Hello @kato @stan @Appleblossom and friends,
This is a poem I wrote last year when quite unwell...... one morning. The 'other' person in the poem is fiction; Johnny. I must have written about someone in the dream.
I dream't about the feral driving and wrote about it.....
.......................................................................................................................................
am I enough?
My knees bend into the mattress
I feel the sheet touching skin around my knees.
Down the shins, my feet fall over the mattress onto the floor Elbows hold my forearms and my hands up. They are touching my face.
am I enough?
He leaves the room.
He leaves the door open.
I look at the glass of water next to me and I feel my stomach wanting food to fill it up but I'm not hungry. I want to feel the texture of apple cake between my teeth.
I imagine salivary glands moisten and soften the cake, I chew it thoroughly and swallow.
Johnny comes into my room and lies down next to me. He kisses me on the cheek and says good night. He turns his body to the radio and places his hand on my hip.
A light touch.
am I enough?
I feel empty inside my stomach. Am I attempting to reduce my tension by eating?
How can I bear the pain of living?
I see ink marking this paper writing words to effect an emotion. My writing, creative, curly words ...I want to write a feeling. I want to evoke it out.
I drive up and down Circe Circle, around and around. A dark house is in my view. I'm walking up the stairs to the front door and I see cobwebs covering the rails near my hands, my shoulders, my clothes. I feel a creepy emotion that if I brush away the cobwebs with my bare hands, a spider might appear and bite me.
I am dizzy with needing love. I walk up the stairs again. I can't open the door. I can't have what I want. This house is not mine. It's my mothers.
Johnny turns his body toward me. His knees cover mine. His feet touch my ankles. His fingers stroke my belly.
When I try and climb those stairs again, past the cobwebs ...past the spiders....I know I am locked out of my mother's home. She won't let me in. Her stories of spiders and cobwebs of owning houses and leaving me out of her memories nake me feel like drowning, dizzy, desperate to be loved.
I am locked out. I am left out on the porch.
am I enough?
I drive the streets of Circe Circle. The houses are resting. There is no moonlight. It's almost black outside.
Is there light beaming from the car headlights? Where am I going? I want to be contained. I am dependent and I feel my identity is unsure. It is hard to acknowledge this. I drive to my childhood friend's house.
I want to be saved. I am driving to the wrong house.
am I enough?
He's in the kitchen. I hear the beater going.
He is making me a banana millkshake.
He walks into the bedroom and says....here buba. He walks away to smoke outside.
