December vacation in the house I was born.
The unhealthy habits I’ve tried to unlearn:
Fight or flight?
You’re wrong; I’m right.
So black and white.
Stubbornness, taking sides, fighting with my dad,
Hiding under covers, impossibly sad.
My bedroom now storage, fresh painted and clean,
It housed my whole life until I was eighteen:
My nose in that corner, pressed tear-stained and flat;
Those shiny mirrored closets still make me feel fat.
Shoulder pads in my shirt, stuffed tight in my bra,
Me staring for hours, part pervert, part awe.
My crib was right here, then my trundle bed,
My Popples, my bunnies, my rainbow bedspread.
Hungry Hungry Hippos, My Little Ponies,
The millstones, the milestones; self-doubt and trophies.
My first cassette player, my clear telephone.
I’m back as a mama, family of my own.
Present day sex.
Remembering my ex.
And also the next.
And the MxPx
posters that covered my walls,
The maple out back and the previous Falls,
How I’d climb up the trunk to feel free and alone,
to imagine how strong I’d feel once I was grown.
Thanks for reading. I don’t usually speak in rhymes. Here’s something else I wrote: