confession: i didn’t lose money in the casinos because i didn’t gamble. i didn’t gamble because he made me hand him all my money before we walked into the casino so that i wouldn’t gamble because when i gamble i almost always lose money…and feel inconsolably sad for wasting money that i lost gambling.
confession: my friend s listens to great music. once in a while she posts what she’s playing on facebook. usually i recognize her musical postings as songs i loved on repeat years ago and have forgotten. sometimes she introduces me to something new. she understands about living alongside a self-made mix tape soundtrack. today’s song on repeat in my world is one i associate with her. recently i reassigned a song that i held for an ex to her because she dedicated it to her brand new chosen-not-biological dad. life feels better when songs trip positive associations with people we love. if i could, i’d give you every song you’re holding for that ex you’re still grieving as a reassigned happy place where we dance around the room loving each other safely, wholly, joyfully.
confession: in montreal i got an emergency haircut because i’d been hating my hair for weeks. the salon owner i called was able to squeeze me in that saturday afternoon because he had a cancellation. i close my eyes while i’m getting a haircut. i meditate while the professional cuts my hair. i breathe and trust. he cut my hair several inches shorter than i requested. he was worried i’d be angry. when i opened my eyes, i was thrilled. i’ve wanted short hair for years but hesitated because i hate the growing out phases. some mistakes are wondrous gifts.
confessions: some of us will die the way we lived. some of us that die the way we lived will be considered as having lucky deaths. some of us that die the way we lived will be considered as having tragic deaths. i hope i die the way i’ve lived, whether that turns out lucky or tragic, i’d like to be consistent.
confession: for nearly a month i’ve been writing horribly cliché poems about leaving lovers. the only fun part of writing these poems is making up funny titles for chapbook collections of these bad poems. also, the point is to write, to keep writing when the writing is terrible, to keep writing because writing every day is better than not writing, to keep writing because writing is a good enough reason to stay alive when staying alive is hard, to keep writing because if i can keep writing when the writing sucks then i can write my way into good poems again one day and one day might be today. (or tomorrow, since today’s poem sucked, too.)
confession: send me your letters, the ones you write in your head when you’re awake in the middle of the night. send them telepathically if you don’t want to get out of bed for pen and paper. please send me your letters. i will read each word carefully, intuiting the combinations of feelings that create the mood, finding the frequencies of love and fear in the spaces between the words. i will pause for the punctuation, letting each thought complete itself in the silence following a comma, semicolon, period, question mark, and exclamation point. i will sit patiently as you take your time telling me the stories you want to share. i’m here for you. i’m listening.