Flash-forward and now,
I don’t speak to him.
Those meant to support you can’t always handle it.

Wooden floors that bend and creak,
cracks in the floor,
countless layers of paint
on the windows and baseboards.

Black and white tiles
in the kitchen
with faux wooden counters,
bright windows line half the walls.

Our first chosen home on our own,
since our friends moved away.
We picked it together
and moved our stuff in side-by-side.

You sleep next to me
and our dog sleeps by our sides.
We do laundry and sweep
and wash the dishes.

This is our home.

We will be old and wrinkly,
with liver spots and creaky joints.
Matching silver hair on our heads.
We can sit on the porch, rocking.

Do not see the cracks
Only see the love
Do not see the problems

Must keep going
Must stay together
Must not fall down

Can he stay?
Should he go?

See the cracks
Cannot feel the love
See the problems

Cannot keep going
Cannot stay together
Must fall down

Will he stay?
Will he go?

Keep moving forward
Patching the cracks
Changing the group
Making our own family.

The smell of iron-rich, clay soil,
the clatter of droplets on the ground and roof,
and the splash of cars driving through waterlogged streets.

I once took a bike down the street in the rain.
The slick pavement was not kind to me.
I fell and scrapped my knees.

Simply Summer in the South.