Future

Future is a word synonymous with infinite post-notes, whiteboards and pins.I map its trajectory by a constellation of papertrails.

You see,

I’ve invested eternities in planning futures That may never be.

It distracts me from eye contact with the present,

Keeps my gaze away from resource mirages,

From the nerve-ridden, caged lungs now.

The now gives me anxiety.
Here,

In this ticking clock,

Sand-draining now,

I am scared, uncertain— a body of roulette tables and gambles I’m not ready to make.

I am only a betting woman when it is sink or swim.

On other days,

In this Las Vegas mouth of mine,

“What if” sounds safe than “I am”.

My hands are rubbed raw from rolling snake eyes,

From praying that something will land in my favor.

Fairytales

Cinderella, Snow White, Rapunzel–I dreamed in other women’s names, in their guided interiors, lay fairytales.

I cant help but wondering if my biggest fairytale is the one where I assumed every role:
Atop a racing steed, I arrive at my own rescue.

In glimmering fantasy, I am my fairy godmother.

I am the trusty sidekicks, prologue, epilogue– an exhausting array of facets that only leave me panting.

I’m so terrified of reality tearing his hands into me that I am coated in intangible barriers thicker than any bricks he can lay.
Guarded is the past tense of hurt.

Walls seem more stately than scabs,

And I’d rather set myself on fire than suffer a burn at someone else’s flame.

After all, I am incendiary.
This is my weight,

A chosen gravity,

Glued to an emotional purgatory where I equate distance and closeness.

Conveniently, arms-length is the depth of my armor.

Believe it or not, beneath it,

I’m soft.

Beneath it, I cry at cartoons.

I love sweets

And hugs

And thoughtful notes.

I am gooey and sensitive.

And somehow,

Thriving,

Glowing

through callouses and scar tissue,

Is someone who believes in fairytales.

Inside, I dare to be something more than alone.