I wrote this poem this morning. I decided I couldn’t just walk up there and read without expressing my twin terror and wonder at the process of reading itself. 

Pastels & TNG

I am terrible at this, I am terrible &
I will do this in penance to a song that
plays on repeat, forever giving up like
it was the only way to spend an evening.
Four glasses of wine painting the stars
in her hair, pour my misery into her eyes

& still I’m only half-way there, snorting
along to Mrs. Troi as she calls him Mr. Woof,
too much blue & too much blur, sleeping
upright on purpose to ward off dreams where
everyone is listening, everyone figures it out.

I am terrible, you guys; it’s always my disclaimer,

Five of cups drawn from the Mucha Tarot by Lo Scarabeo

I am terrible and these are my hands & damn
do they ache when I’m repenting & all I can do
is play the same chords & lie & call it progress.
It gets in my bones, this thing I tell you, I tell myself.

I’m the absolute worst & I promise it gets better
I know it when your eyes edge to the side, when you
shake your head a bit & humor my self-indulgent
lines. I am terrible, I’m terrible & we all are,
we’re messy but we feel & in that, we get better.




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