Glass Face

Today I need an outlet
A table I'm sitting at a wooden table to knock my thoughts upon
I spent the early hours of the morning in silence
listening to the great but often tumultous lives of renown writers like
William Wordsworth--the great romantic
who lost the most
but kept going to earn success

My professor is an older woman with bright blonde hair,
A southern accent thick as molasses
and inviting us into her homely haven,
granddaughters who are sexually abused and the way the oak trees seem to sway whenever she returns home
I am lost
I don't want to hear anymore sorrowful tales,
I make, I write my own

It is eight in the morning and I still have a million thoughts on my brain
from last night, last week, my dreams to the two cups of coffee with cream and sugar
My dream was about losing, losing something similar to what I've lost this week
I was seated in the back of someone's car, someone who had just lost their husband.
Observing.

I lost an emerging side of me this week when I left someone
With absolutely no desire to move on from my former relationship
still managing to hang on by an emotional thread
I was honest, hit him like a car before driving off irresponsibly
but with the best intentions you see

Injuries take recovery
And I knew he'd need it
but there's no use delaying the crash when you know it's inevitable

So I'm with him, the guy, the emotional attachment
and I'm happy
The day I left the other, I left my baggage at the curb
and packed a new one
One that never really disappeared, just cleaned it out and started over

But today after my dreams
After the lecture in english
about life's misfortunes
and how things don't turn out the way we had hoped
I grew weary
I feel tired
I'm not empy,
just think I could use some space

So that's why I came here,
not to write a fancy poem
praying to be cherry picked
or to be read by millions

I'm no Dave Eggers.
Not hot, cold hands.
I'm just a quiet girl in the jazz bar
sipping her martini like its her life support
the closer she keeps to the glass' rim
the less she looks about her,
avoiding eye contact
losing myself to the hypnotic power of the music
I take myself out.
I took myself out.
Although I wish I hadn't--I always do

When will I jump from my cradle and persist with walking?
Put down the doubts and tread with authority,
with a stamp of assertion

They say a child's personality is formed by the age of three
At three, I sat alone gazing out the window
in the house of Eloeza, who bickered with an alcoholic
and who cut my sandwiches in half before directing me to map in the heavy water bed
I listened to the people talk but never engaged in conversation myself
Still, it haunts me--my personality, my holding to the glass,my praying no one will look my way

I've been told I'm beautiful
But I'm a glass face
A reflection
never tangible and hung on a solitary wall