I’m sick of this chapter.
I’m sick of science fiction and horror and fables.
I should be able to choose my own genre.
Fantasy.
It doesn’t really work that way.

When someone writes a poem. The poem exists. It doesn’t have a choice.
It has to be read. It has to be printed. It has to be spoken.
Forever.
Until the day the author removes it from the shelf and the binding goes stale.

I was the kid in 3rd grade who would skip to the end of the book to see if the rest was worth reading.
I am that kid.
And I am sick of reading.

Most of the time I don’t feel actual
But it has occurred to me that this is real
I am real
For all I know the moon could be a figment of my imagination
It’s too far for me to touch
It’s too big for me to hold
The moon
sneaks slowly out of the dark every now and then
Its smile can illuminate the world
But, its absence is noticed
The night swallows it whole and only every so often
it is spit out
I imagine the moon gets tired
I know I do

fem·i·nist [fem-uh-nist]
adjective
1. advocating social, political, legal, and economic rights for women equal to those of men.*

I used to be afraid I'd be stuck in a training bra forever.
For awhile I didn't wear one.
My grandmother would yell at me.
I told her I was a feminist.
I didn't know what it meant.
A part of me wishes I could go back*
to that time of AA's instead of DD's.
One less thing to define me.
Maybe then I could be free of the restraints.

Eyeliner seemed ridiculous.
Poking yourself in the eye with an 8 dollar glamor crayon.
Crayola sells them for 15 cents.
Always was cheap - Not the makeup - Not the crayon.
I don't leave the house without it.

I used to be afraid of tampons.
They grossed me out.
They confused me.
I didn't understand how you could stick something "up there"
and walk straight.
I'd be surprised how much it can handle.
Strength. Numbers. Endurance.
But, I still can't walk straight.

I used to be afraid of the boogeyman.
The darkness in the closet.
The monster under my bed.
I was a smart kid.
I knew they were there all along
under the comforter
beneath the sheets
next to my fragile body
stealing my sliced heart
and ******* the rest.

The monsters wear a disguise.
Rubber.
If you're lucky.
Without the water balloon and crossed fingers your stomach fills nine months times its size.
So they say.
I still like to believe it's an old wive's tale.
And I refuse to be an old wife.

I never considered thongs underwear.
I considered them floss.
Why wear one when you could just go bare *** and achieve the same result?
Now I floss regularly.
Hygiene is important.
Clean my mouth.
Well, might as well brush my teeth while I'm at it.

I used to be afraid I'd grow up and couldn't eat Popsicles anymore.
As if chasing after the icecream truck was something prescribed to a little girl in spaghetti straps
******* only her thumb.
Innocence lost.
I don't like Popsicles anymore.
Unless they're cherry flavor.

I am tired of writing of you as if you were an old polaroid photo from 1975.
The kind that fades slowly and turns yellow in an old trunk.
The kind taken of a happy sad girl laughing at her youth which she has kept in a glass bottle ever since she was 13.
That is how I picture you – frozen bittersweet melancholia giggles.
You are my dark little secret, and something tells me a part of you always will be.
But, you are real.
So very real.
In fact, you are the only thing that is real to me anymore.
You are more than what I write of.
You are more than anything.
What I write of is fiction.
The dreams I have of us entangled.
Fiction. Sadly. Fiction.
I will never stop the imagination
the creation
of a “banana pancake good morning” love with you.
Never.
But, what I wrote of was fiction.
Perhaps. Perhaps we just need to change the genre.

They made me read a segment  about who they think I am.
I don't know who "I" is.
"I" gave it a shot anyway.

Biggest fear: Failure...?
In bold.                                  That's me.
Failure.
Perfectionist?                        Yeah, I guess so.
Yes or no?                              Isn't everyone?

Do you tend to forget things easily?
Do you get dizzy and light headed when you stand up?
Are you a perfectionist? Are you a failure?
Are you this are you that?
Are you sad? Are you scared?
.........................................................­.....................................................Yeah, but isn't everyone?

No sweety.

The problem with me is that I believe in souls.
A dangerous belief to say the least.
I feel as if I have lived this life a million times over
The pain is
so routine
so familiar
so real.
It is recognizable.
Quite.
I have been around a long time.
Though: I am not experienced.
Nor am I inexperienced.
I am not young. I am not grown. I am not old.
I never will be.
I am but a mere soul living in yet another tattered body.
A problem in itself.
But, if I am a soul I will exist forever.
And I am tired.