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 Mar 2013 Emerald Proctor
Marian
Psalm 142*

I cried unto the Lord with my
voice: with my voice unto the
Lord did I make my supplication.

2 I poured out my complaint
before him; I shewed before him
my trouble.

3 When my spirit was overwhelmed
within me, then thou
knewest my path. In the way
wherein I walked have they privily
laid a snare for me.

4 I looked on *my
right hand,
and behold but there was no man
that would know me: refuge
failed me; no man cared for my
soul.

5 I cried unto thee, O Lord: I
said, Thou art my refuge and my
portion in the land of the living.

6 Attend unto my cry; for I am
brought very low: deliver me from
my persecutors; for they are
stronger than I.

7 Bring my soul out of prison,
that I may praise thy name: the
righteous shall compass me
about; for thou shalt deal bountifully
with me.
Spending intangible dollars at the mercy of my ever growing appetite,
Instead of buying my ticket out of this perfectly advantageous country,
Which focuses solely on my beauty and money.
I neglect my inner advice telling me to drop it all and run,
To where I can breathe and focus on God,
Promoting a healthier way of living and improving humanity.
Momentary hope that unrealistically characterizes perfection
As a quality that I can mentally download and miraculously make the above, true,
Never seems to linger long enough to actually induce action,
Which leads to disappointment draining the motivation essential to recover my missing pieces,
Which pushes me to crave cash I don’t have, to pick up that dose,
That hushes the unwarranted guilt that seduces me into thinking that I’m not incredibly blessed,
And that I can’t handle what I’ve been dealt,
Blurs the doubts I have about my abilities, my self- worth,
Forcing me into a state of content that awakens my creativity,
While vaguely being able to make out memories of let down led by myself and my mother,
Who was a part of what was never good enough for my idea of a perfect family.
I’ve wrongly accepted that a mediocre life-performance is to be had while following the crowd,
While obsessing over flaws that are negligible to my true purpose in life,
And with that I’ve become stifled by the decision to remain effortlessly stuck.
I noticed something was wrong when I stopped singing. This was my outlet, my way of expressing all of my feelings. Everything I had ever thought was brought to life by song. Then I stopped, and it was all your fault. No song seemed to describe how I felt about you. I liked you. I hated you. I adored you. I cursed you. But most of all, I loved you.

So I started writing. To cover up my feelings with metaphors and similes that nobody but me understood.

I've thought about showing you these writings. I knew you would understand them. You were so much like me. You knew my thoughts better than I did. But I was scared. Scared to show you how I felt because like you with the world, I was scared that you wouldn't accept me.

When I became aware of this, how I felt, I became distant. I didn't want you to see how I had grown to love you. I knew you would. You were like me. You knew something was wrong and when you asked me about it, I avoided you even more. This hurt me so much more than I think it did you.

I stopped singing. This one dead spark is what lit up a whole new world of mysteries and confusion about you and me alike. That was it. One simple thing.

I stopped singing.
I guess I'm not really over this.
They say the best conversations happen at 2 in the morning.
"Hi"
"Hi :)"
"How was your day?"
"I think I love you..."
"Really? I love you too..."
Too bad I never hit send in the first place.
Whaaaat?...
Who I was
Merged with
Who I became
And created
Who I am.
 Mar 2013 Emerald Proctor
Mary
This morning breakfast was two coconut macaroons
and a novelty- sized pecan pie.
All from the cafeteria.
       When you’re going it alone, it’s the small things.
I can still hear the echoes of sleep as it recedes,
8AM, throaty yelps - panic -  
and it slurps down the drain.
        ****, I’d give anything for a drain snake.
****, I’d give anything for black coffee
and a hood on this ******* coat.
Just above the below and below the upper,
        I’m hovering somewhere in midfield.
But we didn’t cover this coordinate system in geography,
or what to do when you’re drowning
in waves of self-righteousness and the desire to be hip.
       I need that hood. And probably new shoes.
When your roommate is an egg-shaped vampire
optimism can be hard to come by.
Her munching marks the stroke of midnight,
       and I reach for the sleeping pills.
Oh for the perfumed winds of personal space.
Oh for the prairies of carpet and private bathrooms.
Oh to have hot water at 9PM.
        Sing sweetly of home ye golden-thighed youths.
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