Invisible Me

Attraction is serious. And I am comical.
I wonder why I have been left sitting here,
a centrepiece of sorts.
A comedy of errors.

A mother first
and not much more second.
I see you taking things seriously
and I am not.

You eyes search,
they scan the crowds.
They seem to peer around corners
and through windows.

I am so close, that sometimes I see you seeing through me.
I wave my hands, I smile bravely,
I see you,
as you pretend you did not see me.

I am smiling.
Bc In my pain I know that the truth is a beautiful thing.
I am funny.
In my smile is a thousand tears.

I see you seeing through me-
and to hold on,
to breath in-
I have to remember I am a joke.

A joke told over and over again.
A comedy of errors.
A centrepiece of sorts.

Something I never thought I would be.
Now that is funny.

You Called Me By My Name

Your words hit me hard and I was left bruised. Of course you don't see this, bc at first glance who notices a bruise. "Come on," Your words seem to say, "you deserve this. Take this and take that," Hitting me repeatedly you didn't  notice that your words were going to leave their marks.

I bruise. And in time you will walk away from our conversation and feel like you gave me power and purpose, but really you just gave me your hope and your wonder and really? What the hell can I do with something thats yours?

I can wear it around my neck to remind me of who you are. Who you want me to be. I can take those words you strung together and strangle myself with them. I can rehash them to myself and serve them up as a reminder of how little I resembler the person you wish I was.

Or,
I can show you in a few days how your words have hurt me. How they have found a place to land and sting and cause me pain. But, I won't. Because in truth the words look good on me. I have become a place people like to deposit their thoughts. I take it all in and when I look at myself I no longer remember who I am - I am everything I am not.

I am the words you rubbed on me. The salt you poured on them.

Cycle 2: Have To Spin

What goes around comes around and I am obese again. I fill my plate with sadness and swallow hard. I find ways to calm myself and it all reminds of yesterday. Yesterday was lived in with too much regret. Today I walk only to my car and drink coffee, like it is my juice. Yesterday I ran km's after km's and chased back green drinks with cycle spins. I was smiling then because I was feeling happy. It built itself up in me. Like veggies tend to grow on you, when you blend them into good morning drinks. Now I am no longer smiling. I have gained myself right back to my starting weight and all my plans of yesterday sound like laughter. The type that echo in your ears and follow you through your days.

I am being followed now. By my yesterdays. They creep up on me when I am driving around my neighbourhood. When I am driving through the streets I used to run on. When I turn my head and see an old friend running. When I want to smile and wave and instead I drive away. I drive in shame. My guilt keeps me eating. It fuels the rage that won't let me tie up my shoes and run.

I have a million excuses. First my back pain, then my children- when really they and all the excuses in between are begging me to lace up and run. To cycle and spin. To enter my calories in my journal and mix leafy greens.

I am willing to be better. I am wanting to be free. I am hoping that tomorrow is lived in with more patience than today. That I am a better mother and friend. That I will be a better wife and daughter. And I know that in every relationship I fail at, lies my addiction to food. The one relationship I feed on and off.

Today I decided to write. It's been awhile and my head is full of thoughts. But, I am hungry from eating well today, so my words are minced. I can not tell it like it is.

I ask for another chance to be well for every relationship I cherish. For my gifts from G-d. My family, my husband and my kids. Please G-d, lift me up over this pain and carry me to the other side. I need strength, I need to cycle. And run. And spin.

And in the aftermath you will see that I am better off that way. Where sadness doesn't taste so much like buttered bread.

Pride In You

I am proud of you.

I see your goodness and it makes you shine amongst the others.

I see you smile and I resist to make you laugh,

because I can win you over,

but I need to win you fair.

I am proud of you.

You are strong with all your cards.

You fold sometimes,

but it's only to make the others look good.

I am proud of you

and the way you wake yourself up.

Your senses first and then you know

and you uncurl even as I stay coiled.

I am proud of you

and the way you can speak the words I long to say.

The way you pray.

The way you say things I can't understand.

I don't understand.

...but, I am proud of you.

Trust Me, It's A Fake

Trust is funny.

It makes me laugh, loud and fake.

My nine month old daughter does that now. She fake laughs.

"Here," we say, "I don't find you funny at all. Ha Ha Ha."

But, my daughter doesn't understand any of it. She laughs just because she wants to mimic us.

Ha, Ha, Ha.

Who is laughing now?

Who doesn't know how I have been bleeding?

So much I thought was real, feels fake now.

I hold onto my pillow as I surf myself to sleep.

Instead of peering out the window into the darkness of the night,

I google words like, "organic" and "natural" and try not to think until sleep hits me.

It's not dark in my head that way.

My brain is awash with light,

I try to fool my heart,

"It's not real," I say, "It can't be real."

Because Trust me, It's all fake anyways.

Gymboree- 0 missed calls

You used to call me during Gymboree.
I didn't always answer.
I have seen gymbo dance for seven years now,
you have been gone for two months.

Everything has stayed the same.
The boldest colors and the sweetest songs,
"Dance Gymbo dance," and Ella dances.
You see her, don't you?
She is changing, and growing and learning to move to the music.

I feel you always.

It hurts in Gymboree when my phone doesn't ring.
When I no longer have the choice of answering right away or calling you back.
I have made the most horrible of choices,
I have left too many calls go unanswered.

Voice mail is not my voice.
I miss you.

Gymboree ends and I have no missed calls.
Oh, how I miss you.

The Twenties Girl By Sophie Kinsella

There is a reading list.

I see it in my brothers hands.

The books they have read, the words they have run through.

I flip through them and marvel at their minds,

as mine starts to unravel.

My sister loved to read.

Her last year was marked by books.

Funny ones, upbeat ones, ones we shared.

Just this past summer we roamed the bookstore together,

with stacks under our arms.

We shared our favorite authors.

What my sister liked in a book, I mirrored.

She told me, that at her last doctors appointment the news was bitter and tough to swallow.

She said, she looked up at her doctor and then quickly back down at her book.

"I just wanted to get back to the characters in the book" She had said to me, "They were so happy."

She loved getting lost in a book.

She loved the characters.

I have a list of books I have to read.

Some the last books my sister read.

But of all the books I will read,

I will forever treasure the book she escaped to last.

It made her laugh and love,

and then she did what she always did...

she passed it on to all of us, her siblings, to share.