The Poetry Marathon

Change rolls over me

I lose myself to the flow

a leaf in water

Just testing this thing out.

I hated your tattoo.

It took me years

to make peace with it.

When I finally did,

you left me and

had it covered up.

I suddenly remembered the stars-

not the ones in the night sky

but the ones you had tattooed

on your arms while still in high school.

You regretted them as soon

as the needle stopped.

Your buzz was wearing off,

and they were the last tattoos

you ever had done.

You felt like a poser

trying to become

something you’d never be:

a shining light.

I can’t talk about

what hurts me most.

If I do I wallow

in sadness and questions.

Otherwise, I can pretend

I’ve never had any troubles.

Seven years ago

I mentioned

your name freely-

nothing to hide

or be ashamed of,

no remorse or weariness.

It’s been a long time,

but I still hold steadfast

to the ideal of what

we could have been.

One Christmas

I gave you a Zippo lighter

with the ace of spades

engraved upon its metal case.

It was custom ordered,

a connection to your dead daddy.

After unwrapping your gift,

your hands and voice were shaky.

That was the closest

I ever came

to seeing you cry.

I’ve only asked for

a few hours

of complete peace.

I want to sit

in one spot

uninterrupted.

This is one day

I’m taking for myself

after spending years

fulfilling the needs of others.

You won’t even

give me that.

Sometimes

I can’t believe

we ever found

common ground.

You want to be

hard and cold.

I want to be

more compassionate.

I can’t decide

if you consider

your good qualities

as strengths or weaknesses.

I love those things

you hate about yourself

(even how you try

to deny them).

I gathered daisies and pinecones           from my walk back from the mailbox.     The cows stared at the ground               looking up only as I asked them about ‘earrings’.                                                   Wild strawberries peaked through grass                                                       reminding me of past practical jokes.     It’s August and only 67 degrees.               I’ll take it.