I had the privilege
of the first house - fly
of the season
last Sunday
A sign of things to come

It's blistering hot
Here in England
No time to
Acclimatise

They  call  my  flat
a  museum.

Because  of  all
my  stuff.

But  as  a  keen
collector.

I  can  never  get
enough.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.2017.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless ***. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.

But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.

Sitting in a window on a dressing mannequin, viewed by a wide eyed girl, a lace dress shimmers soft and white. Oh how she wants to feel it caress her skin. She presses her face to the window and look at again and again. Each day she comes by, she longs for it to be hers. She hopes and waits patiently until she can make it her own. With ribbons and frills she imagines how she will look. At night she dreams of it's beauty, as she waits to sleep. Then one day she comes by and it is gone. Her heart falls into sadness, for her dream has been shattered. At home she sits solemnly peering out a window. Through lace curtains she views the world as it goes by. Then a light shines in her eyes, like the dawn of a new day. With great anticipation, she gets up and goes on her way. With a sewing kit and some scissors, she pulls the curtains down. She cuts and sews with great care, until she is done. With a fitted slip, she finishes her work until she thinks she has it right. Then standing in front of a mirror, she smiles with sheer delight. What she could not buy she has made for herself. The lace dress looks wonderful, as good at the one she saw in the store. Now her only problem is what to do about the curtains that are not hanging on her mother’s windows anymore?