I always knew this day would come


and knew that I would know what I had never
known before about fighting to survive.

I recognize the reason I don't write here or anywhere.
My journal sits beneath the bedside table, unwritten
in for many months. I know I would not be able to write
nor speak of my station in life at this point. I realize
now how much I let myself be completely self-absorbed.
How much I needed someone to hear me, read me, want
to know me. I am too tired now. My life is filled with
so many conflicting emotions. I don't like where I am
with me. I actually prefer the days when I rose above
me in all of my narcissitic and egoistic leanings. Oh, oh!
To have them now could probably make all of the difference!

Not boring, my life. But I write things about what I cook
and what I wear and what I do to the house. Oh!

Dirty ashtrays. Glasses filled with liquor on the porch. Left
for days. Soured laundry. Swollen eyes. Rough and calloused
feet. Wild, untamed and unmanageable hair. The sinking. the
giving up. I don't like it. I wish I was a wild woman baying.
A wild woman truthful. I could sleep better and eat better
and let my heart know peace. In all of its troubledness, it would
know peace.