Day 30: I was going to write a different poem.

I feel like I should say something here...but I think the poem says it all.  I WAS going to write a different poem.  I'm frustrated that I wrote this one.

Also, it felt important to me that I post this with a recording of how it sounds in my head.  I don't know why.  But I did it, if you want to listen to it.  (I hope it works).

Also also, this is day 30 of my 30 days of poetry.  It's a sucky note to end on.  I'm going to write something tomorrow.  Maybe a poem + a little 30 days of poetry reflection.  I can't end 30 days of poetry on the fact that I was going to write a different poem.

I've done 30 days...what's 31, right?

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I was going to write a different poem

I was going to write a different poem.

I was going to write a poem about 

feeling safe, about the way

I walked through the crowd and my body 

did not panic, my heart 

did not stumble over self-doubt and old memories,

I was going to write a poem

about the way I feel vibrantly alive

when I can know that I am loved,

I was going to write about the way

I feel that sometimes now.

I was going to write a poem, but first

I went to the store,

composing the poem in my head, as I

stood in front of the canned tomatoes, I was

writing a poem about

love and

safety and

comfort and

what it feels like to feel whole for the first time

in a near eternity,

but my body

was not whole.

My body

was just another display of pieces

that are put together like ingredients

for your favorite dish.

I don't want to write this poem.

I am so tired of writing the same

fucking poem of how

my body

is not for sale, and

my body

is not yours to lay claim to, and

my body

is not fruit, is not produce, is not

something to be grabbed off the shelf,

I am tired

of writing my hearts stumblings.

I was going to write a poem about feeling safe - 

I am writing a poem every day:

it hadn't even been 24 hours before

the feeling had come and gone.

Before I was reminded that I am nothing more than a commodity.

Before I was reminded that safe is a privilege not all of us are afforded

at the bar

at the park

in our homes

at the grocery store just buying

a 98 cent can of tomatoes.

Before I was reminded that unsafe is where they want me

because it's the only way they can keep control,

before I was turned into a damaged head of lettuce:

squeezed,

and then cast aside.

For what it's worth:

I was going to write 

a different poem.