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There was a time when you mattered
The last bloom
On the Rose of Sharon
Of
The
Season
In which your spirit did not survive
Another fall
Falls near
As the sky
Or a petal from a poppy
Or a child of God
Did you really believe that?
That there was a time when it mattered
The way beauty fell away to reveal something more beautiful and terrible but toxic
But time
It mattered
Because it was yours
The lost blossom
caught up in the stream
of things
the streamers I made as a 10-year-old
still hanging from the rec room ceiling where my father tacked them
a long ago place
never touched
and now a new place
that takes me back to when I was 21 and how much I couldn’t enjoy my life then
Yesterday, I took lunch and went for a light jog/walk around the old neighborhood I used to live by. It was a beautiful spring day. Like the ones I remember when I lived there. It was strange to be back in the same place and remember the version of me that when up the hill and down the hill so many times. Giddy up the hill, giddy down the hill. Crying up the hill, crying down the hill. Numb up, numb down. Angry. Grieving. Content. Up and down.
I felt a sense of satisfaction and unease. So I think I’ll go back. Then, I think it’s not a good idea. Is there something to be conquered in remembering, in going over territory I’ve been over a hundred times or am I in danger of remembering too much and reverting back to that weaker person? Fuck yes. Or. Fuck. Yes.
For now I think I’ll try to think nothing of it.
…and really
it’s about wanting to know what I can’t
even still
do you remember has replaced why
at least sometimes
you won’t know the significance of this day
you never knew the significance of me
but I hope
you reflect for a brief moment on the last year of your life
think of me
and feel a tiny flutter somewhere deep inside
Inaudible
I know
In their voices
I know
A sad, fierce look in their eyes
I know
The problem with my hobby of suffering through heartache is that I remind others of their own past relationship traumas (a saving grace is most of them are in good, healthy relationships now). I’ve finally realized when they tell me not to beat myself up, they speak from experience, not from indifference.
I see a light in their eyes, aware and remembering and I feel kinship and guilt. They know and I think they’d just as well forget.
It’s never as easy as I’m sorry.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
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