Frayed Edges

Here I go again.

Omitting truth for peace.

Afraid to crush your fragile sentimentality.

Constantly teetering on the scale of our relationship.

This time I won’t falter,

No matter the cost.

This time I will speak my mind,

Without concern for your delicate heart.

The one I fight to understand as I search for my empathy.

I’m sure someone took it from me.

Perhaps it was misplaced along with the loose change, the keys, and the unkept promises.

Or it’s at the bottom of the junk drawer where I stowed away my thin skin,

when I upgraded to thicker skin and a backbone.

Still, after all of this,

I’ll let you fray my edges.

I’ll let you inside,

I’ll let you take me apart.

I’ll let you see every darkness and every light.

I’ll let you rearrange me until I am no more.

I’ll let you fray my edges.

Then love me for it

and remind me who I am.

-Clary

Losing My Religion

An entire life spent trying to be what everyone expected.

Kneel, stand, the sign of the cross, Hail Mary & Our Father. Confess your sins to the envious pedophile. No worries, the confessional has a screen.

Not to mention peddling God door to door. A salesman without answers. No Christmas, no Easter, no makeup, no free will.

Let’s not forget the Hallelujahs and praise the Lord. Submit to your cheating husband. Do as you’re told.

Trying my damnedest to squeeze into a mold shaped by my fellow sinners. But I never fit.

This is what it is to find yourself. To choose to ignore all others, and follow God alone.

You will no longer find me tiptoeing down the path of eggshells laid out by those before me. You will find my path of eggshells thoroughly crushed beneath my feet, veering towards whatever end God has in store.

And sometimes, When God gets sick of telling me “this way dummy,” I’m sure there will be some, very prominent, me-shaped drag marks… as He takes me (likely kicking and screaming) down my rightful path, to the place He had prepared for me all along.

-Clary

Prick

Thank you for making it easy.

Now I can move on.

Much obliged you haven’t written,

or responded to my calls.

I’m grateful you ignore me,

And don’t want me by your side.

At times my thoughts drift back to you

I’m not going to lie.

I lose myself in what would have beens,

What would bes, and what ifs.

But every stolen memory

Reminds me you’re a prick!

-Clary

Broken Seashells

The crisp breeze blew as time erased another sunset from the sky. The light of the  first star pricked a hole in the darkness and the moon set up, dismissing the pale blue of the day. I found myself staring up, feeling insignificant,  as memories of you began to wash in like broken seashells on a vast shoreline. I find myself trying to piece them together, hoping for a clear glimpse of your face, a memory of my hand in yours, or simply the sound of your voice. It gets more difficult every year. The ocean of my mind pulling back fragments while uncovering others. But  I never manage enough pieces for a clear picture. Never enough for me to see you smile again, or hear the sound of your voice. Never enough to remember how it felt when you’d gathered me up in your arms as a child or tucked me in at night. I know you had done those things, but it’s hard to tell now. Is it my own memory, or just a story I once heard?

-Clary

Soliloquy

The smell of fresh rolls wafted through the dining area. I sat at the bar waiting for my order. A man sat three stools down. I caught intermittent mumbles about death, the end of the world, and some Bible verses. I wonder if he knows something I don’t? If he hears the echo of voices from a place I’ll never know. If he sees the faces of loved ones passed? A full conversation with no one. At least no one I could see.

-Clary

Your Touch

You didn’t touch me again today.

Should I be worried?

Is it happening again?

My thoughts go dark fast.

Has my adventurous nature become mundane?

Perhaps.

But,
There will be a time when you’ll realize what you have.

Hopefully,

Before I stop missing the feel of your hands on my skin.

Before the thought of your mouth on my body fades into time.

Before one or both of our hearts searches for another.

For now, I wait impatiently.

-Clary

We Rise

No worries,

We’ll be okay, whatever may come.

Empires have risen and fallen

Hellfire, rain, famine, locust, pandemic and all.

We’ll be okay.

We’ll rise from the rubble, rebuild what was lost.

Waters recede, and the sun shines again

We’ll rise from the ash, as spring gifts us her bloom.

Crops are resown, industries recover

Locust die and feed the same earth they once ravaged.

We’ll rise, for our neighbors, our children, and loved ones alike.

We’ll rise, because it is what God intended.

We’ll rise, whatever may come

And when we do…

only a shadow of yesterday will remain.

-Clary

Lullaby

Help me find sleep tonight.

Bring quiet to this mind.

My body has grown weary, of the hardships in my life.

Silence all stray thoughts.

Bring rest to my eyes.

Let darkness take me in her arms, and sing her lullaby.

Put away the triumphs and failures of the day.

Tuck me in so tightly and make them go away.

My mind has grown restless of the voices in my head,

A perpetual droning in a loop that never ends.

-Clary

Mistaken Path

I am here but I am gone,

Waiting for new time to dawn.

One without so many cares,

One with less burdens to bear.

I am here but I am not,

A memory of what I was taught.

Like a faded withered tree,

Only a figment of what use to be.

Will I grow to be complete?

Will this path lead my feet?

Will I turn the other way?

I do not think that you will stay?

I am here but I am dead,

My heart, it has no time to mend.

Can not deny mistakes I’ve made.

Or the cost of my charades.

The guilt it presses on my heart,

I have no wisdom to impart.

I should be older, wiser now,

But I got lost, I don’t know how.

-Clary

Nostalgia

I take my place as part of a final generation that grew up when Saturday morning cartoons were still a thing, and Sundays were still held sacred. Before internet and cell phones trapped us in zombie mode. Saying so makes me feel ancient. It’s a strange thing when change comes so quickly. A quarter of a century from a time when summers were full of boredom and adventure as the cicadas composed the perfect score until dark. When the crisp fall air ushered in the new school year that smelled of fresh linens and rain. And Winter was short, but brutal, for those use to dry heat. And Spring couldn’t come fast enough. We chased lightning bugs, climbed trees, rode bikes, and laid in the green grass. No video game could take us on an adventure the way our own back yard could. It is a strange thing that all of this, while still here, will never be seen the same to those who come after us. Barefoot and happy, a nostalgia we will bear for all of our days.

-Clary