Bsd
Stupid, effing trains.
Stupid, effing test.
Stupid, effing brother.
Equilibrium upset, and I don't know why my roommate loaning me her sweater because she thought I could use something fun and cuddly to wear today makes me cry. And my best friend's a mother, my "uncle" has cancer, and I wish this weather would last all winter. But it won't, cuz I'm not home, I'm here, dragging my feet till the end of the week when I'll get wrapped up in strong arms, at the very least metaphorically speaking, and get some relief.
Poetry night is Sat night, and I have nothing to write; the one thing I think about is the one thing I can't yet talk about (at least out loud, to a public crowd).
Am I sleep-walking, sleep-talking, sleep-massaging/test-taking/kid-sitting/apartment-fixing all this time?
It feels like it.
The writing makes me come alive, caterpillar-cocoon style, the shell of my life hiding what's really going on inside.
Gotta go, class is starting.

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Definitions

Bsd

Walking down President St

Harlequin Historical in my hand,

and yes, that's who I am,

the girl with the bodice ripper and neckline covered,

the girl with the baby that's not mine and the boy next to me who's not my brother,

and I'm telling someone that she should think of living in Crown Heights

as if she's just living in Brooklyn,

like half the gay/black/hippie-ster people in my school

Replay that:

What?

Crown Heights isn't Brooklyn.

And that's not just who I am.

We talked today about definitions and where we were.

I said - we have to constantly redefine.

Redefine

and

Redefine

and Redefine.

Or we're dead.

Balanced on a thin edge,

and tipping over.

I'm not that girl.

Or at least I might not be, tomorrow.